Chapter 7 - The South Side Docks
The air down at the south side port terminals tasted of heavy diesel exhaust, salt water, and decaying rust. Towering yellow cranes swung massive shipping containers through the gray maritime air, loading them onto cargo ships bound for international waters.
Elena parked her unmarked federal sedan near Gate 4 of the Sterling Logistics compound.
Unlike the pristine, high-end luxury of Harrington Motors, the port was a sprawling, industrial labyrinth of corrugated steel warehouses, security checkpoints, and endless rows of stacked metal containers. It was a place where things could easily get lost—or buried forever.
Elena stepped out of her car, pulling her charcoal overcoat tight against the biting wind coming off Lake Michigan. She flashed her badge at the gate guard—a bored-looking man in a heavy parka who barely glanced at the identification before waving her through.
Her instructions were simple: conduct a random, unannounced safety audit of the customs holding warehouse.
As she walked down the gravel pathway between Warehouse B and Warehouse C, she noticed something odd. A row of refrigerated containers, marked with medical-supply manifests, were sitting completely disconnected from power sources, their doors slightly ajar.
She slowed her pace, pulling a small flashlight from her pocket.
Before she could reach the containers, a heavy hand descended onto her shoulder, spinning her around with practiced, intimidating force.
"Private property, lady," a bulky man in a plain black tactical jacket said, his eyes scanning her up and down with cold suspicion. "You took a wrong turn at the gate. Public parking is back the way you came."
Elena didn't flinch. She reached into her coat and pulled out her federal badge, holding it directly in front of the man's face.
"Agent Vance, Federal Trade Commission," Elena stated, her voice cutting through the roar of the harbor cranes. "I'm conducting an official inspection of the medical storage units. Step aside."
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The man didn't look impressed by the badge. He stared at it for a second, then glanced back toward the main administration office fifty yards away.
"You don't have jurisdiction here without advance clearance from Mr. Sterling’s legal team," the guard said, refusing to move his bulk. "Turn around, get back in your car, and leave the property before I have you escorted out."
