Page 20 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)

Sarah Sanchez pulled her woolen hat lower over her ears as she stepped out into the biting cold of the Duluth port.

The temperature had plummeted after sunset, and the wind sweeping across Lake Superior cut through her security uniform despite the thermal layers beneath.

Three years working port security, and she still wasn't fully acclimated to Minnesota winters.

After all, few killers would expect to face someone with her background.

Before moving to Duluth for a steadier paycheck and benefits, Sarah had been "Knockout Sanchez," with fourteen regional boxing titles to her name and a left hook that had sent more than one opponent to the hospital.

The training was still with her in the way she moved and in the reflexes that remained razor-sharp despite three years away from the ring.

Her younger brother Miguel still teased her about abandoning the ring for the "excitement" of port security, but the steady income meant she could finally help their mother with medical bills—and maybe save enough for that house on the hill she'd been eyeing for months.

Her radio crackled with static as she checked in at the first security point. "Eastern yard patrol beginning, Sanchez reporting. All clear at checkpoint one."

"Roger that, Sanchez," came the response from the central security office. "Stay alert out there."

"Always am," she replied, clipping the radio back to her belt.

The container yard was eerily quiet, the usual bustle of activity silenced by the FBI's temporary shutdown.

Massive stacks of shipping containers created a labyrinth of narrow corridors, their metal surfaces gleaming under the harsh security lights.

In the distance, she could make out the silhouettes of several vessels forced to wait at anchor, their lights winking like distant stars through the night fog rolling in off the lake.

Sarah moved methodically through her patrol route, her boots crunching on the frozen ground.

The air carried the sharp metallic scent of steel containers and diesel fuel, mixed with the clean, cold smell of snow and the distant aroma of coffee from the night shift break room.

Every few minutes, she'd pause, listening intently for any sound that didn't belong.

The port had its own nocturnal soundtrack—creaking metal as cooling containers contracted, the distant hum of generators, the occasional cry of a night bird—and Sarah had learned to distinguish between normal sounds and those that warranted investigation.

As she approached the administration building, she noticed a light still burning in Raymond O'Connor's office.

The poor man hadn't left the port since learning about Diana Pearce's murder.

Sarah decided to check on him, partly out of concern and partly because the warm building offered a brief respite from the cold.

She stamped snow from her boots in the entryway and made her way upstairs. O'Connor's door was ajar, and she could see him hunched over his desk, surrounded by stacks of papers.

"Mr. O'Connor?" she called softly, knocking on the doorframe. "Everything okay in here?"

He startled, papers scattering as his head jerked up. When he recognized her, his shoulders sagged with visible relief.

"Sanchez. Thank God it's you." His voice was hoarse with exhaustion. "Just... just reviewing security protocols. Can't be too careful now."

Sarah stepped into the office, noting the coffee cups littering the desk and the disheveled appearance of the normally fastidious port director.

Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his tie hung loose around his neck.

She also noticed his jacket draped over the chair was damp around the shoulders as if he'd been outside recently despite claiming to have been working at his desk all evening.

"You should get some rest, sir," she suggested, though she knew it was futile. "You've been here since yesterday morning."

O'Connor rubbed his face with both hands. "How can I rest? Two of my people, Sanchez. Two good people murdered under my watch."

"The FBI is handling it," she reminded him, though privately, she wondered if the agents truly understood the workings of Duluth's port.

"I know, I know." He gestured at the papers before him. "I'm implementing new security protocols for all port employees. Badge access is being restricted to essential areas only."

Sarah nodded approvingly. "Smart precautions."

"Not smart enough to save Marcus or Diana," he muttered, then looked up at her with sudden concern. "You're patrolling alone. Is that wise, given what's happened?"

Sarah smiled slightly, rolling her shoulders in a practiced motion that spoke of countless hours in the boxing gym. "I can handle myself, sir. Fourteen regional titles, remember? They didn't call me 'Knockout Sanchez' for nothing."

She demonstrated a quick shadow boxing combination that ended with her signature left hook, the movement fluid and powerful even in her bulky winter uniform. The familiar motion centered her, as it always did when nerves threatened.

O'Connor's expression softened slightly. "I remember the newspaper article they ran when you were hired. 'From Boxing Ring to Security Ring' or something equally corny."

"'Prizefighter Trades Ring for Port Security,'" Sarah corrected with a small laugh. "Not much better."

"Still," O'Connor insisted, "be careful out there. Our killer has struck twice already, and both victims were caught off guard."

"I won't be caught off guard," Sarah assured him, patting her sidearm. "And unlike Whitman and Pearce, I'm armed."

Something flickered across O'Connor's face—concern, perhaps, or fear—before he nodded. "Radio check-ins every twenty minutes, understood? And if you see anything suspicious, anything at all, you call for backup before investigating."

"Always do, sir." She moved toward the door, eager to continue her patrol. "You should think about heading home soon. Even FBI agents sleep sometimes."

"Soon," he promised unconvincingly. "Once I finish these protocols."

At the doorway, Sarah paused. "Mr. O'Connor? We'll catch whoever did this. Between the FBI and our security team, there's nowhere in this port they can hide."

He nodded distractedly, already returning to his paperwork. "Be careful, Sanchez."

Sarah made her way back through the building, pulling on her gloves as she prepared to face the cold again.

The warmth of the administration building had been a welcome respite, but now the reality of the bitter Minnesota night awaited her.

She thought briefly of Miguel, probably playing video games in their shared apartment, blissfully unaware of the dangers lurking in the shadows of their city's industrial heart.

After this case was resolved—after they caught the killer—maybe she'd finally have enough saved for that house.

A place with better security than their current apartment, where she wouldn't worry about her family's safety.

Back outside, the cold hit Sarah like a physical blow after the warmth of the building. She pulled her scarf higher over her nose and continued her patrol, circling toward the western container yard where the bodies had been found.

The area remained cordoned off with police tape, though the containers themselves had been removed as evidence.

Sarah paused at the perimeter, visualizing what must have happened.

Both Whitman and Pearce had been found in containers with non-standard locks, killed in similar fashion.

Both had been investigating shipping manifests from the same company.

It wasn't difficult to connect the dots. Someone had a lot to lose if that information came to light.

Sarah's radio crackled again. "Checkpoint three, all clear," she reported, continuing her patrol.

As she moved deeper into the rarely-used section of the yard where seasonal equipment was stored, something caught her attention—a flash of movement between container stacks to her right.

Just a shadow, there and gone in an instant, but the movement was too deliberate, too vertical to be debris blown by the wind.

Human height. Human gait. Her instincts, honed by years of reading opponents in the ring, told her someone was trying to stay hidden.

Sarah slowed her pace, hand moving to rest on her weapon. This area wasn't scheduled for patrols by any other officers tonight. Anyone here had no legitimate reason to be present.

"Central, this is Sanchez," she spoke quietly into her radio. "Possible movement detected in section W-17, near the seasonal storage. Going to investigate."

"Roger that, Sanchez. Backup available if needed."

"Stand by," she replied, not wanting to call for help prematurely. It could be nothing—animals sometimes found their way into the yard, or the wind might have shifted something loose.

She moved cautiously toward where she'd seen the movement, using the container stacks for cover.

The narrow passage between the towering metal boxes was darker here, several security lights having burned out without replacement.

Mental note to report that in the morning, she thought, drawing her flashlight but not activating it yet. Better to maintain her night vision.

The wind had died down, leaving an eerie stillness broken only by the distant sound of ice shifting on the lake. Sarah paused, listening intently. Was that a footstep crunching on snow, or just ice settling?

A sudden clang echoed from her left—metal striking metal.

Sarah spun toward the sound, weapon half-drawn, her heart hammering.

She waited, muscles coiled, ready to react.

Seconds stretched into a full minute before she spotted the culprit: a loose tarp flapping against a container corner, caught by a sudden gust of wind.

She exhaled slowly, forcing her shoulders to relax. False alarm.

But as she turned back toward her original destination, that nagging sense of being watched returned. Someone was definitely out here.

She drew her weapon completely now, holding it in a ready position as she'd been trained. "Port Security," she called out, her voice steady and authoritative. "Identify yourself immediately."

No response came. Sarah took a step forward, intending to sweep her flashlight across the area. The hair on the back of her neck stood up—boxer's instinct warning her of danger as clearly as if someone had shouted.

She started to turn, sensing rather than hearing movement behind her. Too late—something heavy struck the back of her head with crushing force. Pain exploded through her skull as her knees buckled.

Sarah tried to raise her weapon, boxer's reflexes fighting through the shock, but a second blow sent her sprawling face-first onto the frozen ground.

Her flashlight and gun skittered away across the ice.

The radio at her belt squawked with a voice asking for a status report, suddenly sounding very far away.

As consciousness began to fade, she caught a glimpse of boots approaching in her peripheral vision—expensive leather boots, the kind that weren't standard issue for port workers.

Boots she'd seen polished and pristine in the administrative offices.

Recognition dawned with horrifying clarity in her last moments of awareness.

Then darkness claimed her.