Chapter 4 - The Warehouse on 4th Street
The rain had stopped, leaving behind a damp, chilling fog that rolled off the river and wrapped around the industrial sector of East Riverton.
A convoy of three black SUVs slid silently to a halt outside a massive, rusted corrugated-steel warehouse on 4th Street. The sign above the rusted rolling door read Vance Global Freight & Storage, but local intelligence provided by a repentant former warehouse manager indicated that the front was nothing more than a front for illicit cargo and illegal detention.
The rear door of the lead vehicle opened, and Joanna stepped out into the mud, wearing a heavy trench coat and sturdy boots. Behind her stepped Dr. Robert Wright and four federal agents wearing tactical gear and ballistic vests.
“Are you sure about this, Joanna?” Robert asked, his hand trembling slightly as he clutched a printed map of the facility's basement blueprints. “The informant said this place was cleared out months ago.”
“Informed sources lie when they’re protecting their own necks, Robert,” Joanna said, her voice flat and determined. “Marcus Vance was too arrogant to destroy everything. He kept records. And if Logan... if there’s anything left of him here, I’m going to find it.”
She didn't wait for the agents. She marched straight up to the reinforced steel side door of the warehouse, where a heavy digital keypad glowed with a faint blue light.
“Agent Vance,” the lead federal marshal called out, jogging up beside her. “Stand back, ma'am. Let my tech specialist handle the lock.”
“There’s no time for tech specialists,” Joanna said. She reached into her trench coat pocket and pulled out a heavy gold-plated keycard—the master executive override card she had legally seized from Marcus Vance’s office safe during the boardroom takeover that morning.
She swiped the card through the slot.
BEEP.
A green light flashed, and the heavy pneumatic locks hissed open with a loud, satisfying mechanical clunk.
The tactical team moved in first, weapons raised, sweeping their flashlights through the cavernous, dust-filled darkness of the loading bay. Rows of empty shipping crates loomed like giant tombstones in the pale light filtering through the high clerestory windows.
“Clear!” shouted the lead agent from the far corner. “Sector one is clear!”
Joanna walked slowly through the center of the warehouse, her boots crunching on broken glass and gravel. Every step felt heavy, burdened by the ghosts of what might have happened in this bleak, forgotten tomb.
She noticed a heavy steel door set into the concrete foundation at the back of the warehouse, half-concealed behind a stack of rusted pallets. A keypad was mounted beside it, alongside a biometric fingerprint scanner.
“Over here,” Joanna called out, her voice echoing in the vast space.
The tactical agents rushed over, laser sights sweeping across the metal door. The tech specialist knelt down with a laptop, plugging a bypass cable into the maintenance port beneath the keypad.
“Give me thirty seconds, ma'am,” the tech muttered, his fingers flying across the keyboard.
Thirty seconds felt like an eternity. Joanna closed her eyes, breathing in the smell of damp concrete and old iron, whispering a silent prayer to whatever universe was listening. Please. Please let him be here. Or... please let us find the truth.
Click.
The heavy metal door popped open a fraction of an inch, driven by internal pneumatic pressure.
Agent Vance pulled the door wide open, his flashlight beam cutting into the absolute blackness of the underground room below. A steep set of concrete stairs led down into what appeared to be a secure, climate-controlled sub-basement bunker.
Joanna didn't wait for permission. She grabbed a flashlight from an agent’s belt and rushed down the stairs.
The bunker was small—barely ten by twelve feet. It was lined with soundproofing foam on the walls. A small cot sat in the corner, alongside a battered wooden desk, a half-empty bottle of water, and a small, scratched metal desk lamp.
And on the wooden desk sat something that made Joanna’s breath catch permanently in her throat.
A leather-bound journal.
Joanna rushed forward, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she picked up the journal. She flipped it open to the last handwritten page, dated nearly seven months ago—the exact week Logan had disappeared.
“If you’re reading this,” the bold, familiar handwriting read, “it means Marcus’s men found me before I could reach the federal prosecutor. They’ve locked me away in the 4th Street vault. But I left a digital trail with my father. And more importantly... Joanna, if you’re reading this, it means you and our baby are safe. Never let them tell you I stopped loving you. I am coming home, even if I have to crawl out of the dark.”
A tear splashed against the paper, smudging the ink.
Dr. Robert Wright walked slowly down the stairs behind her, looking around the tiny, oppressive cell. When he saw the journal in Joanna’s hands, the old man covered his face and wept openly.
“He was here,” Robert choked out. “My son was right here.”
“Yes,” Joanna whispered, her eyes fierce as she clutched the journal to her chest. “And according to the transport manifests on Marcus Vance’s desk, prisoners from this black site were transferred to an offshore holding facility seventy-two hours ago.”
May you like
She turned to the federal agents standing at the door.
“We’re not done,” Joanna declared, her voice ringing with absolute, terrifying authority. “Get the Coast Guard on the phone. We’re going to international waters.”
