The library queen

Chapter 8 Terminal Log

Freezing rain hammered the steel shipping containers. Puddles of dirty water froze over the rusted docks. Don stood in the dark, his hand rock steady as he scanned the harbor.

Peter slipped out from behind a stack of crates, hugging his skinny chest, his teeth chattering.

"You pick the shittiest spots to meet, Detective," Peter hissed, looking over his shoulder.

"I’m paying you for your time, Pete. Stop whining," Don snapped. He shoved a thick envelope full of cash straight into Peter's face. Peter snatched it instantly, shoving it deep into his jacket.

"I need the cargo logs from the east terminal," Don commanded, his voice dropping into a lethal, steady rhythm. "Give me the names."

Peter froze dead. He took a panicked step back, yanked the envelope back out, and slammed it right against Don's chest. "Keep your f*****g money. I’m out."

Don grabbed Peter's wrist, clamping down like an iron vice. "Give me a name, Pete. Don't make me ask nicely."

"They own the whole goddamn harbor!" Peter stammered, trying to tear his arm away. "They own the concrete we're standing on! Let go of me!"

"You ripped off the Romero cartel last month, Pete. You think you're a big boy now?" Don sneered, matching his panicked look. "Talk."

"The Romeros just cut off your fingers!" Peter screamed. "The Saviers wipe out your whole f*****g family! I like breathing, okay? Let go, you psycho!"

Peter wrenched his arm free, turned on his heel, and sprinted into the thick fog.

Don stood alone, a cold, mocking smirk touching his lips as he tossed the useless envelope into a frozen puddle. Suddenly, a pair of headlights cut through the mist. A black sedan rolled onto the dock, stopping inches from his boots. The window rolled down. Janice was behind the wheel.

"Get the hell in, Don," Janice said.

Don walked around the hood, yanked the door open, and dropped into the leather seat.

"Addison just locked you out of the system," Janice said flatly, her face a perfect blank. "He’s covering his own fat ass."

"He's destroying evidence, captain," Don shot back."

"You left a giant digital footprint, you i***t. The Chief saw everything." Janice reached into the center console, pulled out a folded memo, and tossed it onto Don's lap. "Read the top, hero."

Don looked down at the black ink. PERMANENT SUSPENSION.

"Effective five minutes ago," Janice said. "The case is dead, Don. You're done."

"He's burying a k********g," Don whispered, his voice dangerously quiet. "How much are they paying him?"

"He's cutting a loose end, Don."

Janice watched his hands, letting out a slow breath. "You're completely on your own now, Don. No backup. Nothing. If Savier's guys catch you on their docks, they’re gonna put a bullet in your head."

"I know the rules, Janice. My way keeps things simple."

He stepped out into the storm and slammed the door shut. The sedan backed up fast, its red taillights bleeding into the thick fog as it sped away.

Don stepped back into the ruined history section. His boots crunched on the dried, sour-smelling chemical residue on the floorboards.

He swept his flashlight beam across the dark aisle, catching Chloe Thomson standing behind the front desk, clutching a thick stack of printouts.

"The captain sealed this place, Chloe," Don snapped.

"I have a master key, Don," Chloe sneered, tossing the stack onto the counter with a heavy slap. "The higher-ups put out a memo saying Maya quit. They’re claiming she took a sudden vacation to save her pension. They think we're stupid."

"The order came straight from Chief Addison," Don muttered.

"The Chief is full of s**t, and you know it!" Chloe shot back, slamming her hand down on the papers.

Don stepped closer, his face a perfect blank. He didn't focus on her exhaustion; he focused on the board.

"Addison’s got undercover cars watching the perimeter, genius," Don whispered, grabbing her sleeve. "Shut up and move. Now."

The corner diner smelled like grease and burnt coffee. Outside, heavy rain lashing violently against their glass booth. Don slid his laptop across the cheap laminate table.

"I still have my local login active for another hour," Don said, his voice dropping into a lethal, steady rhythm. "Use it before they wipe my badge."

Chloe pulled the machine closer, her fingers slamming furiously against the keys.

"The main library server is scrubbed clean," Chloe muttered, typing a new command sequence. "But the cleaners forgot to wipe the hard drive in the basement archive logs. Their tech-support is a joke. I'm through the firewall."

"Give me a direction, Chloe. Stop playing with the keys."

"Look at the 911 dispatch log on Thursday night," Chloe said, pointing at the blue screen. "Someone called the precinct at exactly 23:05 to report the library disturbance. The call bypassed the usual desk and went straight to Addison’s private channel."

Don leaned over the table, his eyes turning into pure fire. "Who called it in?"

"The system flags the name as Jerome Toby," Chloe said, a cold, mocking smirk touching her lips. "I checked the municipal data. No address, no tax footprint, no nothing. The guy doesn't exist on paper."

Chloe yanked a cheap paper napkin out of the metal dispenser, grabbed a ballpoint pen, and aggressively scratched the name onto the paper.

"I don't know who the hell this Jerome Toby is, Don," Chloe sneered, her voice dropping. "But he’s the one who cleared your cops off the street. He’s the anchor."

Don studied the blue ink on the napkin.

"Jerome Toby runs a fake print shop over on 8th Avenue," Don said.

Don stared at the handwritten address, his eyes turning into pure fire. "He won't escape me."

"He moves his equipment every couple of weeks, Don. The bastard is paranoid."

"I don't give a s**t how paranoid he is," Don snapped, grabbing his heavy jacket.

"Let them line up," Don growled, zipping the jacket. He locked his eyes onto her laptop. "Shut that thing down. Chief Addison is tracking every precinct IP in the city. Get off the grid and stay hidden, or you're dead weight."

Chloe clutched the machine against her chest, her jaw tight. "You’re really crossing the line tonight, aren't you?"

"The line went out the window the second they took Maya."

"Just bring her back, Don."

Don didn't waste his breath on comfort. He gave her a sharp nod and walked straight into the freezing night.

The alleyway off 8th Avenue smelled like rotting garbage and heavy asphalt. A broken neon sign threw a sickly green glare across the cracked window of the print shop.

He pulled a flat tactical pry bar out of his pocket, wedged it deep into the frame, and slammed his entire weight against the metal.

CRACK.

The door blasted inward, splintering violently. Don stepped straight into the workspace.

The air was thick with the toxic smell of chemical ink and hot plastic. Giant industrial printers were humming loudly in the dark. A scrawny guy in a stained canvas apron was leaning over a glowing light table—Jerome Toby, holding a magnifying glass over a messy stack of blank passports.

Don crossed the room in three massive strides, snatched a fresh booklet right off the table, and smeared the wet blue ink across his thumb.

"Faking federal documents, Jerome? That’s ten years in a cage," Don sneered, dropping into a lethal, steady rhythm. "Or did you think your little syndicate bought the feds too?"

Jerome spun around, his face a perfect blank as he reached for a drawer under the desk. "I don't know what you're talking about, officer. I just run a legal print shop."

Don grabbed him by the collar, hauled him up, and slammed him hard against the brick wall. The heavy light table rattled violently, pens rolling onto the floor.

"Keep your f*****g hands where I can see them, you piece of trash!" Don barked, shoving his forearm dead against Jerome's throat. "Try playing dumb with me again and see what happens."

Jerome gagged, clawing at Don’s sleeves. "I... I don't know anything! I swear!"

"You called 911 on Thursday night at exactly eleven, you ungrateful prick," Don hissed, crossing his arms with his forearm still crushing the man's throat. "Talk, or I'm dragging your sorry ass to the precinct right now."

"You can't prove anything!" Jerome choked out, his eyes rolling back.

"I don't need to prove it to a judge, genius," Don whispered back, a cruel, mocking smirk touching his lips. "I leak these blank passports to the feds, and you’re a dead man by midnight. You talk, and I walk out that door and let you keep breathing. Choose."

Jerome stared at him, completely out-talked and terrified. The arrogant facade shattered instantly.

"Fine!" Jerome stammered, spit flying from his lips. "Just let go of me first!"