Chapter 6 - THE SHADOW ON THE CRATES
The silence inside Warehouse Seven was heavier than the blizzard outside.
The single work light swung slightly from the rafters, casting long, swaying shadows across the concrete.
Casimir did not drop his weapon.
His pistol remained leveled at Julian Cross’s chest.
His pale eyes did not flicker toward Vivian’s silver revolver.
"You talk too much, Vivian," Casimir said softly.
"Just like your father."
Harlan Beckett let out a muffled, desperate groan from behind the duct tape.
His swollen eyes pleaded with Delia.
Delia stood frozen against the brick wall.
Her hands hung limp at her sides.
She looked at her sister.
She looked at the white trench coat, the pristine sapphire gown, the steady hand holding the firearm.
"Twenty-three years," Delia whispered.
Her voice barely carried over the hum of the light bulb.
Vivian tilted her head, amused.
"What was that, Delia?"
"Twenty-three years I covered for you," Delia said.
She took half a step forward.
Casimir’s arm shifted, subtly blocking her from the direct line of fire, but she didn't stop.
"When you failed your accounting finals at Columbia, I rewrote your thesis."
"When you crashed the Mercedes into the country club wall, I told the police I was driving."
"When Father couldn't make payroll, I worked thirty-six hours straight so your allowance wouldn't be cut."
Vivian gave a short, incredulous laugh.
"And you were happy to do it, little mouse."
"You liked being the martyr."
"You liked hiding in the basement while I had the life we were meant to have."
"I did it because I thought we were a family," Delia said.
"Family is an overhead cost, Delia," Vivian sneered.
"Julian taught me that."
"In business, you cut the dead weight."
Julian Cross set his empty whiskey glass on top of one of the wooden crates.
He checked a gold pocket watch.
"The Coast Guard tactical launch is rounding the tip of the battery, Casimir."
"You have ninety seconds to make your peace."
"I don't need ninety seconds, Julian," Casimir replied.
"I only need five."
Casimir’s left hand, hidden behind his back, tapped twice against the brick wall.
A sharp, ear-splitting metallic shriek tore through the warehouse.
High in the rafters, an industrial cargo winch engaged.
A two-ton steel container spreader beam dropped four feet, slicing through the heavy electrical cables feeding the overhead lights.
The warehouse plunged into pitch-blackness.
"FIRE!" Cross screamed.
Muzzle flashes strobed through the dark like sudden lightning.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
High-velocity rounds chewed into the wooden crates, sending clouds of cedar sawdust and dried packing straw flying into the air.
Casimir moved with blinding, lethal speed.
He swept Delia into his chest, diving behind a massive stack of salt pallets as bullets sparked off the concrete floor where she had been standing half a second before.
He did not fire blindly.
He tracked the orange muzzle flashes of Cross’s men.
Crack. Crack.
Two bodies struck the floor with heavy, wet thuds.
"Vivian! Get to the launch!" Cross bellowed through the dark.
From the corner of the room, near the tied-up Harlan, a frantic scrambling sounded.
Delia reached into her pocket.
Her fingers found the small brass lighter Casimir had dropped into her hand during the elevator descent.
She flicked the wheel.
A tiny yellow flame illuminated the space beneath the salt pallets.
Beside her, Casimir was reloading his magazine with one hand.
He had a deep laceration along his left forearm from flying shrapnel, his dark wool sleeve soaked in blood.
"You're bleeding," she gasped, her hands reaching out instinctively.
"It's a scratch," he grunted, slamming the fresh magazine into the grip.
"Look at the crate behind you."
Delia turned the lighter toward the wooden box beside her hip.
The stenciled letters didn't say Beckett Freight.
Beneath a thin layer of glued paper, the wood bore an official burned brand:
UNITED STATES NAVAL LOGISTICS — ARMORY DIVISION.
And below it lay a shipping manifest dated twelve hours ago.
Signed not by Casimir Varo.
Signed by Commissioner Thomas Sterling.
The head of the Port Authority.
The man Harlan Beckett had been drinking with by the ice sculpture at the gala.
"It wasn't Cross," Delia breathed, her mind connecting the final, horrifying dots.
"Cross is just the muscle."
"Sterling set the whole thing up," Casimir said, his voice cold as the grave.
"The Port Authority wanted the private terminal rights back."
"They used Harlan to forge my clearance, used Vivian to leak the shipment, and used you as the sacrificial author."
A loud explosion rocked the warehouse doors.
The Coast Guard had arrived.
Heavy battering rams began to pound against the reinforced iron roll-up door.
THUD. THUD.
A voice bellowed through an electric bullhorn from the dock outside:
"THIS IS THE UNITED STATES COAST GUARD TACTICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT TEAM!"
"THE BUILDING IS SURROUNDED!"
"LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND EXIT WITH YOUR HANDS RAISED!"
Inside the dark warehouse, a cold laugh echoed from the rafters.
Julian Cross stood on an elevated catwalk above the crates, holding a remote detonator with a blinking green LED.
"Too late, Casimir!" Cross shouted down.
"The whole pier is wired with four hundred pounds of commercial thermite!"
May you like
"If I don't walk out of here with the forty-million-dollar bearer bonds,"
"nobody leaves this harbor alive!"
