Chapter 5 - The Industrial Yard
The old shipping yards off Industrial Parkway were a labyrinth of rusted corrugated metal, decaying warehouses, and flickering sodium-vapor streetlights that cast an jaundiced, dying glow over the asphalt.
I parked my rented sedan half a mile away, cutting the lights and coasting into the dense shadows behind an abandoned lumber yard. I didn't drive right up to Warehouse 4. A professional predator does not announce his approach when hunting another beast.
I checked my gear in the dark cab of the car. I pulled the heavy combat knife from my calf sheath, testing the edge with my thumb before sliding it back into place. I rolled my shoulders, feeling the old scar tissue pull tight beneath my shirt—reminders of a dozen battlefields that had prepared me for this exact night.
Walking through the industrial parkway was like stepping back into a combat zone overseas. Every shadow looked like an ambush; every screech of metal in the wind sounded like a perimeter breach.
When I reached Warehouse 4, the sprawling corrugated structure sat silent and menacing against the dark harbor sky. A single beat-up Ford pickup truck was parked near the rusted loading dock—Marcus’s truck. A faint amber light flickered through the grimy wired-glass windows of the second-floor office.
I circled the perimeter, identifying the entry points. Front loading bay: chained and padlocked. Side maintenance door: slightly ajar, secured only by a cheap spring latch.
Classic amateur mistake. People who think they are safe inside a fortress always leave the back door unlocked.
I slipped through the side maintenance door like a ghost, letting the heavy metal door click shut behind me without a sound.
The interior of the warehouse smelled of stale beer, motor oil, and damp concrete. Towering stacks of wooden pallets and empty shipping crates created a maze of dark corridors leading toward the center of the cavernous ground floor.
From above, coming down through the open metal staircase leading to the office loft, I heard a voice laughing.
"...I'm telling you, man, Tyler is losing his mind," a rough, arrogant voice echoed through the empty warehouse. "Kid was crying like a baby when I left him. Total coward."
Marcus.
I began ascending the metal staircase one step at a time. My boots made no sound against the iron mesh. Every muscle in my body was coiled like a spring, ready to release with devastating violence.
I reached the top landing. The office door stood wide open.
Inside, sitting on a worn leather couch beneath a buzzing fluorescent light, was Marcus. He was a nineteen-year-old punk with a shaved head, tribal tattoos creeping up his neck, and a heavy gold chain around his thick throat. Spread out across the coffee table in front of him were stacks of fifty- and hundred-dollar bills—the cash stolen from my desk.
He was holding a half-empty bottle of bourbon in one hand and counting the bills with a smug, self-satisfied grin.
"Easy money," Marcus muttered to himself, taking a swig from the bottle.
I stepped across the threshold and kicked the heavy wooden office door shut behind me with a thunderous BANG that rattled the windowpanes in their frames.
Marcus jumped nearly three feet off the couch, dropping the bourbon bottle. It shattered against the concrete floor, amber liquid splashing everywhere. He spun around, his eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated horror as he saw me standing blocking the only exit.
"Who the—" Marcus started, his hand diving toward his waistband where the heavy steel pipe he had used on Violet was tucked into his belt.
May you like
He never cleared leather.
I crossed the room in two blinding steps, grabbed him by the throat, and drove him backward through the office drywall with the force of a freight train.
