Chapter 2 - The Secrets Behind Unit 108
The walk to the industrial district took nearly an hour through back alleys and neglected railroad easements.
My prison-issued sneakers were soaked with muddy water, but the fire burning in my chest kept the cold away.
Three years in Oakwood Prison taught a man how to disappear into the background.
You learn to lower your chin, soften your footsteps, and avoid eye contact with anyone holding authority or malice.
Phoenix Secure Storage was an eyesore of rusted corrugated steel and flickering halogen floodlights tucked between an abandoned grain silo and a scrap metal yard.
A faded sign warned that trespassers would be prosecuted, but the electronic keypad at the rusty chain-link gate was half-battered.
I slipped through a torn gap in the chain link near the perimeter fence.
Unit 108 was located in the oldest row, deep within the labyrinth of narrow concrete corridors.
Water dripped steadily from an overhead pipe, creating rhythmic splashes that echoed off the metal doors.
My pulse hammered against my ribs as I approached the dented green door marked with the faded stencil: 108.
The heavy padlock on the latch was coated with a thin film of grime, but the brass key slid into the cylinder with an audible click.
The lock turned smoothly.
I lifted the heavy steel latch and slid the roll-up door upward just enough to crawl underneath.
The scent hit me instantly.
It wasn't mold or dampness.
It was the familiar scent of pipe tobacco, cedar wood, and clean engine oil—the unmistakable smell of Camden Dennis.
I pulled the door down behind me until only a narrow sliver of pale twilight peeked under the rubber seal.
I pulled a cheap disposable lighter from my pocket, sparking a tiny flame that danced in the shadows.
The unit was far from empty.
Against the back wall stood an old wooden workbench covered in maritime shipping logs, blueprints, and neatly stacked manila folders.
In the center of the concrete floor sat the heavy olive-green army footlocker my father had kept since his service days.
I knelt in the dust, my knees cracking loudly in the silent room.
The footlocker was secured with a combination dial.
I didn't even have to guess the numbers.
My mother's birthday: 0-6-1-4.
The heavy brass latches snapped open with a sharp metallic clatter.
Inside, resting atop an old wool army blanket, was the blue leather logbook my father had described.
Beneath it lay an encrypted black external hard drive, a burner flip-phone, a stack of pristine hundred-dollar bills wrapped in paper bands, and a revolver wrapped in an oiled rag.
Seeing the firearm made my heart stop.
Camden Dennis was a pacifist who had refused to keep handguns in our house even when shipping robberies spiked along the coast.
If he had left a loaded .38 caliber revolver in this locker, he knew blood was going to be spilled.
I picked up the blue logbook and flipped open the cover under the flicker of the lighter flame.
The pages were filled with my father's meticulous notes detailing every financial transaction from Dennis Logistics over the last five years.
Red ink slashed through dozens of shell company accounts registered under the name 'Apex Maritime Holdings.'
Next to each fraudulent wire transfer were the printed initials: C.V.
Carter Vance.
Carter wasn't just my stepbrother; he had taken his biological father's surname before Reagan married into our wealth.
His real father was Dr. Bradley Vance—the very physician who had certified my father's death and exhumed his empty casket.
The realization slammed into my consciousness like a physical blow.
Reagan Dennis had never severed ties with her former husband.
They had planted Carter inside my father's firm from day one.
Every missing dollar, every manipulated manifest, and every forged signature that had sent me to prison had been executed by Carter with the blessing of his father and mother.
They had planned this takeover for half a decade.
I flipped to the final entry in the journal, dated November 14th of the previous year—the night before my father disappeared.
The handwriting was frantic, the ink smudged where his hand had trembled against the paper.
“They gave me the tea again tonight.”
“My hands went numb within twenty minutes of dinner.”
“Reagan smiled while pouring it, telling me I looked tired and needed to rest.”
“I had Harold run an independent lab test on the sugar bowl from our kitchen pantry.”
“Arsenic trioxide.”
“Microscopic doses over eight months.”
“They didn't want a sudden death that required an autopsy by the state medical examiner.”
“They wanted a slow decline that Dr. Vance could sign off on as gastrointestinal cancer.”
“I cannot stay in this house another night.”
“If I confront them openly, Carter has two dirty cops from the fourth precinct ready to stage an accidental overdose or suicide.”
“I am faking my collapse tomorrow morning at Vance’s clinic.”
“Harold Hayes has arranged safe passage across the state border under the name Thomas Cole.”
“Finnley, they took your freedom to blind me, and they tried to take my life to rob our family blind.”
“The drive holds the video footage from the hallway camera hidden inside the grandfather clock.”
“It shows Carter entering your home office with my master keycard the night the two million went missing.”
“It shows him planting the offshore deposit confirmation under your mattress.”
“Take this to Harold.”
“Clear your name first.”
“Then tear their empire to the ground.”
Suddenly, the crunch of heavy footsteps on gravel outside made my body freeze.
A flashlight beam swept beneath the narrow gap of the roll-up door, illuminating the dust motes swirling in the air.
“I'm telling you, boss, the gate lock was cut,” a rough voice muttered just inches from the corrugated steel.
“The kid came straight from the cemetery.”
“Carter said if Finnley Dennis finds this locker, none of us get paid.”
May you like
I killed the flame of the lighter instantly, plunging the storage unit into absolute blackness.
My fingers closed around the cold steel handle of the .38 revolver.
