Dock 13 looked worse than I remembered. It always did. Rusted shipping containers stacked like tombstones, the whole place reeked of decay—old fish, old blood, and the kind of sweat that came from men doing things they’d never talk about. The moon hung low over the bay, half-covered in fog, as if it was too disgusted to shine on this part of the city.

I parked the car just outside the chain-link fence and stepped out, pulling my collar up against the cold. This place didn’t need to be cold to make you shiver, but the bite in the air sure didn’t help. My boots crunched against gravel as I moved toward the gate. Locked, of course. Places like this were always locked up tight, like a coffin waiting for a body.

I reached into my coat for my lockpicks. A few clicks, and the gate swung open. They should’ve invested in better security, but then again, nobody in their right mind came down here on purpose.

Except me. And Rachel Torres.

The dock was dead silent, except for the distant creak of boats and the lapping of water against the pilings. I’d seen this place in daylight before—it wasn’t pretty then, but at night, it was like walking through a graveyard, except the ghosts here still had business to finish.

I walked deeper into the maze of shipping containers, my senses on high alert. You don’t survive long in places like this without learning to trust your gut, and mine was telling me I wasn’t alone. There was always something lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to pounce.

"You're getting paranoid, Stone," I muttered to myself, but the truth was, I’d learned long ago that paranoia was just another word for survival.

I kept moving, listening for anything that felt out of place. And then, I heard it—a faint scuffling sound, like someone trying real hard not to be noticed. I stopped dead in my tracks, hand resting on the gun inside my coat.

“Come out where I can see you,” I said, my voice low but firm. The sound stopped. For a second, there was nothing but the whisper of the wind. And then, a figure stepped out from behind a stack of crates.

It was a kid. Couldn’t have been more than sixteen, wearing a hoodie two sizes too big, his hands shoved deep into his pockets like he thought that made him invisible.

“What the hell are you doing here, kid?” I asked, not relaxing my grip on the gun.

“I—I was just looking for something,” he stammered, his eyes darting around like a rat looking for a way out.

“Yeah? What’re you looking for, exactly? Lost treasure? Or you just hoping to find your way into the bottom of the bay?”

He swallowed hard, trying to act tough, but the fear was written all over his face. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble, man. I’m just... I heard about that girl. The one who went missing.”

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I raised an eyebrow. "You heard about Rachel Torres, and you thought you'd come play hero on the docks?"

He shifted nervously, eyes still scanning the area like he expected someone to jump out and shank him at any moment. “I didn’t know it was her. Just heard some guys talking about a woman they... took. Said she was asking too many questions.”

"Where'd you hear this?"

"At the Wharf. I... I do odd jobs there."

The Wharf. Not exactly the Ritz, but it was where the rough-and-tumble types hung out. If this kid heard something there, it wasn't by accident. "You catch any names?"

He hesitated, eyes flicking toward the shadows behind me. "I heard ‘The Baron.’ The guys were scared shitless, man. Said she was digging too deep into his business."

The Baron. That name again. Everyone whispered it, but no one could say who or what he was. Like a bad rumor that stuck around long after the truth had been buried. I’d heard about him before, but this was the first time his name had crossed paths with mine.

“All right, kid. Get lost,” I said, stepping closer. “And stop playing detective before you get yourself killed.”

He nodded, eyes wide, and disappeared into the night, moving quicker than a scared rabbit. I watched him go, then turned back toward the containers.

The Baron. That name hung in the air like a bad smell. The kid was right—if Rachel had been poking around his business, she was in deeper trouble than I’d imagined. And now I was too.

I moved toward the end of the dock, where a massive freighter sat like a bloated corpse, its rusted hull rising out of the water. A few dim lights flickered on the ship, but it was quiet. Too quiet.

I approached the gangway, scanning the deck. Nothing moved. The ship was a ghost, just like everything else in this place. But there was something about it, something that pulled at my gut. If Rachel was onto something, it was on that ship.

I took a step forward, and that’s when I heard it—the unmistakable click of a hammer being pulled back.

“Don’t move,” a voice said behind me. It was deep, rough, the kind of voice that could only come from someone who'd seen too many years doing too many things they weren’t proud of.

I didn’t move. “You’re gonna need a bigger gun if you plan to scare me,” I said, turning my head just enough to catch a glimpse of my new friend. He was tall, built like a bulldozer, with a face that looked like it had lost one too many fights.

"You're Sam Stone," he said, not lowering the gun. “Should’ve known someone like you wouldn’t stay out of this.”

“Someone like me?” I asked, turning slowly to face him. “You mean someone who doesn’t take kindly to being followed?”

He didn’t answer, just stared at me with those dead, cold eyes. “You should’ve walked away when you had the chance. The Baron doesn’t like people sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong.”

There it was again. The Baron. I let the name hang in the air between us.

“And what does The Baron like?” I asked, taking a slow step forward.

“Dead men who don’t ask questions.”

I smiled. "Well, he and I might not get along, then."

Before he could react, I was on him. The gun went off, but it was too late—I’d already knocked it out of his hand. He swung at me, but I ducked, landing a punch to his gut that made him double over. He was big, but big didn’t mean much when you knew how to aim. I had him on the ground in seconds, gasping for air like a fish out of water.

I leaned down close. "Now, you’re gonna tell me everything you know about Rachel Torres. And if you don’t, well... let’s just say you’ll be a permanent part of Dock 13’s scenery."

His eyes darted around, looking for an escape that wasn’t there. "You don’t know what you’re getting into, man. You’re dead already."

I grinned. "Yeah, well, I’ve been dead for a while. Now talk."