Stories of Tie Up Games

The glow of a neon beer sign bathed half of Keith’s face as he gulped down the last bit of bourbon in his glass, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat. He took a breath and answered his phone.

"Hey, Rebecca…"

"Oh good, it’s the third try now, not the fifth."
"Ha-ha-haha-ha-ha… you know—"

"Look, I don’t care about whatever pre-rehearsed bullshit spiel you may have concocted to try and sucker me into giving you another week away from the office. Do you know what I do care about?"

"Can I have three guesses?"

"Don’t push it. I care that my only sports columnist has been MIA for the last two weeks chasing a half-cocked lead about some super-secret smuggling operation going down at the docks that a drunk stevedore told you about at a bar! I care that you still haven't posted anything about that huge Luke Donkeych trade or whatever that went down yesterday."

"It’s actually Luka Dončić… And it’s not just smuggling. He was saying all sorts of—"

"I also don’t care how you pronounce his name! I care that we’re bleeding traffic because my sports guy is off playing detective."

"Look, I only took over sports for Melinda while she’s on maternity leave. I’m not used to writing columns for sports, especially one this crazy and this quickly!"

"Well, you’re also a straight guy under the age of 30. That, plus the fact that you know his name and that the trade is crazy, makes you more qualified than I am. Get sobered up tomorrow and get your ass to the—"

"Yes, ma’am, you are the boss…"

"Damn right I am. This is done. Don’t worry, you’ll land your big story soon enough, Hunter S. Problem-son."

The sarcastic bite in her voice still lingered in his mind as he waved the bartender over, signaling for another round. He’d been at this for four weeks straight, each week with less to show for it than the last. Drunken stories at bars, online forums and threads, on-site surveillance (cleverly stated on the expense report when he really just stayed wasted a night of sleep cracked up on Red Bull staking out a parking lot) had led to nothing.
Sure, the drunken tale from the longshoreman down at Patrick’s did line up with some of the unhinged ramblings of the people messaging him online. Both had varying degrees of severity but shared the (unsubstantiated) rumors of an illegal smuggling operation at the harbor.
Smuggling what? Depending on who you asked, it could be drugs. Could be guns. Could be human cargo. Could be a stash of counterfeit Princess Diana bears.

The lack of any kind of continuity between the accounts had led him to stake out one of the lots. All that came out of that was the stiff neck he now rubbed with both hands as he laid his forehead on the bar. Lifting up, he grabbed the glass and slammed the second shot. She was right—he needed to sober up. A night at the hotel sounded much better than a second consecutive night spent crammed into his single cab pickup.

Pulling his gray trench coat off the rack, he slipped it on before heading into the foggy night. As he reached to put his phone in his pocket, he felt his fingers brush up against something smooth, with a point poking his finger as he felt it. He pulled out a card, no bigger than a business card. He flipped it, inspecting each side. Plain white, with no real branding or markings, it had two identical sides, save for one part. Both sides had a small QR code in the center, and above each was a single number: 1 and 2.

He turned to the bartender.

"Hey, did anyone happen to sit by my jacket when I ran to the bathroom tonight?"

The bartender frowned, leaning on the bar.
"Look, you’ve been here at least three nights a week for the past two weeks. At this point, you’re kinda starting to blend in with the stools."

"Yeah... Fair play…”

Still stumped, he turned around and exited the bar, making his way to the parked pickup. Someone had slipped this into his jacket pocket without him noticing… a thought which unnerved him the further he got from the bar. He opened the door and climbed inside, holding the card up. But still, an overwhelming sense of curiosity—and some degree of vindication after four long weeks of interviews and trudging through the dreary seaport—made the urge to scan the code too great to overcome.
Whipping his phone back out, he flipped the card to the first code. As he aimed the camera, waiting for the yellow square to appear around the small black box, butterflies rose in his stomach. A link appeared, and he reached out with his finger to select it. The phone opened up to a nearly blank webpage. A black screen stared back at him with only three lines of text:

7492 Loften Shoals Parkway
Quayside Logistics Lot #6
2 a.m. 2/2/25

Quayside—how had he not seen it before? Quayside operated a massive portion of the container yard at the harbor and also boasted its own security to bolster the ever-present Coast Guard presence. If there were a place to hide smuggled goods, Quayside definitely had the space for it. The massive yard was home to a maze of containers, stacked into rows and stored in a seemingly endless labyrinth thirty feet high.
Keith glanced at the clock on the dash.

12:56 a.m.

Damn it…Gotta make it…

The ferry stopped running at 11:00, and the bridge spanning the bay had been under construction since the most recent hurricane. Throwing the truck into drive, a giddy excitement rose in his chest, now fueled by the possibility of fulfilling not only his duty as a sports columnist (he had some choice thoughts about Nico Harrison he needed to share…) but also landing the biggest story the paper had seen.

With all the scams going on these days, why would you scan random QR codes. Already sounds like Keith is going to get way more then the story he's looking for

Stepping out of his truck, Keith stood underneath one of the few street lamps that lined the perimeter of the mostly empty lot. He fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, drawing one loose with his teeth. The light from his Zippo pierced the low hanging fog that carried a mixed smell of salty air from the bay with a faint tinge of diesel. Only now, standing alone in the dim light of the parking lot did the full weight of his situation sink in. As he puffed, he reached into his pocket and flicked the card out. A plume of smoke drifted up to be absorbed by the fog, Keith’s instincts began to gnaw at him. Turning the card over, the #2 was revealed as he held it up to the light of his phone. He hesitated. The risks associated with such flimsy sources actually being true did worry him, but then he thought about the more likely scenario that shady contact and flimsy (at best) sources from the bars could all just be a ruse to bushwack him for the last bit of per diem he still had. But his intuition screamed that there was something to this lead. He hovered over the code, allowing the yellow box to reappear as a link opened up.

This time, the link opened to what looked like some sort of game. There was a maze-like structure with two blinking dots at separate ends. The lower one flashed white, the upper red. He tapped the screen trying to bring up some controls to navigate the maze. He could see the path through, tracing it with his finger, but the white dot remained still. Puzzled, he scanned the warehouses lining the edge of the lot, noticing the numbers stenciled on the sides and the security cameras. Walking over to the warehouse labeled #6, he noticed on the screen in his hand the white dot followed him up and to the right slightly, following as if watching from above. Around the side of building #6, he noticed the gate leaning slightly open leading to the container yard. He shuddered as he approached–partly from the cold bayside wind and partly from the unsettling thought of being watched–then pushed the gate open with a low groan. Now that he understood the mechanics of the maze-game, Keith continued down the path he had traced earlier, turning right, left, right again. The walls of containers stretched up three and four high, joining the fog to mask the glow of the yellow lights. The deeper into the rows he went, the fewer cameras he noticed. Maybe someone had left him a way inside. His anticipation turned to doubt when he found a lone container, indistinguishable from the rest, nestled at the base of a towering stack of steel containers. The door was latched closed, but not locked like some of the other containers nearby. Keith scrunched his face as he looked at his phone, scrutinizing the location now that he apparently was there. Maybe it’s inside the container? Really…Am I about to wander headfirst into a shipping container…

That level of risk was just past what he was willing to take. Deciding a quick peek was safer, he grabbed ahold of the latch and lifted it up before rotating to the side. The container door shifted slightly as he unlatched it, creaking loudly as it swung open. He shined his phone’s light along the rear wall, expecting maybe to find some illicit cargo or even more instructions for a further location from an overly cautious whistleblower. He leaned his head just across the threshold. He wasn’t puzzled by the lack of cargo or lack of would-be-muggers. It was the single lightbulb that hung down from the ceiling that caught his eye. Again, he frowned, looking up at the light as it suddenly turned on, sending a bright flash of light throughout the container, reflecting off the light grey interior. Blinded, Keith threw his arm up in a vain attempt to block the light. He had no time to react as he felt several strong hands seize him by the collar and arms, yanking him forward into the container. With his arms held tightly, his cheek was left to cushion the fall down to the cold, hard floor. Keith hit the ground. Hard. A sharp crack shot through his cheekbone, sending stars into his vision flashed upon impact. His ears rang as he struggled against the crushing weight of the hands pinning him down.

“What the– Get off! He shouted while twisting against their grip. Try as he might, he could not break free from the iron grip of his assailants. His captors grip was so intense he felt his pulse throb in his wrists and ears and chest as he fought back in a concussed daze. The pair held him at the wrists and biceps, using the push and pull leverage of their grip to fold his arms together behind his back. The full weight of the two pressing into his back was far too much for him to overcome as he heard a loud zip echo through the hollow container. His wrists were pressed together tightly by a thick band that cinched tighter upon a second firm yank from one of his captors. The thick banding cut into his wrists and pinched his bare skin while he attempted to tug his wrists apart. Keith turned his head over to see those who had so quickly and efficiently manhandled him, but felt a vice-like grip return to the back of his neck, forcing his head down once again to the dark floor. “Look, this is just a big mistake! Someone told me to-” There was no response as he was interrupted by a sudden plunge into darkness as a thick, black hood was pulled over his head. “Check my pocket, there’s a card! The card!” His protests continued to fall on deaf ears as he felt the hand release the hold on his neck and shift back to his bound arms. With the same swiftness and intensity that he was thrown down, Keith was hauled up and given a moment to steady himself. He stood motionless, still with a firm grip on each of his arms while he heard a faint *click followed by a low *beep. A heavy metal panel rumbled against the floor, sending reverberations he felt below him. He felt the rush of cool air as a secret doorway which he soon entered with the help of his escorts. He could barely keep up with them as they paced forward through a long hallway. It was all he could do to keep his feet from dragging as they rounded corner after corner until he could make out the growing echo of their footsteps as they entered a larger area. He could make out a quiet, dribbling stream of liquid splashing somewhere in the distance. The two men halted suddenly, jerking him back to a sudden stop.

Keith squinted as the hood was yanked off, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light of the room. The dull grey and blue of the container lot had been replaced by dark slate walls and floors, accented by dull orange lights shining up from the floor. Scattered amongst the walls and floor were potted plants, pieces of art, and even a small fountain in the corner that bubbled up before trickling down three levels. In front of him, two women sat behind a long desk. In front of them were several monitors with which they were preoccupied, but it was behind them where Keith directed his focus. Standing behind them and several inches above was a pale woman in a long white lab coat. Her copper tinged hair was pulled in a loose, twisted knot, and she wore thick black glasses low on her nose. Her pale green eyes swept over him, precise and assessing, glinting in the dim light before locking onto him.

“Mr. McCarther… I trust you found my invitation?”

Sounds like someone is about to have fun but it might not be the reporter. Trap was set and he walked right in to it