Intern's Absence

I grabbed my jacket and headed out into the night. The air had turned cold, the river fog rolling in off the water, swallowing the streetlights. My truck rumbled to life, and I drove back to the shipyard, my headlights cutting through the mist.

The gate was locked, but I knew the code—the same code that'd been used for fifteen years, never changed. I punched it in and slipped through, leaving the truck parked outside. The yard was a maze of containers, stacked like steel Lego blocks under the floodlights. I found the container I'd opened hours ago. The door was still closed.

I pulled it open. The gold was still there, stacked and wrapped, catching the light. But something was different. The plastic sheeting on the top row had been cut. A bar was missing.

I stepped inside, my boots echoing. The bar that was missing had left a gap, and in that gap, tucked beneath the plastic, was a piece of paper. I unfolded it. A single line, typed: "You're already in too deep."

I heard a noise behind me—a scrape of shoe on concrete. I spun, my heart hammering. A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the floodlights. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a long coat that looked expensive. He stepped forward, and the light caught his face—sharp features, cold eyes, a thin smile that didn't reach them.

"You must be Subject Four," he said. His voice was smooth, calm. "I'm Silas Vane. Some call me the Broker."

I didn't answer. My hand was still gripping the paper.

"I appreciate your prompt return to the scene," he said. "It saves time. I'm here to offer you a deal. You have something of mine. The gold is counterfeit—a decoy. The real shipment is still in transit. But someone made a mistake, and now I need to know who."

"You sent the text."

"I did. But I didn't expect you to come back tonight. That shows initiative. Or stupidity. I haven't decided which."

He stepped closer, and I could see the gun holstered under his coat. He didn't reach for it. Didn't need to. The threat was enough.

"I don't have your gold," I said.

"I know. You're a journalist. Or you were. You wouldn't steal it. You'd investigate it. That's what you're doing now."

He was right. And that made him dangerous.

"I'm offering you a way out," he said. "Help me find who botched the transfer, and you walk away clean. Refuse, and I'll make sure you're the one who takes the fall."

I looked at the paper in my hand. "Who wrote this?"

"A warning from someone who doesn't want you involved. Could be the intern. Could be someone else."

"The intern called in sick today."

"He did. But he was here. I saw him on the security feed, poking around this container this morning. Before you found it."

That changed things. The intern wasn't just lazy—he was involved. Or he'd stumbled onto something, same as me.

"Where is he now?" I asked.

Vane smiled. "That's what I'd like to know."

He turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the fog. I stood there, the gold behind me, the paper in my hand, the clock ticking down.

I drove home, but I didn't sleep. I sat at the table, the photos on my phone, the paper spread out in front of me. The intern had been there. He'd seen something. And now he was missing.

At dawn, I drove to his apartment. A run-down building on the south side, peeling paint and a broken mailbox. I knocked. No answer. The door was unlocked.

I pushed it open. The place was trashed—drawers pulled out, cushions ripped, papers scattered across the floor. Someone had been looking for something. I stepped inside, my shoes crunching on broken glass.

On the kitchen counter, propped against a coffee mug, was a photograph. A shot of the shipyard, taken from the crane platform. The container I'd opened was circled in red marker. Beneath it, a note: "Wrong ship. Wrong dock. Right cargo."

I picked it up. The intern had been investigating too. And someone had found out.

I heard a creak behind me. I turned, but there was no one there. Just the wind through the open door.

I left, the photograph in my pocket. The pieces were coming together, but the picture was still incomplete. The intern was gone. The gold was a decoy. Vane was watching. And I had less than a day to find the truth.

My phone buzzed. Another text: "You're running out of time. Come to Pier 7. Alone. Bring what you found."

I didn't have a choice. I got in my truck and drove.

The fog had lifted, leaving a gray, overcast sky. The river was flat and still. Pier 7 was empty, the Harbinger long gone. I parked and walked to the edge, the water lapping against the pilings.

A boat was idling below—a small speedboat, dark hull, no markings. A man in a black jacket waved me down. I climbed aboard, and we sped off across the river, the shipyard shrinking behind us.

The boat pulled up to a barge anchored mid-channel. I climbed onto the deck. Silas Vane was waiting, standing beside a shipping container identical to the one at the yard.

"You found it," I said.

"I always knew where it was. I needed to know who else did."

He nodded to the man, who opened the container door. Inside, stacked neatly, were the real gold bars—hundreds of them, gleaming under the work lights.

"The decoy was a test," Vane said. "To see who would bite. You bit. The intern bit. But he didn't survive the bite."

He pulled out his phone and showed me a photo. The intern, slumped against the container wall, a bullet hole in his forehead.

"He knew too much. Now you do too."

I stared at the image, my stomach turning. The intern hadn't been sick. He'd been dead.

"You killed him."

"I didn't. But someone did. Someone who wants the gold for themselves. And now they think you have it."

He put the phone away. "You have until midnight. Find out who killed the intern and who's after the gold, or I'll make sure you're the next one in that photo."

I stood there, the wind cold against my face, the gold glittering behind me. The quiet life was gone. I was in the middle of something I couldn't walk away from.

And I had no idea who I could trust.