Chapter 6 - The Midnight Rendezvous
Midnight approached with the relentless tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway, its deep chimes echoing through the silent, heavily guarded estate. Outside, a dense fog had rolled in off the Atlantic, wrapping the stone walls and towering oaks of the Greenwich property in a shroud of white mist.
Marcus and his security detail had secured the perimeter, establishing infrared surveillance and sealing every entry point. I had left strict instructions: no matter what transpired, Lily, the baby, and Mrs. Harris were to remain locked inside the reinforced safe room in the center of the estate.
"You're walking into a trap, boss," Marcus warned over the secure comms earpiece as I stood by my armored SUV. "Vance Global has three black sedans stationed within two miles of Pier 44. My tactical drones are painting them on thermal imaging."
"I know it's a trap, Marcus," I replied, adjusting the collar of my heavy wool coat. "That's why I'm going in through the maintenance sector. Keep your drones overhead, and if I don't check in every thirty minutes, you move in and secure the warehouse."
The drive into Manhattan took forty-five minutes of tense, high-speed travel along empty highways. When I pulled my unmarked vehicle into the shadows near Pier 44, the rusted corrugated metal of Warehouse B loomed like a monolith against the dark, churning waters of the East River.
I stepped out of the car, the salty air biting at my face, and made my way toward the side entrance. The heavy metal door was unlocked, creaking open with a low, metallic groan as I pushed it inward.
Inside, the warehouse was cavernous, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of distant streetlights filtering through grimy skylights. Rows of stacked shipping containers cast long, distorted shadows across the concrete floor.
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"I knew you'd come, Nathan," a smooth, cultured voice echoed from the darkness above.
I looked up toward the metal catwalk. Stepping out from behind a stack of crates was a figure I hadn't seen in over a decade—Charles Vance himself, flanked by two burly security guards in dark suits. But beside him stood someone whose presence made my blood run cold: Richard Sterling, my chief financial officer.
