Chapter 8 - THE WAREHOUSE ON SECTOR NINE
The launch cut through the water for twenty minutes in total darkness.
Julian did not run running lights.
He navigated the river by the rhythm of the buoy bells and the distant hum of the elevated highway.
They pulled into a narrow, concrete intake canal beneath the South Boston power station.
A massive rusted iron sluice gate rose three feet out of the water.
Julian steered the launch beneath the gate into a dry, echoing concrete basin.
Sector Nine.
An old naval submarine maintenance facility decommissioned in 1974.
The air smelled of dry limestone, motor grease, and ozone.
Four men in gray tactical sweaters waited on the concrete apron, rifles slung over their chests.
When the launch touched the rubber bumpers, two men immediately stepped down to assist the wounded Marcus.
"Get him to the medical bay," Julian ordered, stepping onto the concrete.
He reached down and offered his hand to Ren.
His palm was warm.
Steady.
Ren took it and stepped up onto the dry apron.
Her legs felt like water.
The adrenaline that had carried her through the last four hours was draining away, leaving her body shaking with bone-deep exhaustion.
Julian led her through a steel bulkhead door into an interior office.
It was not a bare industrial room.
It was furnished like an executive study: mahogany bookshelves, leather armchairs, and a wide stone fireplace where dry cedar logs were crackling with warm, orange flame.
On the desk sat a tray with hot coffee, clean towels, and a bottle of Scotch.
"Sit," Julian said gently.
Ren sat in the leather armchair near the fire.
She looked at her reflection in the dark windowpanes.
Her hair was a wild nest of tangles.
Her cheek was smudged with soot and brick dust.
Her ivory wedding gown was shredded at the hem, soaked with oil and river water.
She looked like a survivor pulled from a shipwreck.
Julian poured a measure of Scotch into a heavy glass and placed it in her hands.
"Drink," he said.
Ren took a sip.
The liquor burned her throat, but the heat spread through her chest, stilling the tremor in her fingers.
Julian pulled off his dark wool coat and tossed it over the back of the sofa.
He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up his forearms.
A dark tattoo was inked along his inner right arm: a balance scale crossed with an iron chain.
The mark of the Thorne family council.
He took the black notebook from his coat and laid it on the desk between them.
"Your father isn't going to Madrid, Ren," Julian said, leaning against the desk.
"Where is he going?"
"He's going to the downtown vault at First Union Trust."
"The thirty million dollars in bearer bonds are stored in Safe Box 404."
"He needed Derek to provide the corporate seal to authorize the release."
"Now that Derek is dead, he’ll use the original power of attorney."
Julian looked at her with a piercing intensity.
"A power of attorney that bears your name as executor."
Ren set the glass down with a sharp click against the side table.
"He can't use my name."
"I haven't signed anything since my eighteenth birthday."
"He doesn't need your fresh signature," Julian explained.
"He had Derek forge your endorsement on the estate documents two weeks ago."
"The bank manager is on Vance’s payroll."
"At nine tomorrow morning, the vault opens."
"Once Arthur walks out of that bank with those bonds, he can buy half the police force in New England."
"And your name will be the only one on the federal indictment."
Ren stood up from the armchair.
The silk of her dress rustled in the quiet room.
"Then we go to the bank tonight," she said.
Julian raised an eyebrow.
"The bank is a fortress, Ren."
"Three levels of reinforced concrete beneath State Street."
"Armed guards at every entrance."
"And the Vance family will have twenty men stationed in the lobby."
Ren walked over to the desk.
She picked up the black notebook and opened it to the back cover.
Tucked into a hidden pocket of the leather lining was a small, flat brass key with three notches along its edge.
She held it up between two fingers.
"My father gave me this key on my sixteenth birthday," she said.
"He told me it was the key to my mother's jewelry box."
"He told me never to lose it."
Julian stared at the brass metal.
A slow, wolfish smile touched the corners of his mouth.
"The mechanical override key," Julian whispered.
"It bypasses the electronic time lock on Box 404."
Ren looked Julian dead in the eye.
"I spent twenty-four years believing I was an ordinary girl living an ordinary life, Mr. Thorne."
"My fiancé betrayed me in a linen closet."
"My best friend took his money."
"And my father used me as a human shield."
She dropped the brass key onto the center of the desk.
"I am not going to federal prison for any of them."
Julian stepped closer until he was standing inches from her.
He looked down at her face, his gray eyes burning with something far deeper than business.
"No, Miss Sterling," Julian said softly.
May you like
"You aren't."
"Tonight, we take what belongs to us."
