Chapter 4 - A Whisper in the Dark
The phone buzzed against the wooden workbench just as the afternoon fog began rolling back over the harbor. Norma jumped slightly, wiping her grease-stained hands on her rag before picking it up.
There was no caller ID, just a short text message: Bring Bruno to the marina office at Pier Nine. Nine o'clock sharp. Come alone.
Norma stared at the screen, her heart hammering against her ribs. Pier Nine was deep inside Trevino’s private commercial sector—a heavily guarded terminal where container ships from Europe and South America offloaded cargo far away from prying customs inspectors and local police.
"Who's that?" Thomas asked, glancing up from the boat engine he was rebuilding.
"Nobody," Norma lied smoothly, sliding the phone into her pocket. "Just... an errand I need to run in town."
"At this hour? In the fog?" Thomas frowned, wiping grease from his forehead. "Norma, be careful. The harbor at night isn't the same as it used to be. Word is, Trevino's rivals from across the bay are making moves on his docks. There's tension in the air."
"I'll be fine, Dad. I'll take Bruno for a walk and be back before you finish that gasket."
True to her word, Norma wrapped her heavy canvas jacket around her shoulders, scooped up the growing puppy—who was already developing distinct paws and an insatiable curiosity—and stepped out into the swirling mist.
The walk down the boardwalk was ghostly. Streetlamps cast sickly, yellow halos through the thick fog, making the wooden pilings look like skeletal fingers reaching up from the dark water. As she approached the iron gates of Pier Nine, two guards in dark tactical vests stepped out from the shadows, blocking her path. They weren't wearing Italian wool tonight; they were wearing body armor and carrying suppressed submachine guns.
"Name," the larger guard demanded, his flashlight beam cutting sharply across Norma's face.
"Norma Smith. Mr. Trevino texted me," she replied, blinking against the glare, holding Bruno tightly against her chest.
The guard tapped his earpiece, listening to a muffled voice on the other end for a few seconds. The heavy steel gate slowly groaned open, revealing a private, cobblestone courtyard lit by industrial overhead lamps.
"Go straight to warehouse three. The office upstairs," the guard grunted, stepping aside.
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Norma hurried through the gate, her boots clicking sharply against the wet cobblestones. Warehouse three was massive, its corrugated metal walls echoing with the distant, rhythmic hum of massive diesel generators. She climbed the steel staircase on the side of the building, her chest tightening with every step.
When she pushed open the heavy oak door at the top of the stairs, she didn't find a cold, sterile corporate office. She found a private study lined with dark mahogany bookshelves, a crackling stone fireplace, and Joseph Trevino standing by a floor-to-ceiling glass window that overlooked the entire shipping harbor.
