Chapter 8 - The Office on the River
The main corporate headquarters of Vale Logistics sat on the edge of the Snohomish River, a sprawling complex of corrugated steel warehouses and high-end executive offices surrounded by a ten-foot chain-link fence.
At 2:00 AM, the facility was completely dark, except for the high, white floodlights illuminating the main service bay where the Armington limousine fleet was maintained.
Caleb parked his truck a quarter-mile down the levee road, leaving Maisie with the radio array and strict instructions to call Colonel Vance if he wasn't back in thirty minutes. He walked the rest of the way through the wet grass, his black jacket soaked with rain, his Sig Sauer held low against his thigh.
The main gate was open, the padlock cut and hanging from the chain. Preston’s silver Range Rover was parked directly outside the main service bay doors.
Caleb slipped through the side entrance, his eyes adjusting to the bright fluorescent glare of the garage.
The space smelled like oil, transmission fluid, and old rubber. In the center of the bay, three black Armington Royales sat on hydraulic lifts, their rear door panels stripped away, exposing the wiring harnesses beneath.
Preston Vale stood near a large industrial shredder in the corner of the office, his tuxedo jacket gone, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was feeding thick stacks of blue-bound service logs into the machine, his face pale and sweating under the white lights.
"You're going to burn out the motor if you stuff them in all at once, Preston," Caleb said from the doorway.
Preston spun around so quickly he knocked a metal clipboard off the desk. It hit the concrete floor with a loud, ringing clang.
"Ward," Preston gasped, his hand flying to his chest. He looked past Caleb toward the dark parking lot. "How did you... where are Miller and Davis?"
"They're currently reflecting on their career choices in my kitchen," Caleb said, walking slowly into the bay. His boots left wet, muddy prints on the pristine gray concrete. "They weren't very good at burglary, Preston. But they were very talkative."
Preston tried to recover his posture, straightening his shoulders and leaning back against the desk, but his hands were shaking so badly he had to tuck them into his pockets.
"You're a trespasser, Caleb," Preston said, his voice cracking slightly before he forced it back into that familiar, arrogant sneer. "You don't have a warrant. Anything you see here is inadmissible. My lawyers will have this whole thing thrown out before breakfast."
"I don't need a warrant to show a defense contractor his own signature, Preston," Caleb said. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a single sheet of paper—the final signature page of the DoD safety certification that had been inside the black folder.
"That's a copy," Preston hissed. "The original is gone."
"The original is currently with Colonel Vance at the Office of the Judge Advocate General," Caleb said. "Along with your wife's formal statement regarding the electronic locks."
Preston’s face went entirely white. He looked at the industrial shredder, which was still humming softly in the corner, its teeth filled with the shredded remains of his company’s history.
"She won't testify," Preston whispered, his voice losing its strength entirely. "She’s my wife. She can't be compelled."
"She isn't being compelled, Preston," a new voice said from the shadows near the parts room.
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Olivia Vale walked out into the light. She was wearing a heavy wool coat over her hospital gown, her left ankle wrapped in a thick white brace, her face pale but her eyes completely steady. She was holding a small digital audio recorder in her hand.
"I’m divorcing you, Preston," she said clearly. "And I’ve already signed the federal waiver."
