Page 34 of Outside the Room
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sarah Sanchez pulled her woolen hat lower over her ears as she stepped out into the biting cold of the Duluth port. The temperature had plummeted after sunset, and the wind sweeping across Lake Superior cut through her security uniform despite the thermal layers beneath. Three years working port security, and she still wasn't fully acclimated to Minnesota winters.
She adjusted her utility belt, making sure her flashlight, radio, and sidearm were all secure before beginning her patrol of the eastern container yard. The weight of her Glock 19 was reassuring against her hip, especially with a killer still at large. Management had doubled security patrols after Pearce's body was found, but Sarah had volunteered for solo rounds anyway. She wasn't afraid—if anything, a small part of her hoped to encounter the suspect and end this nightmare.
After all, few killers would expect to face someone with her background. Before moving to Duluth for a steadier paycheck and benefits, Sarah had been "Knockout Sanchez," with fourteen regional boxing titles to her name and a left hook that had sent more than one opponent to the hospital. The training was still with her in the way she moved and in the reflexes that remained razor-sharp despite three years away from the ring. Her younger brother Miguel still teased her about abandoning the ring for the "excitement" of port security, but the steady income meant she could finally help their mother with medical bills—and maybe save enough for that house on the hill she'd been eyeing for months.
Her radio crackled with static as she checked in at the first security point. "Eastern yard patrol beginning, Sanchez reporting. All clear at checkpoint one."
"Roger that, Sanchez," came the response from the central security office. "Stay alert out there."
"Always am," she replied, clipping the radio back to her belt.
The container yard was eerily quiet, the usual bustle of activity silenced by the FBI's temporary shutdown. Massive stacks of shipping containers created a labyrinth of narrow corridors, their metal surfaces gleaming under the harsh security lights. In the distance, she could make out the silhouettes of several vessels forced to wait at anchor, their lights winking like distant stars through the night fog rolling in off the lake.
Sarah moved methodically through her patrol route, her boots crunching on the frozen ground. The air carried the sharp metallic scent of steel containers and diesel fuel, mixed with the clean, cold smell of snow and the distant aroma of coffee from the night shift break room. Every few minutes, she'd pause, listening intently for any sound that didn't belong. The port had its own nocturnal soundtrack—creaking metal as cooling containers contracted, the distant hum of generators, the occasional cry of a night bird—and Sarah had learned to distinguish between normal sounds and those that warranted investigation.
As she approached the administration building, she noticed a light still burning in Raymond O'Connor's office. The poor man hadn't left the port since learning about Diana Pearce's murder. Sarah decided to check on him, partly out of concern and partly because the warm building offered a brief respite from the cold.
She stamped snow from her boots in the entryway and made her way upstairs. O'Connor's door was ajar, and she could see him hunched over his desk, surrounded by stacks of papers.
"Mr. O'Connor?" she called softly, knocking on the doorframe. "Everything okay in here?"
He startled, papers scattering as his head jerked up. When he recognized her, his shoulders sagged with visible relief.
"Sanchez. Thank God it's you." His voice was hoarse with exhaustion. "Just... just reviewing security protocols. Can't be too careful now."
Sarah stepped into the office, noting the coffee cups littering the desk and the disheveled appearance of the normally fastidious port director. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his tie hung loose around his neck. She also noticed his jacket draped over the chair was damp around the shoulders as if he'd been outside recently despite claiming to have been working at his desk all evening.
"You should get some rest, sir," she suggested, though she knew it was futile. "You've been here since yesterday morning."
O'Connor rubbed his face with both hands. "How can I rest? Two of my people, Sanchez. Two good people murdered under my watch."
"The FBI is handling it," she reminded him, though privately, she wondered if the agents truly understood the workings of Duluth's port.
"I know, I know." He gestured at the papers before him. "I'm implementing new security protocols for all port employees. Badge access is being restricted to essential areas only."
Sarah nodded approvingly. "Smart precautions."
"Not smart enough to save Marcus or Diana," he muttered, then looked up at her with sudden concern. "You're patrolling alone. Is that wise, given what's happened?"
Sarah smiled slightly, rolling her shoulders in a practiced motion that spoke of countless hours in the boxing gym. "I can handle myself, sir. Fourteen regional titles, remember? They didn't call me 'Knockout Sanchez' for nothing."
She demonstrated a quick shadow boxing combination that ended with her signature left hook, the movement fluid and powerful even in her bulky winter uniform. The familiar motion centered her, as it always did when nerves threatened.
O'Connor's expression softened slightly. "I remember the newspaper article they ran when you were hired. 'From Boxing Ring to Security Ring' or something equally corny."
"'Prizefighter Trades Ring for Port Security,'" Sarah corrected with a small laugh. "Not much better."
"Still," O'Connor insisted, "be careful out there. Our killer has struck twice already, and both victims were caught off guard."
"I won't be caught off guard," Sarah assured him, patting her sidearm. "And unlike Whitman and Pearce, I'm armed."
Something flickered across O'Connor's face—concern, perhaps, or fear—before he nodded. "Radio check-ins every twenty minutes, understood? And if you see anything suspicious, anything at all, you call for backup before investigating."
"Always do, sir." She moved toward the door, eager to continue her patrol. "You should think about heading home soon. Even FBI agents sleep sometimes."
"Soon," he promised unconvincingly. "Once I finish these protocols."
