Adventure of Dallas Fontaine 2

The carbon memo lies open beside the ledger, and the final encrypted log finishes printing in Jackson Temple’s hands. Outside, boots hammer the dock office wall, and a voice barks for the door to open.

Dallas Fontaine catches the memo stamp, then the routing codes on the log. They match. The chain does not end at Covington, it points higher, to a signed approval buried in a city office above the docks.

Murderbone snarls at the door as the first crack splinters the frame. Dallas snatches the memo, the ledger, and the printed logs together, the evidence now hard enough to name the man above Covington before the network can silence him.

Dallas feeds the memo, ledger, and logs under his coat in one hard motion, then twists toward the window as the doorframe cracks again behind him.

He plants a hand on the sill and launches through the office glass, shoulder first, taking the frame with him into the rain-dark air.

Shards spray across the dock side as Dallas lands low on the exterior ledge, the evidence still pinned under his coat.

Inside, the office flashes with movement through the broken window, but the package is already out of reach.

Murderbone appears at the window line, teeth bared toward the room, while rain hisses against the sill and the lit dock office glows behind Dallas like a warning.

Dallas lands hard on the wet dock planks, knees bent, coat cinched tight over the packet. The papers stay sealed against his chest as he turns from the shattered window and slides along the wall toward cover.

Rain needles the ledge behind him, but his grip does not break. The carbon memo, ledger, and logs remain dry beneath the wool as he clears the exposed stretch and reaches the safer shadow of the dockhouse corner.

Inside the office, Jackson stays planted at the breach while Elena tracks the broken window from the desk. Murderbone holds the sill, teeth white in the dark, guarding the route Dallas just took.

Dallas reaches the lee of the dock wall with the packet still under his coat, out of the window’s line and out of immediate reach. The lit office burns behind him, its broken frame flashing with movement as the team holds the line.

Dallas slips from the wall and crosses the wet planks in a low, exact line. The next stack of crates takes him in, just as the office light flares behind him.

He flattens against the salt-stained wood, evidence still tucked safe beneath his coat. Rain hisses off the crate tops and runs in silver threads between the boards.

Inside, Jackson shifts hard into the breach while Elena leans out from the desk, eyes on the shattered window. Murderbone stays braced at the opening, all teeth and shadow.

The packet under Dallas’s coat gives a small, solid thump as he settles into cover by the crates. Dry. Intact. The exposed ledge is behind him now, and the lit office burns on without him.

Dallas shifts his weight, brings the revolver up toward the doorway, and holds the angle for Jackson. The muzzle stays steady as the rain ticks through the broken window.

At the call, Murderbone peels away from the window and pads hard to Dallas’s side, shoulders tight and eyes still on the door.

Inside the lit office, the splintered door shudders again, but the line is established. Jackson has the breach, Dallas has the doorway, and Murderbone plants himself where the cover is strongest.

Dallas settles the revolver into a dead-still line and the doorway answers with a flinch. The next shove meets his aim, and Jackson gets the heartbeat he needs to reset his stance.

A man at the threshold tries the handle again, then stops. Through the cracked frame, a wet sleeve slips back, exposing a stamped cuff from the higher office, not Covington.

Jackson snatches the opening, shoves the door hard, and the pressure outside breaks into retreating footsteps. The assault on the office ends as abruptly as it began.

Murderbone holds his ground by Dallas’s leg, ears forward, as rain blows in over the sill. On the desk behind Elena, the charred edge of an old page curls beside the lit lamp, untouched by the spray.

Dallas has the lane, the office is no longer under immediate pressure, and the stamped cuff gives him the first clean proof that the man above Covington has stepped into view.