Adventure of Dallas Fontaine 2

Rain needles the dockside alley. The kitchen entrance glows under a red camera blink, and the white maintenance cart idles like a patient getaway car.

Two men in sterile white uniforms wrench at the heavy service door. One slips, and a concealed pistol skitters from his sleeve into a puddle.

A second shape moves in the cart window, then stills. From inside the truck cab nearby, someone bangs once, hard, as if trying to warn them or trap them.

Dallas and Jackson are not looking at a break-in anymore. They are staring at the last clean path into the wedding grounds, and Alder March's people are forcing it open.

Dallas fires once, and the man in white jerks backward with a shredded shoulder, stumbling off the door line. The shot cracks across the alley, and the red camera keeps blinking like it saw everything.

Dallas is already moving. He cuts past the fallen pistol, boots splashing through the puddle, and drives straight for the service door while Jackson shifts to cover the alley mouth.

Dallas reaches the threshold, and the heavy door gives under his shoulder. The latch shudders, then swings inward just enough to expose the kitchen light and the first slice of the wedding route beyond.

From the truck cab, the knocking becomes a hard, trapped pound. The man in white clutches his wound and tries to crawl after Dallas, leaving a wet trail on the concrete.

Murderbone plants himself between the wounded man and the doorway, teeth bared, forcing the attacker to freeze in place.

Dallas stands at the open service entrance, gun still up, with the breach exposed and the hidden movement in the truck cab turning urgent.

Dallas slips through the kitchen opening in one fast surge, gun leading, shoulders low. The service light washes over stainless steel, a rolling cart, and startled hands frozen over a prep table.

He clears the first lane in a single sweep, kicking aside a loose crate and forcing the nearest caterer back from the route. The path into the wedding prep area opens.

A dull thud hits the truck cab outside, louder than before, and the sound carries through the open door like a warning bell. One of the catering workers flinches toward it.

Dallas drives deeper into the breach, and the hidden route inside the service line comes into view, clear enough to cross. A knife flashes from the prep counter, then stalls when Dallas turns on the motion.

The wounded man in white loses the last of his nerve and drops flat beside the puddled pistol, out of the fight. Dallas holds the kitchen line, but the pounding from the truck cab keeps coming, harder now.

Dallas hits the kitchen floor in a low, hard line, revolver up, and the breach snaps shut behind his movement. The prep lane is clear now, the cart shoved aside, the knife ignored.

He sweeps the counter, then the far corner, and every set of hands in the room freezes. The catering workers recoil from the route as if the wrong man walked in.

Outside, the pounding from the truck cab answers once, heavy and close, but the kitchen line holds. The movement is no longer background noise, it is part of the breach.

Dallas angles deeper into the prep area, and the hidden wedding route opens straight ahead. The saboteur in white stays down, out of the fight.

Murderbone holds the rear line at the service opening, and the room settles into a dangerous stillness. The breach is clear, but the truck cab keeps thudding, demanding attention.

The truck cab door buckles outward, the metal groaning under a heavy, rhythmic impact from within. A second figure, dressed in the same catering uniform but wearing a tactical vest, kicks the door wide and tumbles onto the asphalt.

Dallas drops into a low firing stance at the kitchen threshold, sightline locked on the alley. The saboteur in the vest hits the asphalt hard, radio skidding free, while the wounded man by the truck freezes in Jackson’s shadow.

The shot pins the vest-wearer before he can rise. He grits his teeth, one hand clawing at the radio, the other scrambling over the scuffed concrete toward the open door.

Murderbone surges in, planting himself over the fallen man and driving him flat with a hard, warning growl. The radio crackles once, then goes still under Dallas’s aim.

Inside the truck, something shifts behind the hanging door, a second body or a hidden hand pressing against metal. The wedding route stays open, but the alley is not finished with them.

Dallas squeezes off a final round into the saboteur on the pavement. The man jerks once, then goes limp, and Dallas snaps the revolver back toward the service door.

Jackson shifts his aim toward the truck, shoulders hardening as the hanging cab door twitches under pressure from inside.

Murderbone keeps his chest over the fallen man, then turns his head toward the cab, hackles raised at the sound behind the metal.

His voice cracks out weak and thin. The dropped radio lies dead in the grit, and the breached kitchen threshold stays open behind Dallas.

From the truck, another shove rolls the damaged door inward a fraction, as if someone inside is testing the hinge by hand.

Dallas’s shot finds the tank, and the truck answers with a hard metallic crack. Fuel sprays low across the alley floor, spreading under the hanging cab door and toward the breached service entry.

He flicks the lighter and tosses it. The flame skips once through the mist, then blooms under the truck in a sharp orange wash.

Jackson jerks back from the heat as the cab pops loud enough to rattle the alley walls. Murderbone lunges clear with a bark, leaving the wounded saboteur exposed on the pavement.

The truck’s side panel buckles, then fire pours from the torn seam. Black smoke rolls up past the service door, turning the kitchen threshold into a sudden wall of heat.

Inside the cab, something bangs once, then goes still. On the alley side of the flame, the route to the wedding is no longer hidden, it is being lit up for everyone to see.

Dallas lunges through the smoke and hits the truck’s flank hard enough to shove it off the lane line. The burning cab scrapes sideways, opening a clear path between the alley wall and the service door.

His shoulder clips the frame, but he keeps moving. The lane is clear now, and the wedding entry stands unobstructed behind him, lit by fire and strobing orange through the smoke.

Jackson advances with his gun up, taking the alley mouth and the flaming truck at the same time. The wounded saboteur on the pavement stops trying to crawl.

Inside the truck cab, the banging is gone. What remains is the crackle of fire, the hiss of fuel, and a hard silence where the hidden passenger was.

Beyond the cleared lane, the kitchen service threshold stays open, but the smoke thickens into a warning curtain. Someone deeper inside the wedding grounds has definitely heard the blast.

Dallas cuts through the smoke and slips into the service doorway. The kitchen threshold swallows him at once, and the alley noise drops behind his back.

The interior lights are dim and warm, all polished steel and hurried hands. Fresh scuffs mark the floor by the jamb, and the smell of burned fuel still follows him in.

From deeper in the wedding grounds, a burst of movement answers the blast, chairs scraping hard against tile. Somebody inside has heard the breach and is running it down.

Dallas reaches the kitchen line with the service route at his back, the wedding area ahead, and the sabotage team’s cover blown.

Dallas drives down the left corridor, coat swinging tight behind him as the kitchen noise falls away. Fresh scuffs streak the tile ahead, and the running feet stop all at once.

At the bend, a catering cart lies on its side, spilling trays and silverware. The nearest saboteur skids into view, half-turned, caught before he can vanish deeper into the wedding grounds.

Dallas closes the gap and the saboteur aborts his run, stumbling into the wall. The corridor becomes a choke point, steel and tile ringing with the impact.

The first runner twists toward a side door, but Dallas is already there, cutting him off at arm’s length. Beyond them, the wedding lights still glow, exposed through the open service route.

Dallas fires once. The runner jerks, drops hard against the wall, and his pistol skitters across the tile, spinning into the silverware scatter.

Without stopping, Dallas drives through the opening he made. The corridor opens into the banquet approach, all warm light ahead and panic behind.

Jackson shifts at the threshold and covers the hall, while Murderbone surges forward at Dallas’s heel, teeth bared toward the sound of footsteps inside.

The wounded saboteur reaches for his fallen gun, but Dallas is already past him, the breach now behind and the wedding entry in front of him.

From the truck cab outside, the pounding stops dead. Inside the venue, another door slams somewhere deeper in the service maze, and the sabotage team’s route goes quiet.

Dallas breaks into the banquet approach, and the hall opens wide in front of him, bright tables, moving guests, and a service lane that should be empty but is not.

A catering runner in stolen service whites freezes by a side arch, then bolts for the guest floor. His shoulder clips a chair, and a tray crashes into the carpet.

Murderbone drives after the runner, forcing him away from the tables and back toward Dallas’s line of fire.

At the far end of the hall, two wedding staff exchange a look too sharp to be casual. One of them reaches under a folded linen cart, then stops when he sees Dallas.

The runner skids to a halt, trapped between Dallas, Murderbone, and the open hall. Behind him, the banquet room holds its breath.

Dallas’s shot cracks through the banquet noise. The runner jerks, drops hard by the aisle, and stays down.

He snaps his aim toward the linen cart and gives Murderbone the signal.

Murderbone surges low across the carpet, straight for the cart and the hands behind it.

The two staffers at the cart break cover at once, one backing into the tables, the other fumbling for a hidden blade under folded linen.

Jackson steps in with a hard line of fire, cutting off the aisle while guests duck and the music stutters to a stop.

The linen cart tips, exposing a second service bag and a grimy Harbor Unit badge beneath it. The saboteurs freeze, boxed in on both sides.

Dallas steps in and clamps a saboteur by the collar against the ruined linen cart. The man stops struggling when Dallas’s revolver comes level with his face.

Jackson holds the far aisle, jaw tight, while Murderbone plants himself over the second man and bares his teeth without making a sound.

The first saboteur swallows hard and jerks his chin toward the service door threshold, where fresh scuffs mark the frame and the spilled badge glints on the floor.

Dallas keeps him pinned as the man’s knees fold. The buffet line goes silent, and the wedding crowd recoils from the aisle while the two saboteurs are left boxed in, exposed, and talking.

Dallas lets the second service bag spill open on the floor. A route card, a folded kitchen plan, and a grease-smeared wristband slide into the light.

He checks the lining and finds a key taped inside, plus a tiny notepad with guest counts and staff shifts marked in tight, hurried strokes.

Jackson’s gaze snaps to the notepad, then to the aisle. The wedding crowd stays back, tense and silent, while Murderbone keeps the other man frozen under his weight.

Dallas pulls out a second card tucked behind the first. It names the kitchen entry, the guest timing, and a service window that matches the route papers.

From somewhere beyond the banquet hall, a hard knock sounds at the service door, close enough to rattle the frame.

Dallas lifts the revolver toward the service door and gives Jackson the smallest signal with two fingers. Jackson catches it at once, shifts his stance, and reaches for the handle without taking his eyes off the frame.

The door swings inward a crack. Cold hallway air slides into the banquet hall, and Dallas tracks the opening with the muzzle, steady and low.

Jackson yanks the door wider. A man in catering blacks lunges from the service side, half-hidden by the jamb, and stops dead when the gun meets his chest.

Murderbone drives his weight down harder on the man on the floor, and the pinned saboteur grunts as fresh panic flashes across his face at the voice from outside.

The newcomer freezes, but behind him another shape shifts in the corridor, too quick to make out, and the service door hangs open on the edge of a wider breach.

The words land. The man at the door swallows hard and lifts both hands, backing a step into the corridor light.

The saboteur fumbles a phone from his pocket with shaking fingers. His thumb slips on the screen, leaving a smear of sweat across the glass.

He dials with one hand, voice low and ragged as he starts to talk. The cost lands with a dry click, his knuckle split against the doorframe and blood dotting the threshold scuffs.

The saboteur swallows hard, then turns his shoulder into the corridor light and speaks into the phone in a cracked whisper. His team hears enough to hesitate.

Inside the hall, the words hang over the scattered silverware and spilled evidence like a dropped curtain. Jackson keeps his eyes on the door, but his jaw eases a fraction.

The man’s hand shakes so badly he nearly drops the phone. A thin line of blood spots the threshold as his split knuckle brushes the frame again.

The call stays open a beat longer than it should, then the line goes dead. The corridor beyond remains empty, but the knot in the saboteur’s throat says he is waiting for a response that has not come.

He works the phone with a trembling thumb, eyes fixed on Dallas like he expects the floor to open. The line crackles, then two short replies come back from beyond the doorway.

Jackson does not lower his guard, but the edge in his face softens when the corridor stays empty. Murderbone keeps the fallen man pinned, only his head turning toward the threshold as if counting every sound.

Dallas gets what he asked for, but the price is written in blood. The saboteur’s split knuckle leaves a fresh smear on the doorframe, and his hand comes away shaking as he ends the call.

The saboteur swallows hard and looks past Dallas, not at him, toward the dining room where wedding guests laugh behind glass and linen. The line is dead now, but his fear is not.

The man nods once, then twice, like each answer hurts more than the blood on his knuckle. Murderbone does not loosen his pin, but his ears flick toward the corridor, then back to the hall.

He glances at the grimy Harbor Unit badge on the floor, and the shame on his face is plain enough to read in the banquet hall light. For a moment, the only sounds are distant music, his breathing, and Murderbone’s low, steady warning at his shoulder.

Dallas leans in and goes through the saboteur’s jacket and trouser pockets with quick, practiced hands. He pulls free a brass key, a folded service card, and a crumpled slip with a name and number on it.

The saboteur flinches at the question, then swallows and looks at the slip in Dallas’s hand. His voice comes out thin.

Jackson takes the service card from Dallas and turns it once under the hall lights. Murderbone keeps the man pinned, but his head snaps toward the corridor as if he hears something Dallas does not.

The saboteur shuts his eyes, defeated, as the music from the wedding room keeps playing through the glass. From deeper in the service corridor, a hard knock answers once, then stops.

Dallas presses the question without raising his voice. The saboteur’s eyes snap open, and fear answers before pride can stop it.

Jackson goes still, then looks toward the corridor as the single knock echoes through the hall again, closer this time.

Murderbone lifts his head and growls low at the open door, weight still planted on the kneeling man. The wedding music keeps floating in from the hall, thin and unreal against the pressure at the threshold.

The saboteur swallows hard and adds the last piece, staring at the floor as if it might protect him.

Dallas draws his revolver and snaps the service door wide with a hard kick. The latch slams back, and the corridor beyond flashes into view.

A man in catering blacks is caught mid-step just outside, shoulders jerking as he turns toward the blast of light and steel. Fresh scuffs mark the threshold under his shoes.

Jackson shifts into the doorway behind Dallas, reading the man and the hall in one glance. Murderbone keeps the kneeling saboteur pinned, but his growl deepens at the new target.

From beyond the knocked-open gap, a second sound answers, a quick footstep and the scrape of something dragged low. The sabotage has a face now, and it is not alone.

Dallas fires once. The round cracks the ceiling tile above the corridor, and dust bursts down in a sharp white sheet.

The man dragging the load jerks upright at the sound, his grip breaking as the bundle thumps to the floor just inside the bay.

Jackson shifts in behind Dallas, eyes locked on the dropped package and the open dark behind it. Murderbone stiffens over the kneeling prisoner, then snaps his attention to the corridor.

The dragged bundle skids to a stop at the threshold, half in the hall light and half in shadow. A grimy Harbor Unit badge flashes loose from the wrapping, and the footsteps inside the bay cut off.