The lower stair access opens into the storage level, and Mercer men are already there, shadows with badges and rifles. Elena Vane is half-hidden behind a concrete pillar, breathing hard. Murderbone growls low at Dallas's side. Somewhere deeper in the facility, a radio crackles with a name, then goes to hiss.
Elena Vane
Dallas, they found the route. I am still alive, but not for much longer if this keeps going.
A steel door at the far end hangs open. Beyond it, a control room glows sickly green, and Rowan Mercer Holdings files lie scattered across a table beside wet footprints and a black ledger wrapped in plastic. The air smells of salt, oil, and something rotten underneath.
Jackson Temple
I have the copies, Dallas. The harbor office, the routes, all of it. Mercer is finished if you walk out of here with proof.
The Unknown Figure in Hallway
Too late. The cleanup crew is already moving. If Mercer falls, they bury everyone with him.
A Mercer cleaner staggers from the control room, face pale, one hand clamped over a bleeding shoulder. Behind him, a locked cabinet door trembles from repeated blows, and something inside knocks back, slow and wet, as if answering. Elena flinches. Murderbone's hackles rise.
Dallas Fontaine
The cabinet is newer than the room. Someone wanted this hidden fast.
The cleaner backs toward the stairs, terror cracking his composure. Jackson raises the folder higher, ready to run the evidence. Elena waits for Dallas's call, eyes fixed on the trembling cabinet and the men between her and the exit. The whole harbor seems to hold its breath.