Chapter 22: Burning Daylight
The engine of Callum’s unmarked sedan was a low, furious snarl. Dawn was a grey smear in the rearview mirror, the highway ahead still cloaked in navy blue shadows. The black SUV with tinted windows was three cars ahead, maintaining a speed exactly at the limit. It was professional. It made Teresa’s skin crawl.
“They took the exit for the industrial park,” she said, her voice steady though her knuckles were bone-white where they gripped the dashboard. “But the park’s a dead end after six. It’s all warehouses and the old fishery.”
“They’re not going to the park.” Callum’s eyes never left the taillights. His hands were relaxed on the wheel, a calm contrast to the speed he was carrying. “They’re using it to bypass the port authority gate. There’s a service road that cuts straight through to the private docks.”
The SUV signaled, a bland, normal blink, and took the off-ramp. Callum held back, letting a gravel truck lumber between them before following. The world outside shrank to chain-link fences, corrugated metal buildings, and pools of harsh, isolated light from security lamps.
Teresa leaned forward, her breath fogging the window slightly. The SUV was slowing, turning onto a potholed road that ran parallel to a high security fence. And in the backseat, as the vehicle passed under one of the lamps, she saw it—a pale, turned face, a flash of auburn hair.
“Callum.”
“I see her.”
His hand left the wheel for a fraction of a second, covering hers on the dashboard. A single, hard squeeze. I see her too. Then his foot went down.
The sedan surged forward, eating up the gap. He flicked on the grill lights—no siren, just two silent, stuttering bursts of red and blue that painted the warehouses in frantic strokes. The SUV’s brake lights flared.
“They’re running,” Teresa breathed.
The SUV’s engine roared, a deeper, throatier sound than Callum’s car. It fishtailed on the damp asphalt, corrected, and shot down the service road toward a distant, yawning gate that led to the piers.
“Hold on.” Callum wrenched the wheel, cutting a diagonal across the empty lot to head them off. The sedan’s suspension protested as they bounced over a curb, tires scrabbling for purchase on wet gravel. Teresa was thrown against her seatbelt, the files in her bag crunching.
Ahead, the gate was open. A mistake, or a trap. The SUV blasted through it onto Dock 7, a long, concrete finger jutting into the flat, iron-colored water. Dawn was beginning to bleed color into the sky, outlining the hulking shapes of inactive cranes against a pink streak.
The SUV screeched to a halt beside a rusted-out trawler that looked like it hadn’t sailed in decades. Both front doors flew open.
“Stay in the car,” Callum barked, already unclipping his holster. He was out, using his door as cover, his service pistol held in a two-handed grip. “Police! Stay where you are! Hands where I can see them!”
Teresa didn’t stay in the car. She slid out her side, crouching low behind the hood, her heart hammering against her ribs. The cold, salt-tinged air stung her lungs.
The driver, a bulky man in a dark windbreaker, looked at Callum, then at the back of the SUV. He made a decision. He ran, darting behind a stack of cargo containers and vanishing into the maze of the dockyard.
The passenger, thinner, younger, froze, his hands half-raised.
But Teresa’s focus was on the SUV. The back door on the far side opened. A figure stumbled out—a woman, her auburn hair a mess, her hands bound in front of her with zip-ties. Maya Flores. She looked dazed, terrified, her eyes wide and uncomprehending.
“Get down!” Callum yelled at the young man, then his gaze tracked the running driver. He cursed. “Teresa, the woman!”
Teresa was already moving. She rounded the front of their sedan, her boots slipping on the slick concrete. “Maya! It’s okay! Come here!”
The woman stumbled toward the sound of a female voice, a low sob escaping her. The young man by the SUV took a step, not toward Teresa, but toward Maya, his face twisted in panic.
“Don’t!” Callum’s command was a whip-crack. The man froze.
Teresa reached Maya, wrapping an arm around her shaking shoulders. She could feel the violent tremors running through her. “You’re safe. You’re okay. I’ve got you.” She looked at the zip-ties, then up at Callum. “Knife?”
Callum kept his gun trained on the stationary man, but edged toward them, fishing a small folding blade from his pocket with his free hand. He tossed it to Teresa. It clattered at her feet. As she bent to pick it up, she saw the young man’s eyes dart toward the fleeing driver’s path, then to the trawler. Calculating.
“Callum, the boat,” Teresa said, sawing at the plastic ties. They gave way. Maya gasped, rubbing her raw wrists.
The young man bolted. Not after his partner, but toward the gangplank of the derelict trawler.
Callum made another split-second choice. He couldn’t pursue both. “Get her to the car. Lock it. Call it in. Now.” He took off after the man, his figure quickly swallowed by the deep shadows beside the boat’s hull.
Teresa pulled Maya toward the sedan, fumbling for her phone. The girl was whispering in Spanish, a rapid, praying litany. Teresa shoved her into the backseat, climbed in after her, and hit the locks. The thunk was a profound relief. She dialed 911, her voice remarkably clear as she gave their location, identified Callum as an officer in pursuit, and described both fleeing men.
Then she turned to Maya. Up close, she was younger than her photo, with a smattering of freckles across her nose. There was a bruise blossoming on her cheekbone.
“Maya, my name is Teresa. You’re safe. No one is taking you anywhere.” She kept her voice soft, rhythmic. “The man who chased them is a detective. He’s a good guy. Okay?”
Maya nodded, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime on her face. “They said… they said I was going to a new job. A clinic. Then they put ties on me. In the plane.” She shuddered. “I heard them talking. They said I was ‘non-compliant.’ They said I was for the boat.”
“What boat, honey?”
Maya’s eyes, dark with trauma, flicked toward the windshield, toward the decrepit trawler. “That one. They said it doesn’t come back.”
A cold that had nothing to do with the dawn seeped into Teresa’s bones. She stared at the silent boat. It didn’t look seaworthy enough to leave the dock. But then, it wouldn’t need to be, would it? Not if its only journey was straight down.
A loud clang of metal on metal echoed from the direction of the trawler. Then a shout—Callum’s voice. A scuffle.
Teresa’s hand went to the door handle. She’d promised to stay in the car. But the sound of the fight was sharp, violent, and alone. Maya clutched her arm, a mute plea.
Another crash. Then silence.
Teresa’s blood went still. The 911 operator was still talking in her ear. She dropped the phone onto the seat.
“Stay here. Do not open this door for anyone but me or the detective.” She met Maya’s terrified eyes. “I have to.”
She slipped out of the car, the door closing with a too-loud click. The dock was eerily quiet now, just the lap of water and the distant cry of a gull. She moved toward the trawler, every sense screaming. The gangplank was rotted, sagging. She stepped onto it, the old wood groaning under her weight.
The deck was a graveyard of rusted equipment and coiled, fraying rope. And there, near a raised hatch that led below decks, Callum was on one knee, breathing hard. The young man was sprawled unconscious beside him. Callum was holding his left arm awkwardly against his body, his face pale.
“He had a wrench,” Callum said through gritted teeth, seeing her. “Driver got away. This one was trying to cast off.” He nodded to thick mooring lines that had been partially undone.
Teresa rushed to him. “Your arm?”
“Dislocated, I think. Not the first time.” He tried to stand, swayed. She caught him, her shoulder under his good arm. Up close, she could smell his sweat, the coppery hint of blood. “The boat. We need to see below.”
“The police are coming. You need—”
“We need to see, Teresa. Before they get here and it becomes evidence in a locker for two years.” His green eyes were hard, insistent. “Help me up.”
She did, supporting his weight. Together, they shuffled to the open hatch. A smell wafted up—not just rot and stagnant water, but chemical, antiseptic. And beneath that, something else.
Callum took a small flashlight from his belt, clicking it on. The beam cut into the darkness, illuminating a space that had been brutally, crudely converted. The fish hold was gone. In its place was a stark, white-tiled room, empty but for a single, stainless steel table with heavy leather restraints bolted to its sides. Drain channels were cut into the floor, leading to a central grate.
It wasn’t a boat. It was a floating exam room. A dissection lab. A tomb.
Teresa’s stomach lurched. Callum’s breath hitched beside her. He slowly panned the light across the walls. Tool racks, empty. Cabinets, locked. All of it clean, sterile, and monstrous.
In the far corner, the beam caught something the cleaners had missed. A small, laminated ID card caught in a floor grate. It was too far to see details.
The sound of approaching sirens finally split the air, growing rapidly louder. The real world was rushing back in, with its procedures and jurisdictions and delays.
Callum lowered the light, his face a mask of grim victory and profound horror. “We found it,” he whispered, his voice raw.
“We found her,” Teresa corrected, thinking of the trembling woman in the car. But her eyes were locked on that glint of plastic in the dark hold below. It was a clue in a place designed to leave none. And it was waiting for them.