Chapter 3 - The Cold Storage in Elizabeth
The rain in Elizabeth smelled of salt water, diesel exhaust, and rotting fish.
The industrial park near Port Newark was quiet at midnight, save for the rhythmic, metallic hum of giant refrigeration compressors pumping cold air into concrete warehouses.
Damian sat in the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle, watching the heavy chain-link gate of Vance Cold Logistics. Two guards in heavy dark coats stood inside a small security booth, smoking cigarettes under a halogen light.
"We have twelve men," Miles reported from the back seat, holding an encrypted radio. "Four at the south fence, four at the dock loading doors, and four with us."
"No guns unless they draw first," Damian said calmly. "I want Frank Vance alive. I want to ask him how much Caleb Rourke paid for a dead man's passport."
Damian opened his door and stepped out into the rain.
He didn't wear a tactical vest. He didn't pull a mask over his face. He wore his tailored Italian wool overcoat, his handmade leather shoes clicking against the wet asphalt as he walked straight up to the security gate.
The two guards in the booth froze. One of them, a thick-necked man named Vinnie who used to collect debts for the Vance family, dropped his cigarette into the puddle.
"Mr... Mr. Vale," Vinnie stammered, his hand hovering nervously near his belt. "We... we aren't expecting you tonight. Mr. Vance isn't in."
Damian didn't stop walking. He reached the gate, grabbed the heavy iron latch, and ripped it off the mounting post with a single, violent jerk of his arm, the rusted metal snapping like dry pine.
The second guard reached for his coat.
Miles Carter stepped up behind Damian, pressing the dark barrel of a suppressed pistol directly against the man's throat.
"Don't," Miles said softly.
Damian pushed the gate open and walked into the yard. "Where is Frank?"
Vinnie swallowed hard, his hands rising into the air. "He's... he's in the main office on the second floor. But I swear, Mr. Vale, we don't know nothing about whatever—"
Damian didn't wait to hear the rest. He walked up the steel exterior stairs leading to the second-floor office module, his men falling in behind him like shadows.
He kicked the heavy reinforced door open.
Inside, Frank Vance—a thick, balding man in his fifties with a glass of expensive scotch in his hand—leapt out of his leather chair so fast he spilled his drink across a desk covered in shipping manifests.
"Damian!" Vance yelled, his face turning red with sudden anger and fear. "What the hell is this? You can't just barge into my facility—"
Damian crossed the room in three strides, grabbed Frank Vance by his silk necktie, and slammed him back against the floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooking the dark warehouse floor.
The glass cracked with a sharp thwack.
"Where is she, Frank?" Damian asked, his voice low, steady, and terrifyingly close.
"Who? What are you talking about?" Vance choked out, his hands clawing at Damian's iron grip around his throat. "I don't know what you're—"
"Caleb Rourke," Damian said, tightening his grip until Vance’s face turned a mottled purple. "You gave him money. You gave him a logistics pass. You gave him a safehouse."
Vance’s eyes widened with genuine shock. "Rourke? Rourke is dead! You killed him five years ago in the Barrens!"
Damian studied the old man’s eyes for three terrifying seconds.
He didn't see deceit. He saw pure, unadulterated terror.
Damian released him. Vance collapsed onto his hands and knees, coughing violently, gasping for air against the carpet.
"He didn't come to you," Damian murmured, realization settling into his chest like lead. "He didn't need you."
Leo stepped into the office, holding a tablet connected to the warehouse's internal security network. "Damian. Look at this."
Damian walked over to the screen.
It was live camera footage from Dock 4 on the far side of the building.
A silver delivery van sat parked near a refrigerated shipping container. Standing beside the driver's door was a tall, lean man in a dark trench coat, his left cheek bearing a deep, jagged white scar that stretched from his ear down to his jawline.
He was holding a cup of coffee in one hand, looking casually up at the camera lens as if he knew someone was watching.
Beside him, bound at the wrists with heavy nylon zip-ties, sat Nora Whitaker in her green dress, her face pale, her hazel eyes fixed on the camera with fierce, unyielding anger.
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Caleb Rourke looked directly into the lens, lifted his coffee cup in a mock toast, and pulled Nora into the back of the van before the heavy doors slammed shut.
"He was never hiding from me, Leo," Damian whispered, his eyes fixed on the screen where the silver van was slowly pulling out into the rain. "He was waiting for me to find him."
