Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Ravenport Harbor
The rain had turned into a steady, gray drizzle by the time Claire’s battered Honda Civic slipped out of the funeral home’s underground loading bay.
Adrian sat in the passenger seat, wearing an oversized gray hoodie and a pair of dark nylon track pants Claire had scavenged from her car trunk. He stared out the window at the familiar neon lights of Ravenport Harbor. For thirty-seven years, this city had been his kingdom. Every crane, every container ship, every dockside warehouse bore the invisible imprint of his family’s influence.
Now, to the rest of the world, he was a ghost.
“Where are we going?” Adrian asked, his eyes tracking the dark silhouettes of the shipping terminals against the stormy horizon.
“Not to my apartment,” Claire said, keeping her eyes fixed on the slick asphalt. “Marcus’s security team has ties to local private investigators. If they trace my car plate near my building, we’re finished. We’re going to a place nobody looks twice at—an abandoned storage complex near Berth 14 that my brother used to use for his boat parts.”
Twenty minutes later, the Honda bumped down a gravel access road, pulling up beside a rusted corrugated-metal garage. The salt air smelled of diesel fuel, rotting kelp, and wet rust—the unmistakable scent of the harbor that Adrian had loved since childhood.
Inside, the garage was drafty and smelled of old motor oil, but it was dry. A single overhead fluorescent bulb buzzed weakly, casting a sickly yellow glow over a sagging cot, a small wooden table, and an old desktop computer with a cracked monitor.
Adrian sank onto the edge of the cot, rubbing his temples as a throbbing migraine began to pound behind his eyes.
“You have contacts, right?” Claire asked, tossing a set of keys onto the table. “Loyal people? People who wouldn't sell you out to Marcus for a promotion?”
“I thought I had a whole company of them,” Adrian said bitterly, staring down at his calloused hands. “Marcus managed my executive payroll. He oversaw hiring. Over the last three years, he systematically replaced my father’s old guard with corporate mercenaries loyal only to him and Elena.”
“Then we can’t trust anyone inside Vale-Moretti Shipping,” Claire said, pacing across the concrete floor. “We need an outsider. Someone who operates outside corporate ledgers.”
Adrian looked up, a sharp spark of recognition flashing in his eyes. “There is one person.”
“Who?”
“Tommy Delgado,” Adrian said, standing up and pacing toward the window. “Tommy ran the East Basin dock union before Marcus forced him into early retirement two years ago on trumped-up safety violations. Marcus thought he was eliminating a union liability. But Tommy still controls the dockworkers who load every container coming off those ships. If anyone knows who moved the cargo shipments on the night I died, it’s him.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Old Town. Above his cousin’s bait shop,” Adrian said, his voice hardening with resolve. “We go tonight.”
May you like
Claire stopped pacing and looked at him, her expression serious. “Adrian, your body is still recovering from a massive pharmaceutical-induced coma. If Marcus’s men catch you—or if the police stop us—we don't have a legal defense. We have a shallow grave.”
“Then we don't get caught,” Adrian said, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt over his dark hair. “Let’s go see what’s left of my empire.”
