Page 31 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)

The crowbar's glancing blow sent galaxies of stars exploding across Isla's vision, the impact resonating through her skull like a cathedral bell struck by lightning.

She stumbled backward, her shoulder striking the razor-sharp edge of an open shipping container with enough force to tear fabric and skin.

Before equilibrium could return, powerful hands seized her jacket and drove her deeper into the metal tomb while dragging the heavy door nearly closed behind them.

Darkness devoured the space with absolute hunger, broken only by a knife-thin line of pale light bleeding through the gap where steel met steel.

The container's atmosphere was a cocktail of industrial scents—rust flakes and old cargo, machine oil and the metallic bite of winter air, all now seasoned with the copper tang of blood that filled her mouth like bitter wine.

Her heart hammered against her ribs with the desperate rhythm of a caged bird as she drew her Glock and fired.

The muzzle flash transformed the container into a lightning-struck cavern, revealing her attacker's face for one frozen instant—young, determined, completely unknown to her.

The gunshot's deafening crack rebounded off the steel walls, multiplying into a symphony of violence as she fired again into the darkness where he'd been standing.

But he was already moving with predatory grace.

His shoulder drove into her wrist like a battering ram, sending the Glock skittering across the container floor into the abyss beyond the light's reach.

A heartbeat later, his hands found her throat—calloused fingers that knew exactly how much pressure to apply, how to position themselves for maximum effect, how to turn human anatomy against itself.

Panic clawed at the edges of her consciousness like desperate fingernails, but Isla forced it back into its cage.

FBI training took control of her nervous system, overriding fear with muscle memory and tactical thinking.

She shifted her weight, brought her knee up with explosive force into his solar plexus, then drove her elbow into his floating ribs as his grip loosened and precious air rushed back into her lungs.

The container became their private battlefield—a steel-walled arena where civilization's rules held no authority.

They grappled in the darkness like ancient gladiators, both slipping on the ice-slick floor, both slamming against unforgiving walls with impacts that would leave permanent reminders of this encounter.

The sounds of their struggle echoed strangely in the confined space—grunts of effort, the wet slap of flesh meeting flesh, the scrape of fabric against rough metal.

Isla managed to hook her leg behind his ankle in a move she'd learned at Quantico, sweeping him down with satisfying violence.

She was on him before he could recover, using her momentum to drive his face into the steel floor with enough force to feel cartilage collapse beneath her hands.

The wet crack of breaking bone punctuated their struggle, followed by the warm splatter of blood that painted her fingers with evidence of small victory.

Fighting through his increasingly desperate struggles, she managed to wrench one arm behind his back and snap a handcuff around his wrist—the metallic click sounding like salvation in the cramped darkness.

The container door exploded inward with the force of revelation, flooding their steel tomb with harsh white light from a powerful LED flashlight.

Isla flinched away from the glare, temporarily blinded after their battle in the shadows, then saw Sullivan's familiar silhouette filling the doorway like an avenging angel.

His weapon was raised, his eyes wide with the shock of finding his partner locked in mortal combat with an unknown assailant.

"Jesus Christ, Rivers!" He rushed forward, his voice tight with concern and barely controlled anger. Together, they managed to secure the second handcuff as their prisoner continued his futile struggles. "Are you hurt? What the hell happened?"

She nodded, though her throat felt like she'd been gargling broken glass, and her skull still rang like a struck tuning fork. "Ambush. He was waiting for me, knew exactly where I'd be."

Together, they hauled the man into a sitting position against the container wall.

Blood streamed from his ruined nose in dark rivulets, and his eyes held the glassy look of someone still processing the transition from hunter to prey.

But beneath the physical damage, Isla could see something more dangerous—fear that he was working hard to control, the kind of terror that came from knowing exactly what happened to people who failed their employers.

"Who sent you?" she demanded, crouching in front of him despite the symphony of aches that her body was composing. Her knees throbbed where they'd impacted the steel floor, but adrenaline still provided enough anesthesia to function.

The man stared at her with the silence of carved stone, his jaw set in the stubborn defiance of someone who understood that some conversations were more dangerous than broken bones.

He appeared younger than her initial assessment had suggested—mid-thirties, clean-shaven beneath the mask of blood, with the lean muscle definition of someone who maintained professional fighting condition.

His clothing told its own story—dark and practical garments designed for movement rather than warmth, the kind of outfit worn by people who worked at night and needed to disappear quickly when necessary.

Isla leaned closer, lowering her voice to the intimate register of shared secrets. "Look, we know about Nash. I saw the money change hands and watched the whole transaction. You're already burned—might as well start talking and see if cooperation can improve your situation."

Something flickered behind his eyes at Nash's name—recognition, perhaps concern, but definitely acknowledgment that she possessed more information than he'd anticipated.

"This isn't going to just disappear," Sullivan added, holstering his weapon now that immediate violence was no longer imminent. "We've got you for assault on a federal agent, probably attempted murder. That's serious federal time, even with the best cooperation and the most sympathetic judge."

The man finally spoke, his voice thick with blood and bitter with the taste of failure. "You don't understand how any of this actually works."

"Then explain it to us," Isla said with the patience of someone who had interrogated hundreds of reluctant suspects. "Help us understand."

His laughter echoed strangely in the confined space, carrying notes of hysteria and despair that suggested his situation was far worse than simple arrest. "It's O'Connor. Always was O'Connor. Nash... Nash just follows orders like the rest of us poor bastards."

Isla felt something cold and familiar settle in her stomach—not surprise, but the vindication she'd been seeking mixed with the dread of being proven right about something terrible.

The convenient alibi, Thorne's perfectly timed suicide note, the too-neat resolution that had satisfied everyone except her instincts—it had all been elaborate theater designed to misdirect their investigation.

"You're absolutely certain about that?" she pressed, studying his face for any sign of deception or misdirection. "You're not just protecting Nash to secure a bigger payday down the road?"

"No," he said with the flat certainty of someone stating obvious facts. "Nash answers to O'Connor. We all do—Thorne, half the customs department, some of the union representatives, even a few of the Coast Guard liaisons. Everything that mattered ran through O'Connor's office."

"So, what changed?" Sullivan asked, his voice tight with the implications of what they were learning. "Why start killing people who had been useful?"

"He got paranoid when you two started getting too close to the truth.

Started cleaning the house, eliminating anyone who might talk if the pressure got too intense.

" The man shrugged as much as the handcuffs would permit.

"Thorne panicked after Whitman and Pearce died.

Tried to blow the whole operation open, threatened to take everything he knew straight to the federal prosecutors. "

"So, O'Connor had him killed and staged it as suicide," Isla said, watching the final pieces of the puzzle click into their proper positions.

"Had to. Thorne kept records that O'Connor couldn't risk getting out—names, dates, financial transactions, shipping manifests.

Real evidence that could have brought down the entire network.

" The man looked directly at her with eyes that held no hope for his own future.

"You were supposed to be next on the list. Clean up the last loose end before she could cause any more problems."

Heavy silence filled the container like toxic gas.

Outside, the wind howled across the docks with the voice of approaching weather, carrying promises of more snow and the realization that their investigation was far from over.

O'Connor sat in his holding cell, probably confident that his carefully constructed narrative would withstand scrutiny.

Thorne was dead, his convenient confession accepted without serious question.

The case was officially closed, the political pressure relieved, the port operations returning to normal.

But now they possessed a witness—someone who could systematically dismantle the elaborate fiction O'Connor had constructed around himself and his criminal enterprise.

"We need to get back to the station immediately," Sullivan said, helping Isla to her feet with gentle hands that belied the urgency in his voice. "Get this guy processed and his statement recorded before anyone realizes we have him."

Isla nodded, but her mind was already racing through the implications and complications ahead.

O'Connor had played them all with masterful skill, presenting himself as the grieving administrator while orchestrating a complex criminal operation from behind his government desk.

Even now, sitting in federal custody, he probably believed he'd successfully defeated their investigation.

He was about to discover how wrong that assumption had been.