Dockside Gambit ch6

The docks were a labyrinth of shadows, the air thick with the smell of salt and diesel. Simon killed the sedan's engine a block away, the coordinates from Voss's journal glowing on Jessica's phone.

"There," she said, pointing to a dilapidated warehouse marked *H-17*. A single light flickered above its rusted door. "Guards at the east entrance. Two, maybe three."

Simon peered through binoculars. "And a camera on the north side. Outdated tech, but still live. You take the guards, I'll handle the camera."

Jessica glared. "I'm not *taking* anyone. We observe first. Call for backup."

"Backup?" Simon snorted, slipping a lockpick from his sleeve. "Where's the fun in that?" He was out of the car before she could argue.

Jessica muttered a curse and followed, her Glock drawn. They moved like ghosts along the chain-link fence, the hum of distant ships masking their footsteps. Simon disabled the camera with a well-aimed rock to its wiring, then gestured to the guards—bruisers in black jackets, smoking under a flickering bulb.

"Distract them," Jessica whispered.

Simon grinned. "With pleasure." He sauntered into the light, hands raised. "Evening, gents! Anyone order a midnight delivery?"

The guards lunged. Simon ducked a swinging fist, twisting the man's arm until he crumpled. The second guard pulled a knife, but Jessica disarmed him with a swift kick, pressing her gun to his temple. "How many inside?"

The man spat. "Go to hell."

Simon crouched, flipping the knife in his hand. "Let's try this again. How. Many?"

"F-four," the guard stammered. "In the office. They're—they're loading the shipment now."

Jessica zip-tied their hands. "Stay put. Or I'll let him stab you *politely*."

Inside the warehouse, crates stamped with *Fragile* littered the concrete floor. Simon pried one open, revealing a Renaissance-era vase. "Voss's smuggling operation. These pieces were looted from museums in Italy last year."

Jessica frowned. "Why frame *you* for his murder? What's the connection?"

Simon hesitated. "I… might've stolen a similar piece a decade ago. As a *youthful indiscretion*."

"You're impossible," Jessica hissed.

A door creaked upstairs. They froze as voices filtered down—a woman's plea, sharp and desperate. *Clara.*

"Please, I don't know anything!" she cried. "My father kept me out of this!"

A man's voice, cold and familiar: *"And yet here you are, little bird."*

Simon's blood ran cold. *Trench coat guy.*

He and Jessica crept up the metal stairs, pausing at the office door. Through the cracked window, they saw Clara—pale, bruised, bound to a chair—and a silhouetted figure circling her, a syringe in hand.

"Last chance," the man said. "Where's the ledger?"

Clara shook her head. "I don't—"

The man grabbed her hair. Simon kicked the door open.

"*Party's over,*" he said, tossing the knife. It embedded in the man's shoulder, sending him staggering. Jessica untied Clara while Simon tackled the man to the floor, yanking off his balaclava.

The face beneath was gaunt, scarred. *Elias Kane*—Voss's "business partner."

"You," Simon growled. "You killed Voss. Planted my prints. Why?"

Kane laughed, blood staining his teeth. "You're a ghost, Harrison. Easy to blame. And the detective?" He glanced at Jessica. "She's just collateral."

A gunshot rang out. Kane's head snapped back, a red bloom spreading across his chest. Simon whirled to see Clara holding Jessica's Glock, her hands trembling.

"He… he was going to kill me," she whispered.

Jessica gently took the gun. "We need to go. Now."

As they fled, Simon grabbed a ledger from Kane's desk—names, dates, transactions. But one entry froze him mid-step:

***Payment received: [REDACTED]. For services rendered. Asset acquisition: Project Phoenix.***

"Jessica—"

The warehouse exploded.

A fireball engulfed the office, hurling them into the alley. Simon shielded Clara as debris rained down. When the smoke cleared, the ledger was ash.

Jessica coughed, radioing for fire crews. "Whoever's behind this just erased their tracks."

Simon stared at the flames, his voice grim. "Not all of them. *Project Phoenix.* I've heard that name before. From someone… *close*."

Clara touched his arm. "My father mentioned it once. He said it was a weapon. Something *old*. Something powerful."

Sirens wailed in the distance. Simon pocketed a half-melted USB drive from the wreckage. "Time to go, Detective. This rabbit hole just got deeper."

As they vanished into the night, a figure watched from a nearby rooftop—trench coat flapping in the wind, a phone pressed to his ear.

"They have the drive. Let them run. We'll be waiting."

To Be Continued…