The Deceived

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hung over the dock like it had been there forever. Even inside the small warehouse, the foulness overpowered everything. That was until the man in the light gray coveralls opened the door of the shipping container. Suddenly death was all Jonathan Quinn could smell.

Unflinching, he scanned the interior of the container. With the exception of a bloated body crumpled against the wall to the right, it was empty.

“Shut the door,” Quinn said.

“But Mr. Albina wanted you to see what was—”

“I’ve seen it. Shut the door.”

The man—he’d said his name was Stafford—swung the door shut, locking the handle into place.

“Why is this still here?” Quinn asked.

Stafford took a few steps toward Quinn, then stopped. “Look, I got a dock to run, okay? I got a ship out there that’s only half unloaded.” He sucked in a tense, nervous breath. “I got customs people all over the place, you know? It’s like they knew something like this was coming in today.”

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