Chapter 3 - The Log of the Buyers
The interior of Terminal Four smelled of dried grain dust, old grease, and the distinct, chemical trace of industrial salt used to preserve hides. The ceiling rose eighty feet into the darkness, supported by massive, cobwebbed steel trusses that echoed with the steady, rhythmic drip... drip... drip of the leaking roof.
Nathan moved through the narrow aisles between rows of stacked wooden crates, his phone flashlight cutting a clean, narrow cylinder through the gloom. Caleb followed a half-step behind, his shotgun held ready, his pocket filled with the gate logs he had pulled from the guard shanty.
"The log is dirty, Boss," Caleb whispered, his eyes scanning the shadows above them. "There are six shipments listed for this week under the code Double-A. The destination isn't New York. It’s an offshore registry vessel called the Maris Stella, currently anchored three miles out in the international waters of Lake Michigan."
"The twins," Nathan said, his voice flat.
"The log lists them as 'unregistered agricultural assets,'" Caleb said, his jaw tightening until the muscle in his cheek twitched. "The price on the manifest... it’s half a million dollars, Nathan. Paid through a corporate account in the Cayman Islands. The buyer is listed as The Sterling Trust."
Nathan stopped in the center of the main aisle. Before him, beneath a single swinging bulb, sat a large, heavy iron cage normally used to transport quarantine animals off the foreign freighters. The lock on the cage door was heavy, brass, and carrying the distinctive logo of the Moretti real estate office.
Inside the cage, on a mattress of dirty wool blankets, sat Evelyn Carter.
Her hair was tangled, her face pale and streaked with grease, but her eyes—the wide, serious eyes the twins had described—were sharp and clear as the light hit her. She didn't scream. She didn't ask for mercy. She looked at Nathan's silver ring, then at the gun in his hand, and she let out a slow, trembling breath.
"Where are my girls?" she asked. Her voice was thin, cracked from thirst, but it carried the same unyielding discipline that June had shown in the cafe. "Grant told me... he told me he had them in the car."
"Your girls are at Nora's shop, Evelyn," Nathan said, stepping forward. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the hydraulic bolt-cutters Caleb carried in his rescue pack, and wedged the blades into the brass padlock. With a sharp, metallic snap, the lock split open, the heavy chain clattering to the concrete floor. "They ran into Bellini’s two hours ago. They told me you were here."
Evelyn crawled out of the cage, her legs shaking so violently she had to catch herself against Nathan's arm. Her fingers, small and calloused from working the tools in her husband's auto shop, dug into the wool of his vest. "Daniel... my husband. He didn't run, Mr. Russo. Grant killed him. He killed him in the garage because Daniel found the crates they were storing in the oil pits."
"I know," Nathan said gently, helping her to her feet. "Caleb, take her to the sedan. Keep the engine running."
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"And you, Boss?" Caleb asked.
"Grant Mercer is still in the building, Caleb," Nathan said, his gray eyes turning toward the high metal stairs that led to the crane operator’s cabin. "And he still thinks he’s an international logistics broker."
