Chapter 8 - The Midnight Convoy
By eight o’clock that evening, the industrial canal district was pitch black, lit only by the flickering orange glow of distant sodium vapor streetlamps.
Leo pulled his luxury sedan through the rusted chain-link gates of Warehouse 4, Clara riding shotgun and Arthur in the back seat clutching the leather ledger. Behind them followed a battered flatbed truck driven by Clara’s nephew, its diesel engine grumbling in the cold night air.
The warehouse was a cavernous temple of twentieth-century industry. The air inside smelled rich and ancient—dry pine, aged cedar, and the sweet, starchy scent of sealed grain bins.
“When the city rezoned the harbor, Vance’s scouts never bothered to inspect the interior,” Clara explained, shining a heavy industrial flashlight across rows of floor-to-ceiling wooden crates. “They assumed it was filled with rusted iron pipe. But the cooperative kept their contingency reserves sealed under dry nitrogen blankets.”
Leo climbed onto the wooden platform, prying open the face of a heavy crate with a tire iron. Inside, stacked in immaculate, airtight moisture-proof wrapping, were cords of kiln-dried white oak, cut precisely to thirty-inch lengths—the exact dimension required for historic hearth deck ovens.
“It’s bone dry,” Arthur murmured, running his trembling hand over the bark. His voice was thick with awe. “This wood will burn clean, hot, and smoke-free. The draft will pull like a furnace.”
“What about the grain?” Leo asked, already moving to the adjoining aisle.
Arthur climbed down, approaching a row of cylindrical steel silos bearing the faded emblem of the Baker’s Guild. He unscrewed an inspection hatch, letting a stream of golden, whole wheat kernels spill into his palm. He brought the grain to his nose, inhaling deeply, before chewing a single grain.
“Hard winter wheat,” Arthur whispered, tears cutting clean lines through the soot on his cheeks. “Preserved perfectly. But Leo… grain isn't flour. We can’t bake whole berries. We don’t have a mill.”
Leo checked his watch. 9:15 PM. They had less than twenty hours before the inspectors arrived.
“Clara,” Leo said, turning around. “Who took the milling machinery when the cooperative closed?”
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Clara frowned, thinking back through decades of neighborhood lore. “Nobody took it. It was too heavy to move. It was donated to the city trade school down on Fourth Street for their historic mechanics program. But that school was shuttered three years ago by Vance Capital.”
Leo pulled out his phone, his screen reflecting against his hardened eyes. “The school is abandoned? Then Vance doesn't have a night watchman on it. Load the timber into the truck, Arthur. We’re going to borrow a mill.”
