Chapter 4 - THE HUDSON DESCENT
The world flipped into violent rotation.
The screech of tearing steel pierced the cabin.
Genevieve felt the sickening sensation of weightlessness as the SUV bounced off the concrete barrier.
Lorenzo threw his entire body over hers.
His heavy arm pinned her against the seat, his shoulder absorbing the violent shock of the impact.
The reinforced ballistic glass shattered into spiderwebs of opaque white, but held.
The SUV slammed to a halt against a high-voltage lamppost on the riverbank.
Airbags deployed with a muffled BOOM, filling the vehicle with the bitter smell of talcum and sulfur.
Silence fell.
Only the hiss of steam from the punctured radiator broke the cold air.
“Nico!” Lorenzo barked through the white smoke.
The driver was slumped over the steering wheel, blood trickling from his temple into his beard.
Nico groaned in the passenger seat, his arm twisted at an unnatural angle.
“Alive, Boss,” Nico wheezed, clutching his shoulder.
“Steering rack is snapped.”
“We’re dead in the water.”
Through the fractured passenger window, Genevieve saw headlights slicing through the blizzard.
The snowplow had stopped thirty yards up the parkway.
Behind it, two dark sedans pulled onto the shoulder.
Men in dark tactical parkas were already stepping into the snow, racking short-barreled automatic shotguns.
“They aren't police,” Genevieve whispered.
“They are Preston Gable’s clean-up crew,” Lorenzo said.
He kicked his door open with one savage blow of his combat boot.
The crumpled steel groaned and gave way.
Freezing wind howled into the cabin, bringing the stench of river mud and salt.
Lorenzo grabbed his Sig Sauer and pulled a secondary tactical submachine gun from under the front seat.
He handed the smaller weapon to Nico.
“Hold the parkway,” Lorenzo commanded his wounded lieutenant.
“Take the tree line,” Nico said, gritting his teeth as he pushed himself out.
“Backup is five minutes behind them.”
Lorenzo turned to Genevieve.
He did not ask if she was ready.
He reached down, scooped her up into his arms, and pulled her out of the wreckage into the freezing snow.
Her bare feet sank three inches into the icy slush.
Pain, sharp and burning, shot through her soles.
Lorenzo didn't let her walk.
He carried her across the snow-covered embankment toward the pedestrian footbridge that led down to the marina pier below.
Footsteps crunched heavily in the drifts behind them.
Crack!
A shotgun blast sheared through the branches of a bare oak tree above their heads.
Snow showered down over Genevieve’s hair.
Lorenzo spun on his heel.
Holding Genevieve with his left arm, he brought his pistol up with his right.
He fired three rapid rounds through the drifting snow.
A shooter fifty yards back collapsed into a snowbank, his weapon discharging harmlessly into the dark sky.
“Can you jump?” Lorenzo muttered against her ear as they reached the edge of the granite pier.
Genevieve looked down.
Ten feet below, a sleek, twin-engine mahogany commuter yacht bobbed against the wooden pilings.
The water of the Hudson River was black, choked with drifting slabs of winter ice.
“If I miss, I freeze,” she said, her voice shaking with adrenaline.
“You won't miss,” Lorenzo said.
“I won't let you fall.”
He lowered her over the iron railing until her feet dangled above the boat's teak aft deck.
“Drop!” he commanded.
Genevieve released her grip on the railing.
She fell through the freezing air.
Her bare feet hit the wet wooden deck of the yacht with a sharp slap.
She stumbled, her knees giving way, but caught the brass handrail of the cabin companionway.
Lorenzo vaulted the iron railing a split second later.
He landed on the deck with the heavy, balanced thud of a seasoned fighter.
Bullets chipped the mahogany transom behind him, sending sharp splinters of varnished wood flying across the deck.
Lorenzo kicked open the cabin hatch, shoved Genevieve inside into the dark interior, and lunged for the helm.
He turned the twin ignition keys.
The massive marine diesel engines rumbled to life beneath the floorboards with a deep, chest-rattling roar.
Lorenzo shoved the twin throttles forward.
The boat surged into the black water, throwing a wall of white spray against the wooden pier.
Genevieve crawled up the companionway steps, peeking out the rear hatch.
Standing on the edge of the snowbound pier above was Preston Gable.
He lowered his shotgun, glaring across the widening gap of freezing river.
Beside him stood Winston Harrington.
Her father was holding an umbrella over Preston’s head, his shoulders hunched like an obedient dog.
Preston pulled out a phone, illuminated by the screen's harsh white light.
Lorenzo did not look back.
He spun the brass ship's wheel hard to starboard, carving a deep furrow through the ice sheets toward the open harbor.
Genevieve slumped onto the leather bench inside the heated cabin.
Her feet were bleeding from tiny glass cuts.
Her navy gown was torn at the bodice, soaked in frozen river spray.
Lorenzo engaged the autopilot once they cleared the shipping channel.
He stepped down into the cabin.
He didn't speak.
He walked to the forward head, returned with a basin of warm water, a clean linen towel, and a bottle of antiseptic.
He knelt in front of her on the floorboards.
Genevieve tried to pull her feet back.
“Mr. Costa, you don't have to—”
“Be still, Genevieve,” he said softly.
His large, scarred hands took her right ankle with unexpected gentleness.
He lifted her foot into the warm water.
The warmth stung fiercely, but Lorenzo’s grip never wavered.
He cleaned the blood and grit from her skin with slow, methodical strokes.
Genevieve watched the top of his dark head.
His hair was damp with melting snow.
This was the man who controlled half the freight moving through the Port of New York.
The man whose name made her father’s hands shake with terror.
And he was kneeling on the floor of a boat, washing her feet like a servant.
“Why did you come for me tonight, Lorenzo?” she asked, her voice barely a breath above the engine’s drone.
Lorenzo stopped washing.
He looked up at her through the dim cabin light.
His hazel eyes were dark, fathomless, and ancient.
“Because two weeks ago, someone broke into my private vault in Brooklyn,” he said.
Genevieve frowned.
“What does that have to do with me?”
Lorenzo reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver pendant on a broken chain.
A silver locket in the shape of a compass rose.
Genevieve gasped.
Her hand flew to her empty throat.
“That was my mother’s.”
“I buried it in her cedar chest six years ago.”
“It wasn't in her chest, Genevieve,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper.
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“Your sister Charlotte tried to sell it to my black-market jeweler last Tuesday.”
“Along with the keys to my safe deposit box.”
