Chapter 13 - The Ghost at Harbor 4
Damon’s heart slammed against his ribs, a violent sensation he hadn't experienced in years.
His father’s signature? Arthur Vance had been buried five years ago. Damon had personally attended the exhumation and DNA confirmation alongside federal coroners two weeks ago. Arthur was dead. There was no question about his biological demise.
So who was using his private biometric security code?
Damon smoothly excused himself from the boardroom, leaving Raymond’s elite detail to protect Maya alongside trusted corporate attorneys. Within ten minutes, Damon was in the back of an armored SUV speeding toward the industrial docks of Harbor 4.
The rain was falling in heavy, gray sheets by the time the vehicle screeched to a halt beside Pier 17. The harbor was an apocalyptic maze of towering rusted shipping containers, flickering halogen floodlights, and the cold, salt-stained smell of the ocean.
Raymond had already secured the perimeter with twelve tactical operatives. He ran up to Damon’s door with an umbrella.
“Where is the cargo?” Damon demanded, stepping out into the pouring rain, his dark trench coat billowing in the gusting wind.
“Inside Warehouse 9,” Raymond said, his expression unusually grim. “The ship was a Panamanian freighter. The crew fled the moment they tied off the lines. They left behind a single reinforced titanium shipping crate.”
Damon walked with rapid, purposeful strides into the cavernous warehouse. The roof leaked steady streams of water onto the concrete floor, echoing loudly in the vast, empty space.
In the center of the warehouse sat a matte-black military-grade container, roughly the size of a bank vault. Its electronic lock was glowing green, indicating it had been unsealed with a master biometric print.
Damon stepped up to the open door of the container.
Inside, illuminated by a single battery-powered strip light, was not money, nor gold, nor narcotics.
Sitting on a simple metal folding chair inside the container was a small, dusty wooden box, and beside it, an old cassette recorder with a handwritten note taped to the plastic casing.
The handwriting on the note was shaky, thin, and undeniably authentic. It was the precise, elegant cursive of his father, Arthur Vance.
Damon’s breath caught in his throat. He slowly stepped inside the container, reaching down with a trembling hand to pick up the cassette recorder.
He pressed PLAY.
A sharp hiss of magnetic tape filled the cold container, followed by the sound of labored breathing and a dry, familiar cough.
“Damon... Maya... if you are listening to this, it means Richard and Evelyn have made their move, and you have survived long enough to reclaim what was stolen.”
Damon’s eyes widened. The recording was not five years old.
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The audio continued, sending ice through Damon’s veins:
“I knew Julian Hayes was poisoning me. I let him do it, Damon. Because dying was the only way to hide the truth from the real monsters.”
