PART 8: THE WILMINGTON DOCK
PART 8: THE WILMINGTON DOCK
The wind off the Atlantic Ocean was freezing, carrying the thick, salty scent of low tide and rotting wood.
At 3:00 a.m., the Wilmington port was a graveyard of rusted shipping containers and old cranes silhouetted against the gray fog.
I stood near the edge of Dock 7, my heavy winter coat buttoned to my chin, the crimson folder tucked securely under my arm.
A single set of headlights pierced through the darkness.
A black luxury sedan pulled up to the baseline structure, its engine idling with a low, deep rumble.
The driver's door opened, and Victoria Ashford stepped out, her charcoal wool coat flapping in the freezing wind.
"You're punctual, Mr. Bennett," she said, her voice cutting through the roar of the waves below. "I appreciate a man who respects a deadline."
"Where are the original signature cards, Victoria?" I asked, my voice completely devoid of emotion.
She walked toward me, her leather boots crunching on the gravel.
"The originals are in a safe-deposit box in Boston," she said, stopping just three feet away. "They will stay there as long as you agree to sign over the controlling shares of the Maple Grove real estate."
"I don't sign documents under duress," I said.
She laughed, a cruel, mocking sound that sounded exactly like her father's.
"This isn't duress, Jacob. This is an exchange. You give me back my family's land, and I give you back your brother's reputation."
Then, a secondary set of headlights flashed from the shadow of a nearby container.
A white security SUV accelerated toward us, its tires screeching on the wet asphalt.
Victoria's smile vanished.
"Who else did you bring?" she hissed, stepping back toward her sedan.
May you like
The SUV doors burst open, and three federal compliance officers stepped out, their tactical flashlights blinding us in the fog.
Marcus Bell walked out behind them, a recording device in his hand.
