Page 30 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)
The Duluth port stretched beneath its winter shroud like a sleeping giant; its massive cranes and container mountains transformed into ethereal sculptures against the star-drunk sky.
Isla's breath crystallized in the subzero air as she approached the main gate, where a lone security guard hunched over his steaming thermos in the amber glow of his heated booth.
She pressed her badge against the frost-etched window. "FBI. Need access to the administration building."
The guard barely lifted his eyes from his coffee, his face bearing the hollow expression of someone deep into a double shift. A dismissive wave granted her passage—the kind of bureaucratic indifference that made unauthorized entries embarrassingly easy.
The port's nocturnal transformation was complete.
Stripped of its daytime symphony of diesel engines and shouting crews, it had been reduced to skeletal essentials—the whisper of wind through steel lattices, the distant hum of generators fighting the cold, the crystalline crack of ice adjusting to temperature shifts.
Her footsteps created the only percussion, each crunch of salt-treated snow echoing off the industrial canyon walls.
O'Connor's office yielded to her lock picks with disappointing ease—another reminder that administrative buildings prioritized convenience over security.
Inside, stale air hung thick with the scent of old coffee and the ozone tang of struggling electronics.
The radiator's valiant battle against Minnesota's winter created a steady metallic ticking that seemed to count down her available time.
She worked by the wan light of O'Connor's desk lamp, its adjustable beam casting harsh shadows across scattered financial reports and shipping manifests.
The remnants of a port administrator's life spread before her—payroll records that spoke of overtime irregularities, shipping schedules with curious gaps, correspondence that danced around specifics with bureaucratic poetry.
Nothing screamed conspiracy. Nothing announced criminal enterprise with convenient clarity. Yet her instincts gnawed at her consciousness like persistent hunger, insisting that crucial details lurked just beyond her perception.
Movement outside shattered her concentration.
Through the window overlooking the container yard, a lone figure traversed the snow-covered expanse with unmistakable purpose.
Too deliberate for patrol duty, too urgent for routine maintenance.
This was someone with an appointment—the kind that couldn't wait for business hours or proper scheduling.
Isla killed the lamp and pressed herself against the window frame, using the darkness as camouflage.
The figure moved with the confidence of intimate familiarity, navigating the labyrinthine container stacks without hesitation.
Destination: the eastern section, where shipping containers created a steel and shadow maze perfect for clandestine meetings.
The Minnesota cold struck her like a physical assault when she slipped through the building's rear exit.
The temperature had plummeted since sunset, turning the air itself into a weapon that sought exposed skin with surgical precision.
But she pushed through the discomfort, her focus laser-sharp on maintaining visual contact while remaining invisible.
The pursuit became a careful ballet between concealment and tracking.
She used the massive container walls as cover, their towering presence creating corridors of shadow perfect for surveillance.
The snow that hampered her movement also aided her cause—the figure ahead carved a clear trail through the pristine white canvas, a breadcrumb path she could follow from a safe distance.
Crouched behind a coil of industrial rope that smelled of tar and salt, Isla watched the figure meet his contact in a narrow gap between containers. Under the sickly yellow glow of a security light that flickered with electrical uncertainty, the first man's features became visible.
Her breath caught in her throat like a trapped bird.
Gregory Nash.
The CEO of Nash Global Shipping stood before her in expensive winter wear, his silver hair immaculate despite the weather, conducting business in a frozen wasteland at an hour when legitimate executives should be home with their families.
This wasn't a chance encounter or emergency consultation; this was the kind of meeting that required isolation and secrecy.
Their conversation occurred in hushed tones that the wind scattered before they could reach her ears, but their body language spoke volumes.
Nash's posture radiated authority even in these circumstances, while his contact maintained the deferential stance of an employee receiving instructions.
When Nash produced a thick envelope from his coat's inner pocket, the transaction's nature became unmistakable.
The exchange of cash for services rendered—the oldest criminal commerce in human history.
Nash departed with the same purposeful efficiency that had brought him here, his expensive shoes leaving precise prints in the snow as he disappeared behind the wheel of a black SUV.
The vehicle's engine purred with German engineering refinement, and temporary license plates caught the security light's glow before the darkness swallowed him completely.
His contact remained behind, producing a cigarette with the casual ease of someone accustomed to waiting in cold places.
The lighter's brief flare illuminated features that belonged on police composite sketches—mid-thirties, clean-shaven, with the hard-edged look of someone who performed unpleasant tasks for adequate compensation.
Isla waited until Nash's taillights vanished before attempting pursuit, but her quarry was already in motion. He moved through the container maze with the easy familiarity of someone who could navigate these steel canyons blindfolded, disappearing into shadows that seemed to swallow him whole.
Her pursuit became increasingly desperate as the labyrinth revealed its true nature.
The narrow passages between towering containers created a three-dimensional puzzle where one wrong turn could lead to complete disorientation.
Every stack looked identical in the darkness—endless repetitions of corrugated steel and cryptic shipping codes that offered no landmarks for navigation.
Her boots betrayed her with each step, crunching on gravel that seemed amplified in the unnatural quiet.
Her breath came faster now, visible puffs of vapor that might as well have been signal flares announcing her presence.
But the knowledge that she was onto something significant—Nash's presence, the cash payment, the obvious secrecy—drove her forward despite mounting anxiety.
Then she lost him completely.
The maze had claimed another victim, turning her from hunter to hunted in the space between one heartbeat and the next. Isla paused, trying to retrace her path through memories already blurred by adrenaline and cold, but the shadows stretched in every direction with malevolent similarity.
The port's silence became oppressive. The kind of unnatural quiet that settles like heavy snow when predators realize their prey has detected them. Every survival instinct honed by years of dangerous work screamed warnings that echoed off the container walls.
She turned slowly, scanning the darkness between the towering metal walls. Nothing moved. No sound except the distant electrical hum and the whisper of wind finding purchase in steel structures. But the air itself felt charged with menace, thick with the presence of unseen eyes.
Then she heard them—footsteps that weren't her own. Fast. Purposeful. Coming from behind with the rhythm of someone who had been waiting for exactly this moment.