Huge stacks of colored shipping containers lined the shipping lanes like giant toy blocks.

Julian parked the car near a two-story brick office building that overlooked the water.

The sign on the brick facade was old and faded, reading *Mercer Logistics*.

“This was my father’s first real acquisition,” Julian said, staring up at the building.

“He ran his numbers out of the basement here.”

“The legitimate cargo was always just a cover for what was happening below deck.”

We got out of the car, the freezing wind from Lake Michigan hitting us immediately.

The air smelled of diesel exhaust, rust, and salt.

We walked up the concrete steps and into the building.

The lobby was small and smelled of stale coffee and damp paper.

An elderly clerk behind a glass partition looked up, his eyes widening slightly when he saw Julian.

“Mr. Mercer,” the man said, standing up quickly. “We didn’t expect you today.”

“This is Claire Dawson,” Julian said, ignoring the man’s surprise.

“She is my new partner.”

“From now on, all operational reports go to her first.”