Chapter 2 - Echoes in the Dust
The cold rain slashed against Vance’s face as he sprinted through the labyrinth of shipping containers and rusted cranes. The docks at night were a graveyard of iron and steel, groaning under the relentless assault of the coastal wind. He didn't bother wrapping his coat tighter; the freezing dampness was exactly what he needed to keep his mind sharp.
He reached Pier 39, practically tearing the door off its hinges as he barged into Elias’s clock shop. The bell above the door gave a sad, broken tinkle.
The shop was a disaster zone. Glass display cases were shattered, turning the floor into a glittering, jagged ocean. Antique grandfather clocks lay toppled on their sides like felled trees, their pendulums still. Gears, springs, and cogs were scattered everywhere. But it was the dark, smeary puddle of crimson near the back counter that made Vance’s stomach drop.
"Elias!" Vance shouted, his voice echoing in the empty, ruined space.
Nothing. The silence was absolute, save for the ticking of the few clocks that had survived the onslaught. The steady tick-tock, tick-tock felt like a countdown drumming directly against Vance’s skull.
He knelt by the pool of blood. It was partially dried at the edges. It had happened hours ago, likely right before Silas waltzed into The Sinking Skiff. Vance pressed two fingers against the floor, then rubbed the tacky blood between his fingertips. The scent of copper filled his nostrils, instantly transporting him back to the sweltering, mosquito-infested jungles of San Lorenzo. He remembered the metallic tang in the air before an ambush, the frantic screams, the wet thud of his blade finding its mark.
He had sworn to never be that man again. He had sworn to bury the monster.
Vance stood up, his jaw set so tight his teeth ground together. He looked at his reflection in a shard of broken mirror hanging on the wall. He saw a tired, hollowed-out man with shadows under his eyes and premature gray in his dark hair. But underneath the exhaustion, something ancient and violent was waking up.
He walked to the back of the shop, pulling away a heavy rug that covered the floorboards in Elias’s private workshop. He found the loose board he had installed three years ago, prying it up with his bare hands. Beneath it was a sealed, waterproof Pelican case.
Vance pulled the heavy black case out, brushing the dust off the top. He entered a six-digit code. The latches popped open with a satisfying hiss of depressurization.
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Inside, resting on custom-cut foam, was his past. A matte-black, suppressed Heckler & Koch USP tactical pistol. Extra magazines. A Kevlar weave jacket. And resting in the center, gleaming even in the dim light, was his signature weapon: a customized, curved karambit knife forged from Damascus steel.
Vance gripped the handle of the blade. It fit his palm perfectly, like a missing limb suddenly reattached. The harbor had dredged him up. It was time to remind them why the ocean was so terrified of the deep.
