Chapter 5 - THE CABIN ON THE WATER
They hit the boat’s rubberized aft deck with a brutal, sliding impact.
Dante absorbed the shock with his knees, his body twisting to keep Elena from striking the steel gunwale.
They rolled together against the cabin bulkhead as the launch pitched violently in the river chop.
Mrs. Russo didn't waste a second.
She slammed the throttle forward.
The commercial diesel engine roared, its twin propellers biting into the dark current.
The launch leaped forward into the mist, carving a white furrow through the rain toward the western shoreline.
Above them on the bridge, gunfire flashed from the pedestrian railing.
Rounds splashed into the river twenty feet behind the stern.
Thunk. Thunk.
Two bullets slapped into the wooden wheelhouse, but the launch was already slipping into the fog bank.
In three minutes, the lights of the bridge vanished into gray darkness.
Silence settled over the water, broken only by the steady chug of the diesel motor.
Elena sat on the wet deck, her back against the cabin wall, her chest heaving.
Dante lay beside her, breathing hard, his hand still resting on her waist.
He slowly released his grip and sat up, wiping saltwater and blood from his forehead.
Mrs. Russo poked her head out of the wheelhouse, her weathered face grim beneath her knit cap.
“Everyone intact?”
“Intact,” Dante grunted.
He reached down and helped Elena to her feet.
Her legs were like water.
She stumbled into the warmth of the small, wood-paneled cabin.
An old cast-iron kerosene heater glowed amber in the corner, smelling of oil and dry cedar.
Mrs. Russo handed Elena a thick woolen blanket and a thermos cup of steaming black coffee.
Elena took the cup with two hands, her fingers trembling so violently the liquid sloshed against the rim.
She looked at the older woman.
Really looked at her.
The curve of her jaw.
The way her gray eyes crinkled at the corners.
The exact same eyes as Martha Brooks.
“Aunt Clara?” Elena whispered.
Mrs. Russo’s eyes welled with tears.
She reached out with a rough, calloused hand and touched Elena’s wet cheek.
“Look at you,” the old woman said, her voice cracking.
“You’ve got your father’s stubborn chin.”
Elena set the coffee down and threw her arms around her aunt’s neck.
The wool of the slicker was cold, but the embrace was warm, real, and six years overdue.
“Why didn't you tell me?” Elena wept into her collar.
“Why stay in that house as a servant?”
“Because Dante was the only man powerful enough to bring Caldwell down,” Clara Russo said, pulling back to look at her.
“Your father knew he was going to die the night he refused to sign that manifest, Elena.”
“He came to my apartment before his shift.”
“He gave me his service ring and told me to watch you and Martha.”
Dante stepped into the cabin, pulling the sliding door shut behind him.
He stripped off his soaked shirt, tossing it onto the floorboards.
Across his left ribs was a deep, purple bruise where a bullet fragment had grazed his vest.
Elena stared at the mark.
“You took a hit.”
“The vest caught the plate,” Dante said dismissively.
He pulled a clean, dry flannel shirt from a locker and pulled it over his broad shoulders.
He sat on the narrow bench opposite them and reached for the blue recipe notebook lying on the table.
“Where is the tape, Elena?”
Elena unbuttoned her damp wool coat.
She pulled the micro-cassette from her inner pocket and laid it on the worn wood between them.
The plastic was scratched, but dry.
Mrs. Russo reached into a metal tackle box beneath the helm and pulled out an old Sony micro-cassette dictaphone.
Her hands were steady as she slotted the tape inside.
She pressed play.
A hiss of static filled the small cabin.
Then, a familiar, deep voice echoed from the tiny speaker.
Gentle.
Tired.
Unmistakably Thomas Brooks.
“My name is Thomas Brooks. Badge Number 4412, Port Authority Safety Inspector.
The date is October 18th, 2018.
If you’re listening to this, Richard Caldwell has made good on his threat.
At eight o’clock tonight, Mr. Caldwell presented Manifest 889.
He offered me one million dollars in bearer bonds to certify eighty crates of industrial machinery as cleared freight.
I opened Crate Forty-Two.
It wasn't machinery.
It was sixty-two automated military weapons... and four steel containers of military-grade sarin gas.
The shipment was ordered through a private shell company.
A company registered to Moretti Enterprises.
Signed by Dante Moretti.”
The tape ended with a sudden, sharp click.
The cabin went dead silent.
Elena stopped breathing.
Her gaze slowly rose from the tape recorder to Dante’s face.
Dante did not flinch.
He sat under the yellow cabin light, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark as midnight.
Elena’s hand slowly reached for her coat pocket.
May you like
“You signed for nerve gas, Dante?” she whispered, her voice trembling with cold horror.
“You were the one who hired him.”
