Chapter 49
Emily Windsor's POV
The black sedan didn't vanish into the far end of the docks until Andy finally stepped forward, his report delivered in a hushed murmur.
"Mr. Reed, this dock line has always been Oscar's territory."
Oscar—the name rang a bell. Luke had mentioned him before, one of the old guard in the Victor family's conservative faction.
"A few hours ago, our men noticed Oscar's crew running an unusually sloppy inspection on this shipment. They were practically waving it through without a second glance." Andy spoke quickly but methodically. "We suspected something was off and demanded they reopen the containers for a proper check. They blocked us aggressively, which sparked the confrontation. That Nordic Shipping Company supervisor? Just a pawn they shoved out to muddy the waters."
Luke's gaze shifted to a specially marked container in the near distance, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Where's Oscar?"
"Our people traced a sizeable overseas deposit to his account recently. Source unknown. The second the conflict broke out, he went into hiding."
I understood immediately. Nordic Shipping Company was a smokescreen Oscar had thrown up to buy time. The man himself had fled—classic guilty conscience.
"Find him," Luke said, his voice as cold as the wind cutting across the docks. Not a single ripple of emotion.
"Yes, sir." Andy nodded crisply and barked orders into his comm device.
Luke turned to me, handing over a cargo manifest. "Take a look at this."
I scanned the document. The listed items were high-end medical equipment from Germany.
But when my eyes landed on the name of the shipping company, I froze.
I'd seen this company before—while researching those murky contracts tied to the Victor family's conservative wing. On the surface, it was a legitimate trading firm. Dig a little deeper, though, and you'd find nothing but a shell corporation registered in a tax haven, devoid of any real business operations.
"The shipper's suspect," I said quietly, tapping the name. "And the delivery address is vague—just a transit warehouse in New York State, no specific recipient or company listed. That doesn't match standard protocol for high-value bulk goods."
The moment I finished speaking, several bodyguards dragged over a portly, sweating middle-aged man.
His ill-fitting suit clung awkwardly to his frame, his face twisted in panic. The instant his eyes landed on Luke, his legs nearly gave out.
"Mr. Reed… What are you doing here?" It was Oscar, stripped of any dignity, reduced to pure, trembling fear. "This is just… just a little misunderstanding… Why would it need to trouble you…?"
Luke didn't even spare him a glance. He simply tilted his chin toward the container.
"Open it."
Oscar's face twitched violently. He opened his mouth as if to protest, but one look at Luke's glacial stare silenced him completely. His trembling intensified.
The heavy container doors groaned open, metal scraping against metal in a piercing shriek.
The second the seal broke, a wave of stench hit us—sweat, filth, and something unspeakable that made my stomach lurch violently.
There was no cold, sterile medical equipment inside.
Dozens of living, breathing people were crammed into that airless metal box like cargo. Most wore tattered clothes, their faces smeared with grime, their expressions hollow. A few had already collapsed, unconscious.
My blood turned to ice.
The drugged laborers at Kingsley Chemical Plant. The desperate faces of Preston District residents. Every horrifying image I'd buried deep came roaring back, exploding in my mind.
I thought I'd seen the depths of human depravity. I was wrong.
This wasn't some gray area. This was a human trafficking crime scene.
And the Victor family, or at least part of it, was implicated.
A cold, searing rage ignited at the base of my spine, shooting straight to the top of my skull, incinerating every last shred of discomfort and fear.
I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms, the pain the only thing keeping me outwardly composed.
"What… what is this?!" Oscar let out a shrill, theatrical shriek, collapsing backward onto the ground, his face a mask of disbelief and terror. "No! That's impossible! They told me… they told me it was smuggled luxury goods… I didn't know anything!"
He scrambled backward on his hands and knees, desperate to put distance between himself and that container—that gaping mouth of hell. His face contorted with fear, and for a moment, he almost looked convincing.
I watched his pathetic performance with cold detachment.
Maybe he truly didn't know there were people inside. That didn't make him innocent.
For that mysterious payoff, he'd willingly turned a blind eye, opening the gates wide for this atrocity.
He wasn't the mastermind. But he was the most critical accomplice.
Luke's expression had darkened to something approaching lethal, the oppressive aura radiating from him thick enough to suffocate.
He turned his head and looked at me—really looked at me.
Then he took my hand, his grip firm and grounding, as if silently channeling strength.
He pulled me forward, step by step, toward that reeking container.
My heels clicked sharply against the rough concrete, each sound like a drumbeat against the hearts of those responsible.
I didn't pull away.
Luke was showing me, through action, that this was his battlefield.
And if I'd chosen to be his weapon, I had to face the ugliest, bloodiest parts of it head-on.
He led me to the container's entrance. The imprisoned victims shrank back in terror, the stench intensifying with their movement.
Luke's gaze swept over those numb, hollow faces before settling back on me.
"Emily," he said, his voice low and steady. "What do you want to do?"
I tore my eyes away from those empty, despairing stares and met his.
That devastatingly handsome face was carved from stone under the dock's harsh floodlights, cold and emotionless as a statue.
What did I want to do?
"Get them help," I said, my voice cutting through the howling sea wind, steady despite the tremor I couldn't quite suppress. "Lock down the scene. Preserve all evidence. Then call the authorities."
I said call the authorities, not take justice into our own hands.
This was my line in the sand. My faith as a lawyer.
I needed to know where Luke's line was.
Luke studied me for a long moment, then gave an almost imperceptible nod.
As if my answer was exactly what he'd expected.
"Andy," he said evenly. "Contact our inside man at the Federal Maritime Bureau. Lock down Berths Three through Seven under 'counterterrorism protocols.' I want copies of all surveillance footage and entry logs, encrypted. And get an emergency medical team from St. John's Hospital over here. Bring psychiatric specialists. Fastest route possible."