Chapter 3

He circled wide, coming in from the river side where the bank dropped steeply to black water. The third warehouse had a side window, grimy and half-boarded. He pressed himself flat against the wall and eased his head up just enough to see inside.

A single bulb swung on a wire, casting jumpy light over stacks of wooden crates. Near the back, a wooden chair sat empty. A coil of rope hung from its arm. On the floor, a blue silk scarf—the same shade Rita had worn on the ship, the one she'd tied around her neck when the evening breeze picked up over the railing.

His chest tightened. He held the image, let it sharpen his focus.

Two men sat near the front door on overturned barrels, smoking. One had a scar running from his cheekbone to his jaw. The fruit seller's description matched. They spoke in low, lazy tones, their laughter spilling into the still air. Michael listened, catching fragments.

"—the boat comes at midnight. We load her then. Make sure she's quiet."

Midnight. Less than four hours. He had a window, narrow and sharp as a blade.

He began to pull back, calculating approaches, counting men, mapping the exits. But the light shifted—headlights swinging into the alley behind him. A truck engine grumbled to a stop. The driver's door opened, and heavy boots hit the ground.

Michael turned slowly. The police sergeant stood twenty feet away, his bulk silhouetted against the headlights. His smile was slow and cold.

"Mr. Stone. I told you to go home."

Michael measured the distance to the fence, to the river, to anything that offered cover. His ankle still ached from the earlier run, but the pain was distant, irrelevant.

"You shouldn't have come here," the sergeant said. He pulled out a phone and spoke in rapid Vietnamese. Inside the warehouse, voices answered—sharp, moving.

Michael didn't wait. He sprang sideways, hit the rusted chain-link fence at a sprint, and climbed. The metal bit into his palms. A gunshot cracked, the bullet singing off a post inches from his hand. He hauled himself over the top, dropped hard onto the river side, and kept moving.

His twisted ankle buckled on the landing. He forced himself upright and ran along the bank, weaving between scrap piles and beached skiffs. Shouts followed, but no more shots. They didn't want the noise.

He found cover behind a stack of broken fuel drums, dropped to a crouch, and breathed. The sergeant had found him too fast. Loc had eyes everywhere, even in the police station. And now they knew he was coming.

He checked his watch. Three hours and forty minutes until midnight. He sat in the dark, letting the plan form.

They expected him to flee. They'd be watching the perimeter, waiting for another scout. But they wouldn't expect him to come back through the front door—not when they were busy loading the boat. The transfer would be chaos. Men moving crates, securing ropes, distracted. That was the moment.

He waited until the sky deepened to full black, then stood, tested his ankle, and began to move.

He came back along the road, not the river. Walked openly at first, then dropped low as the warehouse lights became visible. The truck was still there, backed up to the loading dock now. Men carried crates from the warehouse, stacking them in the bed. Their voices carried, urgent and efficient.

Michael slipped through the gap in the fence and pressed his back against the warehouse wall. The side door he'd noted earlier stood ajar, held open by a brick. He eased it wider and listened.

From inside, a muffled sound—a woman's cry, cut short. A slap. Then silence.

His blood went cold and hot at once. He drew his breath, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

The darkness swallowed him. The warehouse smelled of fish and diesel and damp wood. Light bled from an office at the far end, casting a yellow wedge across the floor. He moved along the wall, keeping to the deepest shadows.

A voice spoke near the office door—the scarred man, low and impatient. "Check the back. Make sure she's still quiet."

Footsteps approached. Michael pressed into a gap between two stacks of crates, holding his breath. A man passed within three feet of him, reeking of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne. He walked to the rear of the warehouse, where a smaller door stood bolted. He slid the bolt, opened the door a crack, and peered inside.

"Still there," he called back. "Sleeping like a baby."

The scarred man laughed. "Good. Keep her that way."

The man closed the door, slid the bolt home, and walked back toward the loading dock. Michael stayed still, counting heartbeats, letting the layout burn into his memory.

The bolted door was where they held her. The loading dock faced the river. The office had a window that looked out toward the road. Three men inside, at least two outside loading the truck. The boat was coming at midnight.

He had less than three hours.

A plan formed, tight and risky. He would wait until the loading crested—when the men were focused on the truck, when the scarred man was occupied with the boat. Then he would move for that bolted door.

He found a pocket of deep shadow behind a stack of crates near the office and settled in to wait. The minutes stretched. The loading continued, grunts and thuds and the scrape of crates on concrete. The scarred man shouted orders. The river lapped against the dock.

And in the back room, Rita was waiting.

When the activity outside peaked—when the truck engine rumbled to life and the scarred man stepped out to direct the backing—Michael moved.

He crossed the warehouse floor in a low, silent crouch, reaching the bolted door in seconds. He pulled the bolt, eased the door open, and slipped inside.

The room was small, windowless, lit only by a crack of light from the warehouse. Rita lay on a mattress in the corner, her wrists bound, her hair tangled across her face. She looked up at him, eyes wide, and opened her mouth to speak.

The door behind him slammed open.

Michael spun. The scarred man stood in the doorway, a pistol leveled at his chest. Behind him, the sergeant's bulk filled the frame, that cold smile spreading again.

"Well, well," the sergeant said. "You just don't know when to quit, do you, Mr. Stone?"