The heavy tire treads of the dented silver car crunched over broken glass and wet gravel as the car rolled down the deserted perimeter road of the shipping yards. Rossman-Morgan was in the passenger seat, his wrinkled fingers clutching the small black burner phone so tightly his knuckles had loosened. Beside him at the steering wheel, Sean Thickcup kept staring at the side mirrors, his left hand twitching violently while his right arm was placed in a rigid makeshift sling. The pain from Sean's cracked wrist hummed constantly in his bone, but the cold sweat dripping down his neck came from pure fear. "Are you sure this is the right dock?" Sean whispered, his broken jaw making his speech sound slurry and thick. "There are no lights down here, Morgan. This whole sector looks completely abandoned." "Keep driving," Morgan snapped, his hollow voice carrying a sharp

The bright green glow from the overhead LED strips reflected sharply off the paper bands wrapping the stacks of raw cash. Rossman-Morgan gasped, his shivering body instantly lurching forward on his knees as both hands reached out frantically toward the open leather briefcase. His wet, dirty fingers hovered just an inch away from the top stack of pristine hundred-dollar bills, his trembling palms aching to touch the paper. Before his skin could make contact, Viktor Hurricane’s gloved hand shot forward, slamming the heavy leather lid shut with a deafening metallic snap. BANG. The sharp sound echoed off the corrugated steel walls, making Morgan flinch backward and yank his hands to his chest. Viktor let out a quiet, raspy laugh that carried no warmth, slowly dragging the locked case back across the steel desk toward his side of the room. 

The morning sun shone across the concrete plaza in front of Morgan Headquarters. Rossman-Morgan stepped out of a private black sedan, his face straight and his chin held high as he adjusted his freshly pressed tie. He gripped the heavy black leather briefcase tightly in his right hand, feeling the solid, reassuring weight of forty million dollars in cash pressing against his leg. Beside him, Sean Thickcup walked with a stiff, strange stride, his right arm bound tightly in a clean white medical sling under his dark wool overcoat. Sean kept his left hand thrust deep inside his coat pocket, his face tight with tension as his eyes darted nervously across the glass front of the tower. Inside the lobby, three major maritime fuel vendors and five primary dock operations directors sat along the leather waiting benches, their faces dark with impatience. They held thick stacks of unpaid in

The glass windows of the executive office rattled softly as the rain lashed against the exterior pane. Rossman-Morgan remained still beside his high-backed leather chair, staring down at the thick black cardstock resting on his desk blotter. The gold-embossed border caught the dim, gray light from the window, and the crimson wax seal gleamed like a drop of fresh blood. His old, trembling hand moved slowly through the freezing air, his dirty fingernails hovering over the raised crest of RET Holdings. A cold, heavy knot tightened in his stomach, cutting off his breath until his chest burned with a dull, aching pressure. He reached down, his thumb sliding under the edge of the stiff paper flap to break the heavy crimson wax seal. CRACK. The brittle seal snapped cleanly in half, scattering small red flakes across the dark wood of his executiv