"Marcus?" Elias called out, his voice barely louder than a whisper, swallowed by the crashing of the waves against the rocks below.
Marcus stepped forward into a thin shaft of moonlight. He looked terrible. His coat was torn, a dark smear of what could only be blood staining his left side, and his eyes were wild with a brand of fear Elias had never seen in him. He was clutching a small, metallic briefcase to his chest like a shield.
He stepped out of the truck, the air thick with the smell of salt, rotting wood, and wet earth. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket but did not turn it on. He moved by muscle memory toward the old pier.
"What about you?" Elias gripped the cold handle of the case.
Drainage Swansea