Adventure of Dallas Fontaine 2

Cold harbor light spills through the torn grate, striping the service tunnel in pale bars. Dallas Fontaine steps into the smell of salt, rust, and wet concrete, with Murderbone at his heel and the man in the tunnel lingering back in the dark.

The tunnel opens onto a lower loading apron under the docks, half-flooded and slick with brine. Above, pipes sweat against the ceiling. Ahead, a single bulb flickers over a chained steel door marked with fresh chalk lines.

Murderbone stops, nose high, then growls toward the stairwell cut in the far wall. A boot scuffs stone up there, slow and careful, like someone trying not to be heard.

Dallas squares to the sound, revolver low, as the stairwell shadow shifts and a figure starts down toward him. The harbor wind rattles chain links overhead, and the next move belongs to whoever blinks first.

Dallas lets the gratitude sit on his face like a borrowed coat. He lowers his revolver a fraction and steps toward The Dockhand, calm enough to sell it.

The Dockhand nods once, relief flashing through the fear. He shifts to lead Dallas off the apron, hand half-raised as if to guide him past the floodwater.

Dallas closes the gap. The moment The Dockhand turns his shoulder, Dallas brings the revolver up and fires point-blank.

The shot cracks under the docks. The Dockhand jerks backward, blood spraying the chalk-marked door and the wet steel beside it.

Murderbone lunges forward, teeth bared, as The Dockhand collapses hard into the half-flooded apron. The stairwell above goes still.

Dallas keeps his aim steady for one more beat, then turns through the salt light toward the waiting route out.

Dallas crouches over the fallen man and searches fast, coat brushing wet concrete. The evidence packet stays pinned under his arm while his free hand works the pockets, the belt, the inner jacket. Murderbone stands over him, hackles easing as the danger stops moving.

A key ring, a folded route slip, and a soaked harbor token come free in Dallas's hand. The route slip shows a clean handoff line toward the water, with one last dock mark circled in grease pencil.

Dallas gives Murderbone a quick pat between the shoulders, rough and grateful. The dog leans into it once, still watching the stairwell.

Murderbone answers with a low, pleased huff and a brief glance toward Dallas, then back to the dark above. The blood on the steel door beads in the flicker of the bulb.

Dallas tucks the keys and slip inside his coat with the rest of the proof. The flooded apron opens toward the harbor route, and the way out waits in silence.