Chapter 4 - The First Audit
The basement of the Hale logistics warehouse on the west side of Cleveland smelled of damp concrete, stale cigarette smoke, and nervous sweat.
It had been three days since I accepted Vincent’s offer, and my life had officially turned into a high-stakes espionage thriller written by someone on acid.
I sat at a heavy metal desk under the harsh glare of a swinging fluorescent bulb, surrounded by stacks of shipping manifests, invoices, customs declarations, and digital printouts. My laptop sat open in front of me, its screen illuminating my face in a pale, ghostly glow.
Standing a few feet away, leaning against a stack of wooden crates with his arms crossed, was Julian Hale.
He had spent the last two days glaring at me like I was a cockroach that had somehow crawled onto the dining room table. He didn't trust me, didn't want me here, and made no effort to hide it.
"You're wasting your time, college girl," Julian sneered, pushing off the crates and walking over to my desk. He slammed a hand down on the metal surface, making my coffee cup rattle. "Those manifests have been audited twice by my guys. There's nothing there. The feds just got lucky."
I didn't flinch. I slowly turned my head, looked down at his hand resting on my desk, and then raised my eyes to meet his furious glare.
"If your guys were so competent, Julian, why are federal agents currently sitting on three million dollars worth of smuggled electronics that were supposed to clear customs forty-eight hours ago?" I asked, my voice dropping into a dangerous, mock-sweet register. "Unless, of course, your guys didn't miss it. Unless someone *wanted* them to find it."
Julian’s face flushed a deep, ugly crimson. He leaned down, bringing his face inches from mine. "Watch your mouth, you little—"
*“Is there a problem here?”*
The low, velvet-smooth voice cut through the damp air of the basement like a razor blade.
Julian froze. His hand snapped off the desk as if he’d touched a hot stove.
Vincent stepped out from the shadows near the freight elevator. He wore a charcoal overcoat, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, his gray eyes fixed entirely on his younger brother.
"No problem, Vincent," Julian muttered, jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might crack. "Just telling the *auditor* that she's spinning her wheels."
Vincent walked slowly toward the desk, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the concrete floor. He stopped beside me, glancing down at my laptop screen, where a spreadsheet filled with glowing red and green numbers was displayed.
"Show me what you found, Emily," Vincent instructed softly, ignoring Julian entirely.
I clicked a button on my trackpad, pulling up a secondary window filled with highlighted data points.
"Look at the port entry codes for the last three shipments," I said, pointing a finger at the screen. "Shipment A, B, and C all cleared through Terminal 4. But on the night of the raid, the routing code was manually overwritten in the main terminal database at 11:42 PM."
Julian scoffed. "That happens all the time. Port traffic gets rerouted due to congestion."
"Not when the congestion code used doesn't exist," I retorted sharply, pulling up a digital cross-reference. "The code entered into the system—*R-99-B*—was decommissioned by the port authority six months ago. Anyone with half a brain in logistics knows that. But if you enter a dead code, the automated system flags an error, pauses the transfer for manual inspection, and alerts federal customs officers right to the loading dock."
The basement went dead silent.
Julian stared at the screen, his mouth slightly open, all the color draining from his face.
Vincent didn't look at the screen. He looked at me. His gray eyes were burning with a terrifying, razor-sharp intensity.
"Who had administrative access to the terminal database at 11:42 PM on Tuesday?" Vincent asked, his voice chillingly quiet.
I clicked one final folder, bringing up a secure system log file.
"Only two people have master override credentials for that specific terminal," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "You, Mr. Hale... and your head of port security, Marcus Vance."
Marcus wasn't in the room.
Julian staggered back a step, gripping the edge of a wooden crate for support. "Marcus? That's... that's impossible. Marcus has been with us for twelve years! He took a bullet for you in Chicago!"
Vincent didn't blink. His expression remained a mask of carved granite, though the muscle in his jaw ticked once. Twice.
He slowly turned his head to look at me.
"You found the rat in seventy-two hours," Vincent said, his voice dangerously low.
"I'm good with spreadsheets," I said, my heart pounding against my ribs as the gravity of what I had just uncovered settled over the room. "What are you going to do?"
Vincent reached out, his long fingers gently resting on my shoulder for a fraction of a second—a strange, uncharacteristic gesture of reassurance before the storm broke.
May you like
"Julian," Vincent said, not breaking eye contact with me. "Call Marcus. Tell him we need to meet him at the private dock in twenty minutes. Bring the heavy coats."
***
