Adventure of Dallas Fontaine 2

Inside Pier Nine, the aisles swallow the light. Crates tower like tombstones. Somewhere ahead, steel shutters slam down one by one, and the relay room breathes out a sharp smell of ozone and hot wiring.

Dallas Fontaine and Calabash move low between the stacks. Murderbone pads at their flank, hackles high, nose locked on the machine oil trail.

A ceiling light flickers, then catches on a smear of fresh footprints in dust. They stop at the edge of a narrow lane as a service panel clanks open and a wire sensor swivels toward them.

Murderbone growls once, sharp and low, then angles his head toward the relay room. Beyond the crates, a red status lamp blinks over the far console, like a beacon marking the place where Dallas’s records were buried.

Calabash lifts a hand, waiting for Dallas to choose the next move while the warehouse locks tighten deeper inside.

Dallas lifts two fingers, then points once at the sensor. Calabash nods and shifts their body to block the lane, eyes fixed on the open panel.

He slides out from the crate edge, low and quiet, revolver tucked close as his free hand finds the wire run.

The sensor twitches toward his shadow, then goes blind under his palm. Its little swivel freezes with a soft click.

Calabash reaches in and cups the panel door, holding the angle while Dallas cuts the lead and folds it back into the housing.

A red lamp somewhere deeper in the warehouse stutters, but the wire stays dark. The nearest shutter keeps grinding down, louder now, like the building is tightening its jaw.

Murderbone leans into Dallas's leg, then turns his head toward the relay room, waiting for the next move.

Dallas shifts his gaze past the crate rows, where the relay console sits bathed in the flickering, rhythmic pulse of the warehouse emergency lights.

Dallas breaks from cover and cuts hard across the concrete, coat flaring as the emergency lights strobe over his path. The shutter groans lower behind him, but he clears the crate rows in a blur and hits the console first.

His hand slaps the relay console housing, steadying himself beside the glowing screen. The terminal is still alive, waiting for a command, with the warehouse locks hammering shut somewhere deeper inside.

Murderbone arrives at Dallas's flank a beat later, head low, eyes on the aisle behind them. The half-dropped shutter throws a black bar across the floor, turning the relay room into a trap with one open way in.

Dallas has the relay console at arm's reach. The screen glows steady, and the warehouse lockdown keeps descending.