Page 48 of Outside the Room
"Jesus Christ, Rivers!" He rushed forward, his voice tight with concern and barely controlled anger. Together, they managed to secure the second handcuff as their prisoner continued his futile struggles. "Are you hurt? What the hell happened?"
She nodded, though her throat felt like she'd been gargling broken glass, and her skull still rang like a struck tuning fork. "Ambush. He was waiting for me, knew exactly where I'd be."
Together, they hauled the man into a sitting position against the container wall. Blood streamed from his ruined nose in dark rivulets, and his eyes held the glassy look of someone still processing the transition from hunter to prey. But beneath the physical damage, Isla could see something more dangerous—fear that he was working hard to control, the kind of terror that came from knowing exactly what happened to people who failed their employers.
"Who sent you?" she demanded, crouching in front of him despite the symphony of aches that her body was composing. Her knees throbbed where they'd impacted the steel floor, but adrenaline still provided enough anesthesia to function.
The man stared at her with the silence of carved stone, his jaw set in the stubborn defiance of someone who understood that some conversations were more dangerous than broken bones. He appeared younger than her initial assessment had suggested—mid-thirties, clean-shaven beneath the mask of blood, with the lean muscle definition of someone who maintained professional fighting condition.
His clothing told its own story—dark and practical garments designed for movement rather than warmth, the kind of outfit worn by people who worked at night and needed to disappear quickly when necessary.
Isla leaned closer, lowering her voice to the intimate register of shared secrets. "Look, we know about Nash. I saw the money change hands and watched the whole transaction. You're already burned—might as well start talking and see if cooperation can improve your situation."
Something flickered behind his eyes at Nash's name—recognition, perhaps concern, but definitely acknowledgment that she possessed more information than he'd anticipated.
"This isn't going to just disappear," Sullivan added, holstering his weapon now that immediate violence was no longer imminent. "We've got you for assault on a federal agent, probably attempted murder. That's serious federal time, even with the best cooperation and the most sympathetic judge."
The man finally spoke, his voice thick with blood and bitter with the taste of failure. "You don't understand how any of this actually works."
"Then explain it to us," Isla said with the patience of someone who had interrogated hundreds of reluctant suspects. "Help us understand."
His laughter echoed strangely in the confined space, carrying notes of hysteria and despair that suggested his situation was far worse than simple arrest. "It's O'Connor. Always was O'Connor. Nash... Nash just follows orders like the rest of us poor bastards."
Isla felt something cold and familiar settle in her stomach—not surprise, but the vindication she'd been seeking mixed with the dread of being proven right about something terrible. The convenient alibi, Thorne's perfectly timed suicide note, the too-neat resolution that had satisfied everyone except her instincts—it had all been elaborate theater designed to misdirect their investigation.
"You're absolutely certain about that?" she pressed, studying his face for any sign of deception or misdirection. "You're not just protecting Nash to secure a bigger payday down the road?"
"No," he said with the flat certainty of someone stating obvious facts. "Nash answers to O'Connor. We all do—Thorne, half the customs department, some of the union representatives, even a few of the Coast Guard liaisons. Everything that mattered ran through O'Connor's office."
"So, what changed?" Sullivan asked, his voice tight with the implications of what they were learning. "Why start killing people who had been useful?"
"He got paranoid when you two started getting too close to the truth. Started cleaning the house, eliminating anyone who might talk if the pressure got too intense." The man shrugged as much as the handcuffs would permit. "Thorne panicked after Whitman and Pearce died. Tried to blow the whole operation open, threatened to take everything he knew straight to the federal prosecutors."
"So, O'Connor had him killed and staged it as suicide," Isla said, watching the final pieces of the puzzle click into their proper positions.
"Had to. Thorne kept records that O'Connor couldn't risk getting out—names, dates, financial transactions, shipping manifests. Real evidence that could have brought down the entire network." The man looked directly at her with eyes that held no hope for his own future. "You were supposed to be next on the list. Clean up the last loose end before she could cause any more problems."
Heavy silence filled the container like toxic gas. Outside, the wind howled across the docks with the voice of approaching weather, carrying promises of more snow and the realization that their investigation was far from over. O'Connor sat in his holding cell, probably confident that his carefully constructed narrative would withstand scrutiny. Thorne was dead, his convenient confession accepted without serious question. The case was officially closed, the political pressure relieved, the port operations returning to normal.
But now they possessed a witness—someone who could systematically dismantle the elaborate fiction O'Connor had constructed around himself and his criminal enterprise.
"We need to get back to the station immediately," Sullivan said, helping Isla to her feet with gentle hands that belied the urgency in his voice. "Get this guy processed and his statement recorded before anyone realizes we have him."
Isla nodded, but her mind was already racing through the implications and complications ahead. O'Connor had played them all with masterful skill, presenting himself as the grieving administrator while orchestrating a complex criminal operation from behind his government desk. Even now, sitting in federal custody, he probably believed he'd successfully defeated their investigation.
He was about to discover how wrong that assumption had been.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
The Duluth police precinct existed in that gray liminal space between night and morning, fluorescent lights humming their sterile song over empty corridors and abandoned coffee cups. Isla arrived with shadows beneath her eyes and caffeine coursing through her veins, her mind still processing the violence of the previous night—the ambush in the container yard, Nash's operative bleeding out his confession, the terrible clarity that had finally emerged from weeks of misdirection.
Interview Room B smelled of industrial disinfectant and fear. Raymond O'Connor sat with his spine rigid against the metal chair, his navy suit pressed despite everything, as if maintaining appearances could somehow preserve what remained of his dignity. The sight of him—composed, calculating even now—sent a familiar anger threading through Isla's chest.
Margaret Hartwell occupied the seat beside him like a fortress in Armani. She'd materialized within an hour of O'Connor's arrest, briefcase in hand and terms already prepared. Her silver hair was styled to perfection despite the early hour, and her gaze held the sharp assessment of someone who turned legal disasters into manageable settlements for a living.
"My client is prepared to discuss his involvement in certain activities," Hartwell had announced before they'd even settled into their chairs, her voice carrying the crisp authority of someone accustomed to controlling conversations. "However, any implication of conspiracy beyond what he directly participated in must be addressed through formal plea negotiations."
Isla had agreed without hesitation. She didn't want legal maneuvering—she wanted truth. After days of chasing shadows and following false leads, she needed to hear from O'Connor's own mouth what had happened to Marcus Whitman and Diana Pearce.
