Chapter 3 - The Scent of Blood at the Cannery
At the abandoned cannery lot, the rising Atlantic tide washed cold salt water across the gravel until it reached the edge of the open pit.
Garrick’s massive, mud-caked hand clawed out of the trench and hooked into the wire mesh of an overturned crab trap.
He dragged his massive frame out of the icy mud with a roar of pure rage that sent gulls scattering into the dawn sky.
His right knee was swollen to the size of a melon, the ligaments torn from Julian Ashworth’s brutal kick.
He crawled across the wet concrete on three limbs, trailing black sludge and blood across the stones.
Fifty yards away, the headlights of Marin’s orange delivery truck cut through the morning sea mist.
The vehicle ground to a halt beside the cannery wall, its brakes squealing in protest.
Kroll stepped down from the cab, a heavy semi-automatic pistol tucked into the waistband of his oilskin trousers.
He walked toward the trench, his face pale with disbelief as he looked at the empty pit and his crippled partner.
“Where is he?” Kroll barked, his boots splashing through the tide water.
Garrick hauled his back against the rusted iron wall of the cannery and spat a mouthful of salty grit onto the ground.
“The girl took him,” Garrick growled through clenched teeth, clutching his ruined knee.
“What girl?” Kroll hissed, scanning the empty, graying lot.
“The delivery driver,” Garrick spat, pointing a trembling, dirt-stained finger toward the high concrete curb.
Kroll turned his gaze toward the edge of the lot where the flare had burned down into a charred red scar on the asphalt.
There, sitting undisturbed against the wire traps, was the cardboard parcel Marin had set down before her charge.
Kroll limped over to the box, tore it open with his pocket knife, and found three industrial brass water valves inside.
He tossed the hardware into the mud and ripped the white shipping label off the cardboard lid.
Under the weak morning light, he held the paper up to his eyes.
“M. Doyle,” Kroll read aloud, the words dripping with venom.
“Route fourteen.”
He walked quickly back to the idling orange delivery van and wrenched the passenger door open.
He threw the glove compartment open, dumping registration receipts, toll tickets, and maintenance logs onto the vinyl seat.
Beneath the driver’s bench, his boot struck the gray plastic tackle box.
Kroll hauled the box into the cab light and tore the latches open.
Inside lay sterile gauze, expired ampules of atropine, a stainless steel stethoscope, and a laminated plastic card.
Kroll picked up the card and turned it over in his rough fingers.
The gold seal of the State Emergency Medical Services Board was clearly visible through the plastic.
Across the center of the card, a half-inch hole had been punched with a steel die, accompanied by a bold red ink stamp: REVOKED.
Beneath the stamp was the full name and color photograph of the driver: Marin Doyle, Paramedic First Class.
Taped behind the identification card was a folded slip of white paper.
It was an emergency contact card written in neat, feminine handwriting:
Delphine Doyle.
Harbor Crust Bakery.
714 Wharf Lane.
A slow, cruel grin spread across Kroll’s thin, rat-like face.
He pocketed the card and stepped down from the running board of the truck.
He drew a sleek, encrypted satellite phone from his coat pocket and dialed a single preset number.
The line connected on the first ring.
“Speak,” a smooth, cultured voice answered from the other end.
“Mr. Vance,” Kroll said, looking down at Garrick who was groaning against the wall.
“We have a complication at the cannery.”
There was a heavy, terrifying silence on the other end of the line.
“Julian is dead, isn’t he?” Marcus Vance asked, his tone silky and devoid of human warmth.
“He was almost gone when we put him in the ditch,” Kroll admitted, his voice tightening with nervous sweat.
“Then a third party interfered.”
“Who?”
“A disgraced medic,” Kroll said, reading the name off the laminated card.
“Works the night courier route.”
“Name is Marin Doyle.”
A low, sharp intake of breath hissed across the satellite connection.
“Marin Doyle?” Marcus Vance repeated, the calm demeanor in his voice cracking for a fraction of a second.
“The paramedic from the turnpike accident two years ago?”
“The very same,” Kroll confirmed.
“She hit us with road flares, pulled Julian out of the mud, and stole the Lincoln.”
“Where are they now?” Vance demanded, his voice hardening into cold steel.
“The car is gone into the harbor district,” Kroll said.
“Julian had a bullet through his chest and two crushed ribs. He won’t last until noon without surgery.”
“If he reaches a federal hospital or speaks to an agent, we are both facing execution,” Vance said without emotion.
“Find her.”
“We already have her family, Mr. Vance,” Kroll replied, looking down at the bakery contact card in his hand.
“She has a younger sister running a bread shop down on Wharf Lane.”
“Take three men,” Vance ordered coldly.
“Secure the sister before the morning delivery crowds arrive.”
“If Marin Doyle reaches out to her, bring them both to the south warehouse.”
“And Julian?” Kroll asked.
“If Julian Ashworth is still breathing when you locate them,” Vance whispered, “finish the job the mud was supposed to do.”
The call went dead.
Kroll pocketed the phone and walked over to Garrick, grabbing him roughly beneath the armpits.
He hauled his hulking partner into the back of the orange delivery van and slammed the roll-up cargo door shut.
May you like
Kroll climbed into the driver’s seat, adjusted the rearview mirror, and put the van into gear.
The orange truck rolled out of the cannery lot, heading directly toward Wharf Lane just as the first rays of gray winter light broke across the harbor.
