Chapter 7 - Return to the Docks
We left the estate at midnight in a single, unmarked, mud-splattered utility van—no sirens, no escort SUVs, no outward signs of the Morales cartel. Marcus drove, his eyes constantly checking the rearview mirrors, while Morales and I sat in the windowless cargo area surrounded by crates of ammunition and tactical gear.
The drive down from the limestone cliffs into the industrial guts of Ciudad San Marcos was a descent into darkness. The glittering lights of the financial district faded, replaced by the flickering, broken streetlamps of the waterfront slums where I had spent the last four months eating bakery scraps.
"Why no guards?" I asked, looking at the heavy rifle Morales was inspecting in the dim light of the van’s floor lamp. "If Rojas knows who I am, his men will be watching the canal."
"That is precisely why we brought no guards," Morales said, locking a fresh magazine into the rifle with a solid click. "A convoy of black SUVs draws every eye on the waterfront. A plumber's van moving through the back alleys draws none. Your grandmother taught me that twenty years ago: the best armor is invisibility."
He looked up at me, his gaze dropping to the heavy coat I was wearing. "When we get out, you stay directly behind Marcus. Do not run. Do not speak to anyone we pass. If shooting starts, you drop to the pavement and do not move until I lift you up. Understand?"
"I know how to survive on these docks better than you do," I retorted, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. "I lived here without a gun."
Morales offered a dry, humorless smile. "And you did it well, Julian. But tonight, we are trespassing in a graveyard where the ghosts have rifles."
The van rolled to a slow, silent stop beneath a rusted railway overpass. Marcus cut the engine and the headlights, plunging us into total darkness. The only sound was the distant, rhythmic slapping of canal water against the concrete piers and the low hum of a distant cargo crane.
"We're three blocks from the willow tree," Marcus whispered from the front seat, turning around with his sidearm drawn. "The street is quiet. Too quiet. No homeless fires, no stray dogs."
"Rojas’s scouts have cleared the area," Morales deduced instantly. He pushed the rear doors open an inch, scanning the shadowy alleyway outside. "They are waiting for someone to come for the stash. They don't know we are already inside the perimeter."
We slipped out of the van into the biting ocean chill. The air smelled of rotting kelp, diesel fuel, and damp brick—the familiar, suffocating aroma of my old life.
I led the way, guiding them away from the main lighted streets and into the narrow, unpaved alleyways that ran between the abandoned fish canneries. These were the paths I had used to avoid the dock police and the older gangs when I was carrying my canvas sack. I knew every broken fence, every blind corner, and every shadowed alcove.
Morales and Marcus moved behind me with surprising stealth for men of their size, their heavy boots making barely a whisper on the damp earth.
As we rounded the final cannery building, the giant weeping willow tree came into view, its massive, drooping branches casting a monstrous black shadow over the canal bank. Behind it stood the rusted, corrugated iron structure of the old maritime locker depot—a facility that had been officially condemned and closed since the harbor flood five years ago.
"There," I whispered, pointing through a gap in the rusted chain-link fence toward the rear of the depot. "Locker 08 is inside the loading bay."
Marcus raised his night-vision monocular, scanning the dark loading bay. Suddenly, he froze, his hand shooting out to grab Morales's shoulder.
May you like
"We have company," Marcus breathed. "Two thermal signatures on the roof of the depot. One inside the loading bay, sitting by the lockers. Heavy weapons."
We had arrived at the exact location of my grandmother’s secret—only to find Hector Rojas’s men waiting for us in the dark.
