Chapter 3 - Locker 317
By sunrise, Nick had made three decisions.
Rachel was not going home.
They were not calling the police.
And whatever Daniel Adams had hidden eight years earlier needed to be found before Salvatore DeLuca found it first.
Rachel disagreed with all three.
“You don’t get to rearrange my life.”
“Someone tried to shoot you.”
“Technically, they tried to shoot you.”
“They weren’t aiming carefully.”
She glared at him over the rim of a chipped coffee mug.
Nick had found an old sweatshirt for her. It hung loosely over her diner uniform.
“What station?”
“No.”
“Rachel.”
“No.”
“You want to wait until Sal remembers the locker number?”
“He already knows there’s something.”
“Exactly.”
She paced.
“My father made me promise never to open it.”
“He also told you to run if someone asked.”
“I’m trying. You keep standing in front of doors.”
Nick stared at her.
Despite everything, a reluctant smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
Rachel caught it.
“Did you just smile?”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I didn't.”
“That’s disturbing.”
The smile vanished.
“Which station?”
She sighed.
“Grand Central.”
Locker 317 no longer existed.
At least, not where Rachel remembered it.
Renovations had changed the concourse years earlier, and the old private storage service had relocated.
Rachel stood beneath the vaulted ceiling feeling foolish.
“My father brought me here once.”
Nick remained beside her, dressed differently now—navy coat, baseball cap, glasses.
Rachel looked at him.
“You look like a divorced accountant.”
“Good.”
“An accountant who kills people.”
“Lower your voice.”
They found the storage company’s current office on East 42nd Street.
The elderly clerk behind the counter inspected Rachel’s key.
“This isn't ours anymore.”
Rachel’s heart sank.
“But,” he continued, “old MetroSafe boxes were transferred when the company closed. Some unclaimed units went into long-term storage in Long Island City.”
Nick leaned forward.
“Address?”
The clerk looked suspicious.
Rachel smiled.
“My father died. We're trying to recover some personal things.”
Something softened in the man’s face.
He wrote an address.
Forty minutes later, they stood inside a warehouse surrounded by metal cages and decades of forgotten belongings.
The manager found box 317.
Rachel inserted the key.
Her hand trembled.
Nick noticed.
“You don't have to.”
She looked at him.
“That’s the first sensible thing you've said.”
Then she opened it.
Inside sat a brown evidence envelope.
A photograph.
A small digital recorder.
And an old brass Saint Christopher medal.
Rachel touched the medal first.
“My mother gave him this.”
Nick said nothing.
She picked up the photograph.
Four men stood outside a warehouse near the Brooklyn waterfront.
One was Salvatore DeLuca.
Another was Rachel’s father.
The third was an unknown man.
The fourth made Nick’s stomach turn cold.
Victor Santoro.
Nick’s uncle.
The man who had helped raise him after Nick’s father died.
Rachel saw his reaction.
“You know him.”
Nick took the photograph.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“My uncle.”
Rachel went silent.
Nick opened the envelope.
Inside were photocopied shipping manifests, bank transfers, container numbers and handwritten notes.
Nick recognized the routes.
His routes.
Except the dates went back eight years, long before he had taken control.
Someone had been moving illegal weapons through Santoro-controlled docks and blaming rival organizations whenever shipments disappeared.
Nick turned pages.
Then he found a name.
Daniel Adams had circled it three times.
VICTOR SANTORO.
Underneath:
DELUCA IS THE DISTRIBUTOR. V.S. IS THE SOURCE.
Rachel read over Nick’s shoulder.
“Your uncle?”
Nick’s jaw flexed.
“He told me Sal killed my father.”
Rachel looked at him.
“Maybe he lied.”
Nick didn't answer.
The recorder was old but still powered on after replacing its batteries at a nearby convenience store.
Rachel pressed play.
Static filled the warehouse.
Then her father's voice.
Rachel stopped breathing.
“If you're hearing this, something went wrong.”
Her hand flew to her mouth.
Nick watched her, not the recorder.
Daniel continued.
“Rachel, if it's you, I'm sorry. You were never supposed to inherit this.”
Tears filled her eyes.
She looked furious about them.
“I've spent fourteen months investigating a smuggling network operating through Brooklyn and Queens. DeLuca is involved, but he isn't running it. Victor Santoro is.”
Nick’s face became stone.
“He’s using his own family’s shipping operation without their knowledge. Weapons, stolen pharmaceuticals, cash. Anyone who gets close is bought, threatened, or removed.”
A pause.
Then:
“I made the mistake of trusting someone inside the department.”
Rachel closed her eyes.
“I don't know who. So if anything happens to me, don't take this to the precinct.”
Nick and Rachel exchanged a look.
The recording continued.
“The evidence in this locker isn't enough. The complete ledger is somewhere else. I split the proof because I knew they might find one piece.”
Daniel coughed.
“The location is hidden in the photograph. Rachel will understand.”
The recording ended.
Rachel stared at the photograph.
“I don't understand.”
Nick took it.
The warehouse behind the four men had a faded sign.
MORGAN COLD STORAGE.
Rachel suddenly grabbed his wrist.
“My father used to take me fishing near there.”
“Where?”
“Red Hook.”
Nick’s phone vibrated.
Only three people had the number.
He checked it.
A message from his oldest friend and consigliere, Anthony Russo.
WHERE ARE YOU? VICTOR IS CALLING EVERYONE IN. HE SAYS SAL HAS DECLARED WAR.
Nick read it twice.
Then another message arrived.
Mickey was found unconscious behind Mel’s Diner.
A third followed.
Victor knows you were there.
Nick looked at Rachel.
“We need to go.”
They barely reached the warehouse exit before Nick noticed two black SUVs entering the lot.
Rachel saw them.
“Friends?”
“No.”
They ran.
Nick pushed her behind a delivery van as men emerged from both vehicles.
“Stay with me.”
“Trust me, I’ve officially abandoned my plan to catch the train.”
Nick pulled her through a side gate.
They crossed a service road, ducked through a construction site and emerged beneath the elevated tracks.
Rachel was breathless.
Nick wasn't.
“You do this often?”
“More than I’d like.”
“That isn't reassuring.”
They reached his car.
Nick unlocked it.
Rachel stopped.
A folded piece of paper sat beneath the windshield wiper.
Nick removed it.
There were only four words.
SHE DIES IF YOU DIG.
Rachel read over his shoulder.
Her humor disappeared.
Nick crushed the paper.
“Now you understand.”
Rachel looked at him.
“No.”
“No?”
“I understand they’re scared.”
Nick studied her.
Rachel's eyes were wet, but her voice was steady.
“My father spent eight years dead because someone thought fear would keep the truth buried.”
She took the photograph from Nick.
“So we're going to Red Hook.”
For the first time in years, Nick Santoro looked at someone and saw the same dangerous quality he recognized in himself.
Not fearlessness.
May you like
Something much worse.
A person who was afraid—and had decided to keep going anyway.
