Chapter 3 - Shadows of the Docks
The rain had turned into a thick, low-slung fog that wrapped around the streetlamps of the waterfront district like dirty cotton.
Ellis walked through the narrow alleys behind the docks, his collar turned up against the damp cold. In his pocket was a heavy leather wallet containing five thousand dollars in crisp hundred-dollar bills, and his phone displaying a high-resolution photo of Willow from three years ago.
He spent four hours moving from steam vents to makeshift cardboard shelters, showing the photo to shadowy figures huddled beneath blankets.
"Haven't seen her," a man with a scarred lip muttered, waving him away.
"Get out of here, suit," an old woman wrapped in plastic garbage bags spat.
Ellis didn't give up. He moved deeper into the industrial grid, toward the abandoned grain silos near Pier 4.
Underneath an overhang near a closed fish processing plant, three men were huddled around a burning trash can. One of them, a tall, gaunt man with a thick grey beard and sharp, intelligent eyes, was reading a damp paperback book by the light of the flames.
Ellis walked up, pulling a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket.
"I'm looking for someone," Ellis said clearly.
The men around the barrel turned. The two younger men stepped forward aggressively, eyeing Ellis's expensive coat, but the old man held up a hand, stopping them.
"You're the man who was screaming in the train yard earlier," the old man said. His voice was deep, cultured, entirely unexpected in this desolate place. "The one with the little girl."
Ellis stepped closer. "You know her?"
The old man looked at the bill in Ellis's hand, then up at his face. "Keep your money, son. Down here, money brings men with guns. We don't like men with guns."
"I don't have a gun," Ellis said desperately, pulling open his coat to show his empty hands. "That woman is my wife. Her name is Willow. She disappeared eighteen months ago. My daughter... my daughter cried herself to sleep tonight because she saw her mother run away."
The old man sighed, closing his book. "She doesn't go by Willow down here. We call her 'The Finch.' She arrived last winter, half-frozen, with two broken ribs and a head injury that kept her from speaking for a month."
Ellis felt as if a knife had been plunged into his chest. "Two broken ribs? Who hurt her?"
"She never said," the old man replied softly. "She's terrified of everything. Every time a black SUV drives past the pier, she hides inside the old drainage pipes. She works nights cleaning the fish gutting tables for cash just to buy canned soup. But she doesn't stay in one place for more than two hours."
"Where is she now?" Ellis begged. "Please. I just want to talk to her. I want to bring her home."
The old man hesitated, looking at the genuine anguish etched into Ellis's face.
"She has a spot," the old man whispered, leaning in. "Top floor of the abandoned cold storage building at the end of Pier 4. But be careful, friend. She isn't alone."
Ellis frowned. "What do you mean she isn't alone?"
Before the old man could answer, a loud, sharp screech of tires echoed from the end of the street.
Two heavy, matte-black SUVs with blacked-out windows tore around the corner, their high beams cutting through the fog like tactical laser sights.
The doors flew open, and six broad-shouldered men dressed in black tactical coats, carrying heavy flashlights and sidearms, poured out into the alley.
"Where is she?!" one of the men roared, grabbing the old man by his jacket collar and slamming him against the brick wall. "Where is the woman?!"
Ellis reacted instantly. He lunged forward, slamming his shoulder into the attacker, knocking him off the old man.
"Run!" Ellis shouted to the homeless men.
"That's him!" one of the tactical guards yelled, pointing a heavy flashlight directly into Ellis's eyes. "That's Ellis Thompson! Boss said if he showed up looking for her, eliminate the problem!"
May you like
The man pulled a suppressed pistol from his jacket.
Ellis didn't wait. He threw his heavy briefcase directly into the guard's face, turned on his heel, and sprinted into the dense, blind fog toward Pier 4.
