Chapter 11 - The Blood On Penelope’s Wedding Ring
We descended the rusted iron catwalk into the basin.
The dry dock was massive.
It had once held navy destroyers during the second world war.
Now it was an amphitheater of shadows.
In the center, under blinding halogen work lights, stood Julian Sterling.
Penelope lay strapped to the gurney fifty yards away.
Her chest rose and fell in shallow, irregular gasps.
The doctor beside her dropped his scalpel as we appeared on the catwalk.
The four armed contractors raised their weapons.
“Hold your fire,” Julian commanded.
His raspy voice echoed through the cavernous space.
The contractors kept their barrels trained on us, but didn't shoot.
Julian tapped his silver cane against the concrete.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
“You survived the river, Rosalind,” Julian said.
He turned his scarred, sightless face toward the catwalk.
“I admire resilience.”
“Your father had it.”
“Your mother had it.”
“It took an eighteen-wheeler with reinforced bumpers to finally silence them.”
My hands tightened on the shotgun until the metal bit into my palms.
“You ordered the crash,” I said.
My voice didn't echo.
It cut through the humid air like a blade.
“Thomas Mercer was small-minded,” Julian sneered.
“He wanted to build cargo ships.”
“I wanted to build an empire.”
“This harbor is the gateway to three hundred billion dollars in automated
logistics.”
“Your family was sitting on the most valuable real estate on the Eastern
seaboard.”
“And you treated it like a family workshop.”
“It belongs to the Mercer trust,” Tobias said, stepping forward.
Julian laughed.
A dry, rattling cough.
“The Mercer trust expires in thirty-two minutes,” Julian said.
He checked a gold pocket watch by running his thumb over the braille face.
“At noon, the city charter grants emergency receivership to the surviving
founders.”
“I am the only founder left.”
“You’re a ghost, Julian,” I called out.
“The state has your death certificate on file from 1994.”
“A piece of paper,” Julian spat.
“Easily corrected with ten million dollars in the right campaign accounts.”
“Once this dry dock fills with harbor water, you two will be declared missing at
sea.”
“Penelope will suffer an unfortunate miscarriage and drown alongside you.”
“The Mercer line ends today.”
“Not today,” I said.
I fired the 12-gauge directly into the halogen light bank above his head.
The blast shattered the industrial bulbs.
Glass rained down into the basin.
The dry dock plunged into half-darkness.
Gunfire erupted instantly.
Muzzle flashes strobed against the concrete walls like strobe lights.
Tobias leaped from the catwalk railing, dropping ten feet onto an iron crane
track.
He fired two rapid blasts.
One contractor dropped to the floor, clutching his shattered shoulder.
I scrambled down the metal stairs, pumping the shotgun with every step.
A bullet zipped past my ear, sparking off the handrail.
I hit the floor of the basin.
I rolled behind a massive steel propeller blade.
The doctor who had been prepping Penelope bolted toward the emergency exit.
He didn't want to die for Sterling’s real estate empire.
Penelope was left alone on the gurney.
She was thrashing against the leather straps.
“Rosalind!” she screamed through the gunfire.
“Help me!”
A contractor moved toward Penelope, raising his rifle to execute her before
retreating.
I stepped out from behind the propeller blade.
I didn't hesitate.
I pulled the trigger.
The 12-gauge blast caught the contractor in the chest, throwing him back against
the concrete wall.
He slumped down and didn't move.
Tobias took down the remaining two guards with surgical, brutal efficiency.
He moved through the shadows like a wraith.
The sound of gunfire died away.
Only the hiss of steam and the drip of condensation remained.
Julian Sterling stood alone in the center of the lights.
He didn't move.
He didn't tremble.
He held his silver cane with both hands.
“Impressive,” the old man whispered.
“Thomas would be proud.”
Tobias walked toward him, shotgun leveled at the old man’s face.
“Turn off the sea valves, Julian,” Tobias said.
A horrific smile spread across Julian’s scarred lips.
“It’s too late, boy,” Julian rasped.
He reached into his heavy coat.
He didn't pull out a gun.
He pulled out an industrial remote detonator.
He pressed the red toggle switch with his thumb.
A deep, subterranean thud shook the ground beneath our boots.
The massive iron floodgates at the end of the basin groaned.
Hydraulic seals hissed.
A wall of black harbor water burst through the intake grates.
Thousands of gallons of freezing water began pouring into the dry dock every
second.
The water rose to our ankles in moments.
May you like
“If I cannot own this harbor,” Julian screamed over the roar of the rushing
current, “no Mercer will ever walk its docks again!”
