Chapter 9 - The Trap Springs
Midnight at the maritime dry dock was a symphony of industrial decay. Rusted cranes loomed like skeletal giants against the bruised New York sky, and the dark, oil-slicked waters of the East River lapped rhythmically against the rotting wooden pilings.
Damon’s black armored SUV rolled silently through the rusted chain-link gates, its headlights cutting through the swirling sea fog.
Behind him, two tactical support vehicles carrying Diego and six heavily armed operatives fanned out to secure the perimeter.
Damon stepped out of the vehicle into the damp, salt-heavy air. He wore a dark wool overcoat over his suit, his hand resting inside his coat pocket near the cold steel of a customized Walther PPK. The Warden leaped out immediately after him, planting his massive paws firmly on the cracked asphalt, his ears perked toward the skeletal frame of warehouse number four.
“Clear the perimeter,” Damon instructed into his comms unit. “I’m going inside alone.”
"Boss, negative," Diego’s voice crackled back instantly. "That’s suicide. Let us sweep the building first."
“If she wanted me dead, Diego, I would have died three years ago,” Damon replied coldly. “Stay on the outer comms and wait for my signal.”
He walked alone toward the gaping iron doors of warehouse number four. The interior was vast, dark, and filled with towering stacks of empty shipping containers casting long, eerie shadows under the flickering amber glow of a single overhead sodium light.
As he stepped deeper into the cavernous space, the sound of his footsteps echoed off the corrugated metal walls.
“Clara!” Damon called out, his voice cutting through the hollow silence of the warehouse. “I found your board. I found your map. You can stop hiding now.”
A soft, melodic laugh echoed from the upper catwalk high above the shipping containers.
Damon spun around, lifting his gaze. Standing on the rusted metal walkway, leaning casually against the railing with her arms crossed over a green canvas field jacket, was Clara.
Her dark hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, and her lips curved into that familiar, infuriatingly calm smile that Damon had spent three years trying to forget.
May you like
“You’re late, Damon,” Clara called down, her voice clear and resonant in the cavernous space. “I expected you twenty minutes ago. Did your accountants slow you down, or are you losing your edge?”
Damon didn't hesitate. He grabbed the iron rungs of the maintenance ladder bolted to the side of the container stack and began climbing with athletic speed.
