Chapter 3 - The Cold Inventory
The inside of the harbor warehouse was an industrial graveyard. Towering shelves held wooden pallets wrapped in thick plastic, containing everything from contraband electronics to black-market auto parts. But Nathan wasn't looking at the freight. He was tracking the layout, his eyes adjusting to the gloom as he moved past old maritime machinery.
He reached the elevated catwalk that overlooked the main office—a temporary structure built out of dry-wall and reinforced glass inside the warehouse hull. Through the window, he could see Grant Mercer. The man had changed out of his wet charcoal coat into a dry, pristine gray suit. He was pacing, a satellite phone pressed to his ear, his calm, measured demeanor from the cafe entirely gone, replaced by a frantic, feral energy.
"I don't care about the storm!" Grant hissed into the phone, his voice echoing faintly up to the catwalk. "The product escaped. They had help. Russo’s people interfered at Bellini’s. We need to move the anchor asset tonight before the grid locks down."
Nathan leaned against the iron railing of the catwalk, looking down like an apex predator watching a rodent trap itself. The product. The anchor asset. Grant was talking about a mother and her nine-year-old daughters as if they were crates of surplus steel.
"You're late with your delivery, Grant," Nathan’s voice cut through the ambient hum of the warehouse, dropping from the darkness like a guillotine.
Grant froze. The satellite phone slipped an inch from his ear. He slowly turned his head upward, his eyes straining against the shadows until they locked onto Nathan’s silhouette. The two guards inside the office immediately reached for their waistbands, but before their hands could clear leather, two suppressed pops echoed from the far side of the room. Both guards collapsed instantly, Caleb stepping out from behind a stack of shipping crates with his weapon still raised.
"Russo," Grant said, his voice dropping into that smooth, artificial register he had used at the cafe. He carefully set the phone on the desk and raised his hands to chest height. "You are making a catastrophic logistical error. The people I represent... they don't belong to the Chicago streets. They don't care about your family's history or your territory. You are inserting yourself into a corporate transaction."
Nathan walked down the metal stairs, his boots hitting each step with a slow, deliberate rhythm that sounded like a ticking clock. "I don't care about your corporations, Grant. And I certainly don't care about your buyers."
"Then why are you here?" Grant asked, genuine confusion cracking through his polished facade. "Two girls? You don't even know them. If it's a matter of respect, name your price. Whatever the commission on this shipment is, I can triple it. You can walk out of here with enough clean capital to retire from the outfit entirely."
Nathan stopped five feet from Grant. The light from the bare bulb hit the silver ring on his hand. "You think this is about money."
"Everything is about money," Grant countered, a desperate sneer appearing on his face. "The mother’s husband understood that. He gambled away what he couldn't afford, and he used his family as collateral. I'm just enforcing the terms of the contract."
"Where is Evelyn Carter?" Nathan asked, ignoring the pitch entirely.
Grant smiled, a tiny, ugly twitch of his lips. "She’s safe. For now. But if I don't check in every fifteen minutes, my people overseas will assume the asset is compromised. They'll erase the paper trail, Nathan. And that means the mother becomes permanently untraceable. You kill me, you kill her."
Before Grant could finish his breath, Nathan moved. He didn't shoot. He slammed the butt of his pistol directly into Grant’s jaw. The sound of fracturing bone cracked through the office, and Grant tumbled backward over the desk, scattering paperwork and spilling cold coffee across the floor. He groaned, clutching his face as blood leaked through his fingers.
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Nathan stepped over him, his boot pressing hard against Grant’s throat, cutting off his ability to scream but leaving just enough room for a suffocating gasp.
"I don't negotiate with brokers," Nathan said softly, leaning down so Grant could see the complete lack of hesitation in his eyes. "Caleb, clear the basement level. If she’s not there, we start breaking Grant's fingers until he remembers how to talk."
