Chapter 3 - THE BRIDGE AT TARRYTOWN
The Continental’s hydraulic brakes locked with a deafening screech.
Four tons of armored steel shuddered as the speedometer dropped from eighty to forty in three seconds.
The Ford Expedition overshot them instantly.
The shotgunner’s blast tore into empty air fifty feet ahead.
Paul cranked the heavy steering wheel hard to the right.
The Continental’s reinforced steel bumper slammed into the rear quarter-panel of the Expedition.
The impact sounded like a train car derailing.
The SUV fishtailed violently across the slick asphalt, its tires catching the wet grass of the median.
It flipped twice, throwing up a rooster tail of mud and broken glass, before crashing into an overhead sign stanchion.
Elena covered her mouth with both hands.
The fireball illuminated the dark highway behind them in a sudden, violent burst of orange.
Paul didn't slow down.
He straightened the wheels and accelerated toward the Mario Cuomo Bridge.
“One down,” Paul grunted.
“The second vehicle is three hundred yards back,” Dante said, looking at the rear-view monitor on the dash.
He turned toward Elena.
She was trembling, her back pressed flat against the door.
“Are you hurt?”
“No,” she whispered.
“Did you know my father was going to die, Dante?”
The question dropped into the car like lead.
Dante’s eyes hardened, but he didn't look away.
“Six years ago, I was twenty-eight, Elena.”
“My father was still running the family.”
“I didn't know about Warehouse Nine until two years after your father was buried.”
“And when you found out?”
“I started buying the Caldwell debt,” he said.
“Every mortgage.”
“Every commercial bond.”
“I spent four years setting up tonight’s dinner.”
Elena stared at him.
The pieces began to fit together, ugly and cold.
“The eighty-million-dollar contract,” she realized.
“It wasn't a partnership.”
“It was a trap,” Dante said.
“Caldwell used the unrefined diamonds as collateral to back his share of the investment.”
“Diamonds he stole from your father’s pier.”
“The moment he signed those papers tonight, the serial numbers matched the international registry of stolen goods.”
“He committed federal grand larceny on paper.”
“Then why let Vanessa accuse me?” Elena’s voice broke.
“Why put on that show?”
Dante looked down at his scraped knuckle.
“Because Vanessa wasn't supposed to have that bracelet.”
Elena frowned.
“What bracelet?”
“The diamond piece she claimed you stole,” Dante said.
He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.
He snapped it open.
Inside rested the exact same bracelet Vanessa had held up in the dining room.
Platinum.
Emerald-cut diamonds.
Elena gasped.
“If you have it... what did Vanessa find by the kitchen?”
“A duplicate,” Dante said.
“Made with stones cut from the Warehouse Nine shipment.”
“Vanessa didn't find it beside the service door, Elena.”
“She brought it with her to the party.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Because someone told her that Thomas Brooks’s daughter was working in my house.”
Dante closed the box with a soft click.
“Someone wanted you discredited and removed before the contract was executed.”
The Continental swept onto the long span of the bridge.
The Hudson River churned black and swollen beneath the steel cables.
Up ahead, through the curtain of rain, four sets of hazard lights were flashing across all three northbound lanes.
A construction roadblock.
Orange barrels blocked the roadway.
Two heavy dump trucks sat angled across the pavement, leaving no room to pass.
Paul slammed on the brakes, bringing the Continental to a halt fifty yards before the barrier.
Behind them, the second black SUV pulled across the bridge lanes, sealing the rear.
Trapped.
Dante reached into the door panel and pulled out a matte-black Sig Sauer.
He checked the magazine with a single flick of his thumb.
“Stay in the car, Elena.”
“Dante—”
“Paul, lock the interior seals.”
Dante kicked the door open and stepped into the freezing rain.
From behind the dump trucks, a man in a gray wool overcoat stepped forward into the headlight glare.
Richard Caldwell.
Vanessa’s father.
In his gloved hand, he held a black umbrella and a heavy umbrella-cane with a silver pommel.
“You’re off your territory, Moretti!” Caldwell’s voice boomed over the wind.
Dante walked forward ten paces, his gun lowered at his side.
“Your daughter is a terrible actress, Richard.”
Caldwell chuckled, a dry, rattling sound.
“She’s young. She gets dramatic when she’s nervous.”
“Where is the girl, Dante?”
“She’s not your concern.”
“She is my only concern,” Caldwell said, taking two steps closer.
“Thomas Brooks left an audio recorder in his locker six years ago.”
“We found the locker three days ago.”
“The recorder was empty.”
Caldwell pointed his silver-tipped cane at the Continental.
“His wife has it.”
May you like
“Or his daughter has it.”
“And you’re going to give it to me before I drop both of you into the river.”
