Chapter 3
The tension reached a boiling point on a Tuesday night. Eli arrived at the depot to find his access badge deactivated. When he confronted the shift manager, he was met with cold silence and a security escort. As he walked out to his car, a group of men in dark suits blocked his path. They didn't look like employees; they looked like muscle.
"You've caused enough trouble, Brennan," the lead man said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Hand over the documentation you have regarding the smuggling logs, and maybe you can walk away from this industry with your reputation intact."
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Eli stood his ground, his heart hammering against his ribs. He didn't have the logs, but he knew exactly who did—Dana Whitfield had the copies, and she was waiting for his call. Before Eli could respond, a low, guttural roar erupted from the passenger seat of his truck. Wren burst out, a blur of fur and pure protective instinct. The dog didn't attack; he stood between Eli and the men, his stance low, his teeth bared in a warning that stopped the attackers in their tracks.
In the confusion, Eli dived into the driver’s seat, kicked the engine to life, and peeled out of the lot. A high-speed chase ensued through the rain-slicked city streets. Wren sat perfectly still, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror, letting out a sharp bark every time the black sedan gained ground. Eli knew he couldn't outrun them forever, so he steered toward the one place he knew would be safe: the local police station, where the lights were bright and the cameras were always rolling.
