Chapter 3 - The Cold Walk-In
In the walk-in cooler, the temperature hovered around thirty-eight degrees. Frankie was shivering, his breath pluming in white puffs against the stainless-steel shelves lined with wheels of imported parmesan and crates of San Marzano tomatoes.
When the heavy insulated door swung open, the blast of warm dining room air felt like a physical blow.
Nora walked in first, her footsteps echoing off the tiled floor. Dominic followed, carrying a small, silver-handled box he had retrieved from his office upstairs. He set the box on a metal prep table and snapped open the latches.
Inside lay a collection of tools that had nothing to do with food preparation.
“Frankie,” Dominic said pleasantly, pulling up a plastic milk crate and sitting down as if he were about to discuss football over coffee. “Let’s talk about encryption keys.”
Frankie spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the floor. “Go to hell, Arlen. Vale will flay you alive for this. You think you’re untouchable because you own the docks, but Vale’s backers are higher up than—AAH!”
Nora didn’t hit him. She simply stepped forward, grabbed a metal meat hook hanging from the overhead rail, and slammed it into the shelf an inch from Frankie’s ear with a deafening screech of steel on steel. The sound reverberated through the small room like a hammer on an anvil.
“The men who ambushed my convoy didn't use standard insurgent tactics,” Nora said, her voice terrifyingly calm. “They had exact coordinates. They knew the shift change of our air support. They knew the radio frequencies. That requires a ghost in Washington or a high-level broker in the syndicate.” She leaned in close, her face inches from Frankie’s sweat-soaked brow. “Who was it, Frankie? Was it Vale himself, or did he buy the intel from someone inside the Pentagon?”
Frankie stared into her eyes and saw something far more terrifying than torture: absolute, emotionless certainty.
“I swear on my mother’s grave, I don’t know the top broker!” Frankie gasped, hyperventilating as the cold air bit into his skin. “I just carry messages! But... but there’s a ledger. A physical ledger kept at Vale’s shipping warehouse down on Pier 42. Every transaction, every dirty wire transfer, every military code he’s bought over the last five years is written down in code by his accountant, a guy named Vane.”
Dominic raised an eyebrow. “Pier 42. Well, well. That warehouse belongs to the city’s municipal authority, leased exclusively to Vale Logistics.”
“Is it guarded?” Nora asked, ignoring Dominic.
“Twenty-four-seven,” Frankie whimpered. “Armed patrol, motion sensors, private security detail with military-grade comms. You’ll never get past the gate without an electronic passkey.”
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Nora straightened up, a cold, calculated gleam in her eye. She reached into her apron pocket, pulled out the electronic keycard she had lifted off one of the unconscious hitmen in the dining room, and tossed it into the air, catching it deftly.
“Good thing I’ve always hated locked doors,” she said.
