Adventure of Dallas Fontaine 2

The skiff cuts into darker water, where the channel widens and the city thins behind a veil of rain. Diesel, salt, and cold spray hang in the air. Jackson keeps the bow steady while Murderbone braces low, ears flat to the wind.

Ahead, a cluster of pilings and a half-lit service dock rise out of the fog, a dead industrial finger jutting from the shoreline. Something metallic clinks against the wood, soft but deliberate, like a signal.

Jackson angles the skiff toward shadow instead of light. A single figure stands near the cleats at the end of the dock, coat soaked through, one hand raised in warning or surrender. The shape is too still to be casual.

The figure kicks a small waterproof satchel into clearer view. Inside, something hard knocks once against the canvas. Murderbone growls, staring at the stranger, while the skiff drifts within shouting distance of the dock.

Dallas snaps the satchel out of the runner’s hand and sends it arcing into the black water on purpose. Jackson kicks the skiff parallel to the dock, keeping the hull steady under the runner’s stare. Murderbone stays low, all teeth and restraint.

The bag hits the channel with a dull splash and starts to sink. Dallas lunges over the gunwale before it disappears, one hand skimming the surface, the other braced on the slick wood as the skiff slides in beside him.

His fingers close on the strap. He hauls the waterproof satchel up through the rain, water streaming off the canvas while Jackson keeps the boat matched to the dock.

Murderbone barks once, hard. The runner flinches back from the edge, and the dock lights shiver across the wet boards as Dallas pulls the bag into the skiff.

Inside the dripping satchel, a hard corner presses against the canvas, already familiar in shape. Dallas has it in hand now, and the runner is left staring at the water where his leverage was just taken away.

Dallas flips the satchel open on his knee and fingers through the damp contents with practiced speed. The first thing he finds is a wrapped packet, flat and rigid, tucked behind a folded copy sheet.

He peels back the wrapping and lays out a second set of papers, their routing stamps and scrubbed names matching the trail he has been chasing all night.

Jackson eases the skiff tighter to the dock, eyes never leaving the runner. Murderbone watches the man instead of the water, still as a knife.

Dallas does not answer. He checks the pages once more, confirms the duplicate, and folds them flat against the evidence packet.

The rain keeps hissing off the boards while the dockside runner stands empty-handed, watching the proof disappear into Dallas's coat.

Dallas slides the copied packet under the rest of the papers and folds the satchel shut, tucking it inside his coat with one smooth motion.

He lifts two fingers from the coat seam, a small signal to Jackson to get them moving.

Jackson answers by easing the skiff away from the dock, the bow nudging off the cleats as the motor catches.

Murderbone rises at the runner's sharp tone, then settles again when Dallas stays quiet and keeps the evidence pressed under his coat.

The skiff pulls free into the black water, leaving the runner on the half-lit dock with empty hands and no leverage.