Chapter 7 - The Brooklyn Warehouse
The rain was coming down in sheets as my father’s dark blue SUV sped across the Manhattan Bridge toward the industrial docks of Red Hook. The sky was a bruising shade of slate gray, the first pale light of dawn struggling against the heavy Atlantic storm clouds.
We pulled up to an anonymous, low-slung brick warehouse situated between a rusted maritime scrap yard and an abandoned grain terminal. The building bore no corporate signage, only a faded street number and a heavy steel roll-up door secured with industrial padlocks.
""Stay behind me, Emily,"" Dad ordered, pulling a heavy tactical flashlight from the glove compartment. ""Sarah's federal tactical unit is ten minutes out, but we need to verify the inventory before anyone attempts to move it.""
We walked toward the pedestrian entrance on the side of the warehouse. To our surprise, the heavy steel security door was already slightly ajar, the lock cylinder cleanly drilled out with a high-speed metal bit. Fresh shavings of brass lay scattered across the wet concrete threshold.
Dad pulled me back against the brick wall, gesturing for complete silence.
Inside the cavernous, echoing warehouse, the low rumble of a forklift engine reverberated against the corrugated metal roof. Voices were shouting in low, hurried German.
""Vorsichtig! Die Kisten sind millionen wert!"" (Careful! These crates are worth millions!)
I peered through the crack of the door. The interior was brightly illuminated by portable halogen work lights. Three men dressed in dark dockworker jackets were loading heavy wooden crates into the back of an unmarked twenty-foot refrigerated shipping container.
Sitting on an overturned wooden pallet near the forklift was a woman smoking a slim cigarette, checking an electronic manifest on a ruggedized tablet. It was Greta Von Berg—the notorious managing director of the Zurich holding firm Sarah Vance had warned us about.
""Dad,"" I whispered, my heart thumping against my ribs. ""They're already loading the paintings.""
""They're clearing out the entire vault,"" Dad muttered, scanning the interior. ""There must be thirty masterworks in those crates. If that container seals, we’ll never prove Daniel committed the original theft.""
Just then, the warehouse office door near the back catwalk swung open.
A man came stumbling out onto the iron stairs, disheveled, soaking wet, his expensive suit trousers caked in mud.
It was Daniel.
He had somehow posted emergency cash bail at Central Booking—likely using an emergency contingency account he had kept hidden even from Marcus—and had fled straight to Brooklyn to salvage what he could.
""Greta!"" Daniel yelled, his voice cracking with hysteria as he stumbled down the catwalk stairs. ""You can't take the whole collection! You promised me twenty percent of the auction value once the crates reached Antwerp! I need the cash now! The DA has frozen my personal accounts!""
Greta Von Berg slowly took the cigarette from her lips, exhaled a thin plume of blue smoke, and looked at Daniel as if he were an annoying insect buzzing around her boots.
""Your credit is dead, Daniel,"" Greta said in flawless, icy English. ""Your CFO is in federal custody. Your mistress is currently singing like a canary to the Manhattan District Attorney. And your ex-wife took control of Hayes Capital before your fake charges cleared at Aurum House.""
""I took all the risks!"" Daniel screamed, grabbing Greta’s sleeve. ""I spent four years married to that insufferable, boring heiress! I endured her father breathing down my neck! I brought you sixty million dollars of Hayes Capital capital! You owe me my cut!""
Greta didn't even raise her voice. She simply glanced at the two burly men loading the forklift.
One of them dropped the pallet jack, stepped behind Daniel, and swept his legs out from under him with brutal efficiency. Daniel hit the concrete floor face-first with a sickening smack, crying out in agony as his nose broke against the stone.
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""You are a failed asset, Mr. Whitmore,"" Greta said calmly, stepping over his writhing body. ""In our world, failed assets do not collect commissions. They absorb the losses.""
From outside the door, the distant, wailing sirens of six federal law enforcement cruisers began to tear through the morning rain.
