Chapter 4 - THE LOWER TUNNEL
"Head down!" Julian roared.
He threw his left arm across Ren’s shoulders, dragging her flat onto the floorboards between the seats.
The gunfire erupted with the sound of a tearing canvas sail.
Crack-crack-crack-crack.
High-velocity rounds hammered into the armored door panels.
The bulletproof glass fractured into webs of white spiderwebs, but held.
Ren pressed her face against the rubber floor mat.
The smell of hot oil and cordite seeped into the cabin.
Julian did not panic.
His weight rested heavily over her back, shielding her from any penetrating shrapnel.
He drew a matte-black firearm from his shoulder holster with his right hand.
"Ram them," Julian told the driver.
His voice was terrifyingly level.
The driver yanked the wheel hard to the right.
Three tons of armored steel slammed into the side of the Dodge Ram.
The truck scraped against the concrete tunnel wall, throwing up a rooster tail of orange sparks.
The shooter’s submachine gun went flying into the dark tunnel.
The Ram blew its front tire, fishtailed violently across three lanes, and rolled onto its roof.
"Clear," the driver grunted.
Julian slowly lifted his arm from Ren’s back.
"Are you hit?"
Ren pushed herself up onto the leather seat.
Her hair was coming undone from its pearl pins.
Her ivory gown was smudged with black grease from the floor bracket.
"No," she gasped.
Her chest heaved.
"Who were they?"
"Derek’s financiers," Julian said, checking the magazine of his weapon.
"They realized he used their money to buy his way onto Thorne territory."
"They want him dead."
"And they want the manifest before I get to it."
The SUV surged out of the mouth of the tunnel into the desolate gray expanse of the industrial waterfront.
Abandoned salt sheds, rusted shipping cranes, and rows of blue shipping containers lined the riverbank.
The rain was coming down in blinding torrents now.
The SUV turned into the fenced compound of Pier 14.
An old two-story brick office building stood at the end of the pier, its windows boarded up with plywood.
Parked near the entrance was a rented silver sedan.
The engine was ticking.
The driver’s door was hanging open.
"He's inside," Julian said.
Julian’s driver brought the SUV to a sliding halt beside the sedan.
Two of Julian's men jumped from the front seats, carbines raised against their shoulders.
Julian turned to Ren.
"Stay in the vehicle."
Ren looked at the open door of the brick office.
She saw a torn piece of dusty rose silk caught on the splintered door frame.
"Cassandra is with him," Ren said.
Her voice had turned to cold stone.
"It doesn't matter," Julian said.
"It matters to me."
Ren reached for the door handle.
Julian caught her wrist.
His grip was firm, but his thumb brushed lightly against her pulse point.
"Ren. This isn't a wedding dispute anymore."
"There are men with automatic weapons in that warehouse."
Ren met his cold gray eyes without flinching.
"He used my name, Mr. Thorne."
"He put four hundred thousand dollars of debt on my family."
"I am not sitting in this car while you clean up my life for me."
Julian stared at her for three long seconds.
Something shifted in his hard expression.
A faint, dangerous flicker of respect passed through his gaze.
He reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a small, compact black semi-automatic pistol.
He placed it into her palm.
"Safety is the thumb switch on the left," he said.
"If anyone raises their hands toward you, pull the trigger twice."
"Don't aim for the legs."
Ren held the heavy steel weapon.
The cold metal felt real.
Cleaner than the silk dress she was wearing.
"Understood," she said.
Julian kicked his door open into the storm.
They moved toward the entrance of the harbormaster’s office.
The front door groaned as Julian kicked it inward.
Inside, the building smelled of mold, sea rot, and wet plaster.
From the second-floor mezzanine came the frantic sound of drawers slamming and paper ripping.
"Where is the key, Derek?" Cassandra was sobbing.
"You said it was in the desk!"
"Shut up and check the filing cabinet!" Derek’s voice cracked with hysteria.
Julian raised two fingers to his men.
They moved silently along the brick walls, flanking the wooden stairs.
Julian stepped onto the first step.
The wood didn't creak.
Ren followed one pace behind him, the pistol held firmly against her side.
They reached the second-floor landing.
The office was trashed.
Ledgers and invoices were scattered across the water-stained floor.
Derek was on his knees before an old iron floor safe, blood dripping from his knuckles where he had tried to pry the combination dial.
Cassandra was stuffing stacks of hundred-dollar bills into a leather duffel bag.
"Leaving so soon?" Julian asked from the doorway.
Derek spun around.
In his hand was a snub-nosed revolver.
He pointed it directly at Julian’s face.
"Stay back, Thorne!" Derek screamed, his eyes bloodshot and wild.
"I'll blow your head off!"
Julian didn't blink.
He took half a step forward, directly into the line of fire.
"You're shaking, Derek."
"You couldn't hit a wall at five paces."
Derek shifted his aim.
The barrel of the revolver moved from Julian’s chest.
It locked directly onto Ren.
"Ren," Derek sneered, a psychotic grin spreading across his face.
May you like
"Tell your new protector to drop his gun."
"Or your wedding day ends in an open casket."
