Adventure of Dallas Fontaine 2

Jackson eases the pickup boat into a hidden slip behind a sagging boathouse. Diesel, wet rope, and rotten pilings crowd the air. Far Harbor's lights bleed weakly through the fog.

Dallas steps onto the slick dock with Murderbone at his heel. The skiff bumps wood behind him, and Jackson kills the engine, listening to the harbor breathe.

A rusted service road climbs from the boathouse into a fenced yard of stacked crab pots and oil drums. A single sodium lamp throws yellow bars across a warehouse wall.

Murderbone stops short, nose lifted toward the yard. From somewhere beyond the fence, a radio crackles once, then goes silent.

Dallas leads the way up the service road, boots splashing through a thin film of brine. The fence hums in the wind, and the sodium lamp turns the crab pots into hunched shadows.

Murderbone pads beside him, nose working the mud. The fresh tire tracks cut straight past the lamp and vanish around the warehouse wall.

Dallas passes the fence line and reaches the yard edge. The warehouse wall rises ahead, and the service door stands half lost in fog, its frame streaked with old rust and wet fingerprints.

A radio crackles again beyond the stacked drums, then cuts out. Murderbone freezes, staring past the yard toward the blind corner beside the boathouse.

Dallas slips from the fence line to the first stack of crab pots, keeping his coat dark against the lamp glow. The yard stays quiet, but the silence feels staged.

Murderbone pads ahead of him, then halts at the next drum cluster, head low and ears locked on the blind corner. A faint radio hiss coughs once, then dies.

Dallas crosses the open strip in one clean movement, using the drums as cover. Fresh tire mud clings to the warehouse wall beside the service door.

He reaches the blind corner at the boathouse wall and stops in the shadow line. The service door sits just beyond his shoulder, half veiled in fog, while the yard opens away behind him.

Murderbone shifts closer to Dallas’s leg, still staring past the corner. Somewhere inside the boathouse, a loose metal latch gives a soft, waiting clink.

Dallas eases the service door inward on the soft side of its hinges, and the boathouse breathes out stale salt air and printer ink. He slips across the threshold without a scrape of metal.

Murderbone follows at his heel, shoulders low. Jackson stays outside in the fog, a hard silhouette by the skiff, ready to move if the yard wakes up.

Inside, the first room is a narrow service bay, wet concrete underfoot and stacked crates along the wall. A coil of rope hangs beside a workbench, and tire mud streaks the floor toward an inner door.

Murderbone stops at the mud trail, nose working hard, then turns his head toward the deeper dark. His warning is silent, but it lands.

Dallas continues inward, past a crate marked with fresh approval stamps and a damp smell of fuel. Ahead, a second door stands ajar, letting out a thin strip of light from the room beyond.