Chapter 28 Ridge
TWENTY-EIGHT
Ridge
The conference room overlooks the river, with glass walls running floor to ceiling. Barges move below us in slow procession, steel on water, schedules stacked on schedules.
From up here, everything looks orderly and predictable. That illusion is what I ensure. Our contracts are part of what keeps these ports running on time.
Vin sits to my left, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He hasn’t said a word since we sat down. He doesn’t need to. His presence reinforces what the board and the clients already know. Stone Intermodal didn’t fracture when my father died. It adjusted.
Across the table, two federal agents review a set of manifests projected onto the screen. Customs and Border Protection insignia on one badge. DEA on the other. No weapons on the table. No raised voices. This isn’t a raid. It’s an autopsy.
“The container came in under Gulf Meridian Imports,” the CBP agent says, tapping the screen. “U.S.-registered out of Baton Rouge is the importer of record. On paper, it’s a routine electronics shipment coming in from Shenzhen. Low-risk classification.”
Vin’s gaze stays on the river. Mine stays on the numbers.
“Stone Intermodal was slated to handle the port-side logistics,” the agent continues. “Once the container cleared customs, it would’ve moved inland under your contracts.”
“That’s right,” I say.
By the time I got Wells's intel and found out what was inside the container, it was already days from shore. Stopping it at sea would’ve set off alarms I couldn’t control.
Ports are different. They run on paperwork, timing, and patience. Those are the things I can manage.
“Walk us through why Stone Intermodal flagged the container,” the DEA agent says. “It had already cleared initial screening.”
“It cleared on paperwork,” I say. “Not on weight.”
The CBP agent looks up from his tablet. “Be specific.”
“The bill of lading listed electronic components,” I say. “Server parts. Circuit assemblies. That category has a tight weight range per pallet. This container came in several thousand pounds over what it should’ve been for the declared volume.”
“How far over?” the agent asks.
“Enough to notice,” I reply. “Not enough to trigger an automatic stop by itself. But enough that it didn’t make sense if the cargo was what the paperwork claimed.”
The CBP agent nods slightly. “Electronics don’t gain weight.”
“No,” I agree. “They’re consistent. When an electronics container shows up heavy, it usually means one of two things. Either the shipment was misdeclared, or it’s carrying something the paperwork doesn’t account for.”
The DEA agent leans back slightly. “And that justified escalation?”
“It justified a closer look,” I say. “Especially given how fast it moved through origin and transfer ports. High-priority clearance with a declared electronics load moving that fast is a known concealment pattern.”
“So you routed it into secondary inspection,” he says.
“That's right,” I reply. “I flagged it internally and pushed it to Homeland Security for a full physical inspection. At that point, it was out of my hands.”
Which is true. I didn’t intercept it. I didn’t touch it. I didn’t move it myself. I made sure it landed in front of people who would open it.
“You audit every shipment,” the CBP agent says.
“We monitor patterns of everything that comes in and out of this port,” I correct. “So I guess you could call that an audit. And in that sense, yes, we do.”
I don’t elaborate. I don’t need to.
The DEA agent flips to a new page in his folder.
“Let’s talk about Gulf Meridian,” he says.
I don’t move. “What about them?”
“They’re the importer of record on the container,” he says.
“We know they’re not a major logistics player, a relatively smaller operation compared to other importer/exporters you work with.
They are out of Baton Rouge, it says here.
They import electronics out of Southeast Asia.
Nothing that would normally draw our attention. ”
“That tracks,” I say. “We’ve done limited business with them over the years. They weren’t moving significant volume through us, but we did consistently process a few a quarter.”
“Who runs it?” the agent asks.
I already know where this is going. And they already know the answer. They're testing me. That doesn’t stop the muscle in my jaw from tightening anyway.
“Alton Duvall,” I say. “Family operation, as far as I know.”
The CBP agent glances up. “You ever deal with him directly?”
I think of his blood on my hands. The sound he made when he realized I wasn’t bluffing, and the knife going across his throat just like he ordered for my father.
“No,” I say. “Not personally.”
The DEA agent watches my face. “To your knowledge, was this their first attempt at moving narcotics through the port?”
I keep my tone even and professional. “I can’t say for certain. What I can say is that previous shipments cleared on weight and registration. If this had been happening regularly, it would’ve shown up sooner.”
“And if you’d known?” he asks.
“It wouldn’t have gotten this far,” I say. “Our compliance thresholds would have caught it long before it reached port.”
The room stays quiet for a beat.
“Duvall and his son disappeared,” the DEA agent says. “About two weeks before we boarded the container.”
I give a slow nod. “That’s usually what happens when people realize they’re about to lose control of a situation. If I had to guess, they were over-leveraged with an upstream supplier. When that cargo wasn't landing, they were probably in a world of shit.”
“You think they ran?”
“I think men like that don’t wait around to see how bad it gets,” I say. “And if they didn’t run, then they crossed someone who doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”
The agent studies me. “Either way, you’re saying you haven't done anything with Gulf Meridian since this?”
“I’m saying they’re no longer in a position to do business with anyone,” I reply. “Ports have long memories.”
I sit across from Indigo Blue with the engine idling, the windows cracked just enough to let the river air creep in. The club looks the same. Dark glass, a closed door, artsy people coming and going.
This is where it started going wrong. I have no business being here, but something about seeing it helps to ground me and remind me why she's so much better off without me.
I,m just passing through, took a wrong turn. But none of it sticks. I know I purposefully take the long way around just to be able to be here. In a weird way, it connects us.
I watch the door like I did that night, like I’m waiting for something to happen.
A sharp knock slams against the passenger-side window and scares the shit out of me.
My body locks on instinct, pulse slamming hard. I turn fast enough that the motion pulls something in my shoulder.
Delphine stands there, one eyebrow lifted, palm still resting against the glass.
“Jesus,” I mutter, then catch myself, and bring my hand back. I roll the window down halfway. “You trying to get shot?”
She leans closer, unfazed. “You always jump like that, or am I special?”
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
She tilts her head, eyes flicking toward the club, then back to me. “Heading in to meet some friends. Question is, what are you doing here?”
“I’m just driving by.”
She lets that sit. Then she snorts. “You’re parked, Ridge. Come on. Really?”
I don’t answer.
She looks at me for another second, then nods toward the door handle. “Can I get in for a minute? Something I want to talk to you about.”
“No.”
She doesn’t move or argue, but I can tell she's not leaving. What the fuck. Reaching over to the door panel, the click-click answers for me.
She opens the door like she always knew I would give in and slides into the seat, bringing the faint smell of perfume and night air with her. She shuts the door and turns to face me, pulling one leg up and into her lap.
This girl has some balls.
“You shouldn’t sit out here like this,” she says. “People notice.”
“I don’t care what people notice.”
“I know,” she replies. “That’s kind of the problem.”
Silence stretches not uncomfortably, but it's obvious.
“You know I know you're the one who set up the 'scholarship,' right? I wasn't born yesterday,” she says.
I keep my eyes on the windshield. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She smiles a little, unamused. “You don’t have to deny it. I’m not here to expose you. I actually want to give you props.”
“I told you I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“She didn’t apply,” Delphine says calmly. “She asked questions months ago, and that’s it. Then, out of nowhere, they called her with a full ride, including housing, with no strings. Oh, and it just happens to coincide with your breakup.”
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and say nothing. I just want her to say her sanctimonious piece and get out of my car.
“She’s safe,” she adds. “And she’s happy in that quiet way that fulfills her in ways she never could have done on her own.”
My jaw locks.
“You did the right thing,” Delphine says. “You didn’t try to keep her. You didn’t make it about you.”
I finally look at her. “You done?”
She meets my gaze without blinking. “Almost.”
She shifts in her seat, turning toward me fully now. “I know what people assume about you. About your business, about your reach. But I also know this. A man who loves someone lets her go when staying would put her in danger.”
The word lands. Love.
I don’t react or correct her. But I sure as hell don’t give her anything she can use.
“That’s real,” she finishes. “Whether you ever claim it or not.”
I reach for the ignition and cut the engine. The sudden quiet presses in around us.
“She didn’t need saving,” I say.
“No,” Delphine agrees. “She needed space to come into her own.”
She opens the door, then pauses. “Thank you,” she says. Not for the money. Not even for the program. For releasing her. You've done more for her than anyone in her life ever has, whether you know it or not. As her friend, I thank you."