Wet concrete shines under the fish warehouse lights. Dallas has Eli pinned against a rust-streaked door, and the truth is finally loose in Eli’s mouth.

Owen Sloane’s hand slips inside his jacket, slow and certain, eyes flat on Eli like the man is already dead.

Murderbone launches forward with a snarl, shoulder slamming into Sloane’s leg before the weapon can clear leather. Sloane staggers, and the whole dock line tilts toward blood.

Sloane’s pistol skitters across the wet concrete, spinning away from his hand under Dallas’s boot.

Eli flinches at the scrape of metal, his eyes jumping from the gun to Dallas’s face.

Murderbone keeps pressure on Sloane’s leg, forcing him lower, giving Dallas the second he needs.

The marked service van idles in the background, headlights washing the crates in pale glare.

Dallas fires once. Sloane jerks hard, folding around the hit as the wet dock flashes white in the van’s glare.

Murderbone stays in on him, weight driving Sloane down before he can recover. The pistol is still out of reach, slick on the concrete.

Sloane coughs and glares toward the van, blood darkening his shirt as his hand trembles toward the truck instead of the gun. Eli points with a shaking finger at the rear doors.

Dallas lowers the revolver just enough to make room for a command. The dock light washes over Mercer’s face, and the man flinches like he has been struck twice.

Mercer nods fast, swallowing hard. He backs to the van with both hands visible, then yanks the rear door open and reaches under the tarp.

Dallas steps in and snaps Sloane’s pistol farther across the concrete. It skids under a crate stack, well out of reach.

Mercer comes back out with a damp, folded log copy, holding it like it might burn him. The paper looks heavy with names before Dallas even touches it.

Sloane twists against Murderbone and tries to speak through the blood in his teeth, but the words break apart. Mercer freezes, waiting for Dallas to decide what comes next.

Dallas scans the ink-stained pages, but the list of names ends abruptly at the final entry. There are no further signatures or hidden notations to be found.

Dallas lowers the pages and turns the copy toward Eli instead of the light. The man’s eyes track the lines, then flick to the signatures as if he already knows where this is going.

Eli swallows. His fingers lift, stop, then point at the first scrawl, and he gives a tight, exhausted nod toward the next.

He taps the last mark, smaller than the others, partly rubbed out by damp and handling.

At the dock edge, Murderbone’s growl deepens. Owen Sloane stays motionless under the dog’s weight, blood darkening his shirt while the open van door swings once in the salt wind.

Dallas folds the manifest once, then points it straight at Eli like evidence in a courtroom.

Eli’s throat works. He glances past Dallas, then down at the margin, where a thumb-smudge cuts through the ink.

He reaches out with one shaking finger and traces the same initials on the page, stopping under a tiny pencil note Dallas had not seen before.

At the dock edge, Murderbone lifts his head, still braced over Sloane. The wounded man gives a ragged laugh that turns into a wet cough.

Dallas lowers the manifest just enough to keep Owen in view. The dock wind worries the paper, but his eyes do not leave the man on the ground.

Eli goes still. The name hits him harder than the blood and the seawind, like he recognizes it from somewhere he wishes he did not.

Murderbone gives a low growl and shifts his weight, forcing Sloane’s head back against the dock boards.

Dallas folds the manifest once, then lifts Eli’s attention with a flat stare. The name matters less than the address now.

His answer comes too fast. Owen’s mouth twists, like he is tasting the lie before it lands.

Murderbone’s growl deepens, and Eli takes half a step back toward the swaying van door, as if the dock itself might offer him cover.

Dallas keeps his voice low, cutting past the noise of water and wind. Eli flinches, then gives the dock a quick glance like he expects the answer to cost him.

Eli swallows hard, then gives in to the pressure. He names the street, the bar, and the habit, as if emptying his pockets on command.

The line lands clean. Dallas now has a real place to go, and Eli looks sick with the relief of saying it out loud.

Dallas lets the offer hang between them, plain and ugly. The dock wind rattles the van door while Eli stares at the revolver like it is a verdict.

Eli takes the gun with shaking hands, not greedy, just numb. Murderbone’s posture eases a fraction, but his eyes stay locked on Sloane.

Eli’s jaw tightens. He raises the revolver toward Sloane, then stops, breathing hard as if the last inch costs him everything.

Eli flinches at the mercy in it. His eyes flick from Dallas to Sloane, then drop to the gun as if it has turned heavy in his hands.

Murderbone growls low, not moving, just enough to warn the dock into silence. Eli’s arm steadies by a hair, but his mouth tightens, caught between guilt and the last thing he owes himself.

The wind pushes the van door harder. Eli keeps the gun trained on Sloane, but he still has not fired, and now the choice feels farther away, not closer.

Dallas lets the silence sit long enough for Eli to hear himself breathe. The dock creaks, the van door thumps in the wind, and Sloane stays pinned under Murderbone’s weight.

Dallas does not rush him. Eli’s shoulders sag a fraction, and the revolver rises into a steadier line over Sloane’s chest.

For the first time, Eli’s aim stops shaking. Sloane’s smirk falters when he realizes the pistol is no longer begging for permission.

The words land harder than the dock wind. Eli’s eyes leave Sloane and fix on Dallas, searching his face for a mercy that is not there.

Murderbone eases only enough to keep Sloane still. Sloane goes very quiet, watching Eli like a man seeing a lock click shut.

His grip tightens on the revolver, then loosens. The gun dips, not from weakness, but from grief finally finding a place to sit.

Eli stares at the barrel of the gun, his knuckles white, but his eyes remain hollow and distant. He shakes his head slowly, the weight of the confession clearly missing the mark of recognition.

Eli flinches hard, as if the words strike him. The revolver wavers over Owen Sloane, then steadies.

Murderbone shifts his weight on Sloane’s chest, lips peeled back, holding the man down as the dock creaks under them.

Eli’s jaw tightens. The muzzle dips, then comes up again, aimed squarely at Sloane’s face.

He fires once. Sloane jerks and goes still, the echo snapping off the warehouse walls. A folded slip of paper drops from Sloane’s jacket and skids near Dallas’s shoe.

Dallas steps in, takes the revolver from Eli’s shaking hand, and keeps his voice low. He says it will read as a robbery, and Eli will walk free.

Eli lets go. His shoulders sag at once, as if the gun was the only thing holding him upright.

Dallas bends, picks up the folded paper beside his shoe, and thumbs it open.

A smear of salt and dock grime crosses the page, but one line is clear, a name and a number written in a hurry.

Eli looks from the paper to Dallas, raw with relief and disbelief, while the warehouse wind keeps worrying the torn slip in Sloane’s jacket.

Dallas turns the paper so Eli can see it cleanly, holding it between them like evidence and a verdict.

Eli leans in, eyes snagging on the name and the number. His face drains of what little relief he had left.

Murderbone shifts his weight over Sloane’s body, listening, while the wind snaps the paper once in Dallas’s hand.

Dallas lowers the paper, the wind worrying at its edge as if it wants the name back. Eli goes still, reading the decision in Dallas’s face before the words come.

Murderbone eases off Sloane’s body, not looking away from the dead man once. Eli takes the opening and steps backward, careful, like the dock itself might accuse him.

The slip flutters near Dallas’s glove, its number plain now, a line to a man who still has answers. Somewhere down the dock, a vehicle door shuts with a hard metallic crack.

Eli pauses at the edge of the light, glancing back once, his mouth opening as if to say more.

Dallas flips the slip closer to the dock light. The paper is more than a name and number, there is a partial imprint, the curve of a thumb, and a salt-stained smudge that matches the warehouse tar.

He angles the edge and catches a second mark, a faint grease ring from a cup, cheap diner paper pressed into service like a message carrier.

Murderbone lifts his head toward the dark beyond the dock, then snarls once, low and sharp. Headlights bloom briefly across wet boards, then vanish behind stacked crates.

Dallas folds the paper once, then twice, and sees a penciled address pressed so hard it has ghosted through to the back. Far Harbor, Pier Nine, service lane access.

Dallas slips off the dock side and takes the service lane, keeping the warehouses between him and the open water. The paper stays low in his hand as he moves, quiet as the tide against pilings.

Headlights sweep the main dock behind him, but the beam never catches his coat. Eli's warning fades under the rattle of rainwater in a gutter and the slap of loose chain against corrugated metal.

Murderbone ghosts along at his heel, then pauses to sniff the corner before cutting ahead, ears fixed on the alley mouth.

Beyond the crates, the service lane opens toward Pier Nine, half-lit by a bare bulb over a side door. The penciled address on the slip points straight that way.