Chapter 7 - THE PIERHEAD RUN
The iron bar on the office door rattled.
Arthur Sterling’s men were using a heavy sledgehammer against the timber.
THUD.
Splinters of oak flew across the floor.
THUD.
The hinges began to tear from the dry brick mortar.
"Julian Thorne!" Arthur’s voice boomed from the bottom of the stairs.
"Send my daughter down with the ledger!"
"You have thirty seconds before I burn this office to the pilings!"
Julian did not look at the door.
He looked at the floorboards near the corner where Marcus was leaning.
"Marcus," Julian said.
"Under the desk."
The wounded lieutenant nodded, pointing with his bloody finger to a rusted steel ring set into the oak planking.
A trapdoor.
An old smuggling chute that dropped directly into the river channel beneath Pier 14.
"Where does it lead?" Ren whispered.
"To the service catwalk beneath the deck," Julian said.
"There's a maintenance launch tied to the fifth piling."
He walked over and hooked his fingers into the iron ring.
With one heave, he hauled the trapdoor open.
The smell of salt water, diesel exhaust, and cold river mud rose from the dark pit.
Ten feet below, the black surface of the river churned against the wooden pilings.
A narrow wooden ladder descended into the gloom.
"You first," Julian told Ren.
Ren didn't hesitate.
She gathered her ruined ivory dress in one hand, tucked the pistol into her waistband, and swung her legs onto the wooden rungs.
The wood was slick with green river algae.
She climbed down into the damp darkness under the pier.
The wooden catwalk was eighteen inches wide, suspended above the black water by heavy iron chains.
At the end of the walkway sat a battered aluminum work launch with an inboard diesel engine.
Marcus came down the ladder next, groaning as his wounded leg hit the timber.
Julian came last.
Before he dropped through the opening, he turned toward Derek.
Derek was staring at the trapdoor with wild, pleading eyes.
"Thorne! Take me with you!" Derek begged.
"Arthur will kill me! He knows I talked!"
Julian looked at him with absolute indifference.
"You made your bed in the linen closet, Derek," Julian said.
"Lie in it."
Julian pulled the heavy trapdoor shut above him.
He dropped a secondary iron latch from the underside, locking the chute from below.
Above their heads, the main office door gave way with a deafening crash of splintering timber.
Heavy boots stomped across the floorboards directly over them.
Gunfire erupted upstairs.
Cassandra screamed.
Then a single, final gunshot ended the screaming.
Ren flinched on the catwalk.
Julian put a steady hand on her shoulder.
"Keep moving," he whispered.
They reached the aluminum launch.
Julian helped Marcus into the center bench, then stepped aboard, untying the thick hemp mooring line.
Ren sat in the bow, her hands gripping the gunwale.
Julian reached for the starter switch.
The diesel engine turned over with a deep, muffled rumble.
The sound echoed off the wooden pilings beneath the pier.
"They're underneath!" a voice yelled from above.
Boot steps sprinted along the wooden deck overhead.
Rounds began punching through the floorboards above them.
Splinters rained down into the water.
Ptu-ptu-ptu.
Bullets slapped into the black river, throwing up narrow geysers of gray foam.
Julian slammed the throttle forward.
The aluminum launch leaped through the shadows beneath the pier, bursting out from under the timber structure into the open river channel.
The fog was thick, rolling off the Atlantic in gray, suffocating waves.
Standing on the end of Pier 14, illuminated by the halogen deck lights of the speedboat, was Arthur Sterling.
He held his revolver leveled at the launch.
His eyes locked onto Ren sitting in the bow.
He did not lower the gun.
For one second, father and daughter stared at each other across fifty yards of churning black water.
Ren saw no love in his face.
No regret.
Only the cold, calculating fury of a man who had lost his most valuable bargaining chip.
Arthur fired twice.
The bullets glanced off the aluminum bow, ricocheting into the mist with angry whines.
May you like
Julian turned the helm hard to port.
The launch plunged into the dense fog bank, vanishing from sight as the sound of the speedboat’s pursuit sirens began to howl in the distance.
