Chapter 5 - THE SUGAR REFINERY
The blinding white glare from the bridge turned the interior of the Escalade into a fishbowl.
"Cover the girl," Nolan commanded.
He didn't reach for the doors.
He reached into the center console and pulled an emergency flare gun.
He cracked the red plastic barrel open, shoved a heavy phosphorus flare inside, and snapped it shut.
"Marcus. On my count."
"Ready, Boss."
Nolan kicked the passenger door open into the mud.
He didn't aim at the bridge.
He fired the flare straight into the open fuel tank of an abandoned delivery van parked ten yards away.
THWUMP.
The phosphorus ignited the residual gasoline vapors.
BOOM!
A massive fireball of orange flame and black petroleum smoke billowed thirty feet into the air.
The dense, oily smoke rolled between the bridge floodlights and our disabled vehicle, blinding the snipers above.
"Run!" Nolan yelled, grabbing my arm.
We scrambled through the mud and broken glass toward the towering brick facade of the abandoned sugar refinery.
Bullets chewed through the dirt behind our boots like angry hornets.
Ptu-ptu-ptu.
Marcus laid down heavy covering fire with an automatic shotgun, the deafening blasts echoing off the brick walls.
We breached the rusted iron service doors of the refinery.
Nolan slammed the four-inch deadbolt into place.
The darkness inside was thick, smelling of rotted molasses, dry rot, and damp limestone.
Above us, five stories of iron catwalks and industrial piping stretched into the rafters.
Rain hammered against the corrugated tin roof like a drum solo.
I slumped against a cast-iron boiler, my chest heaving, clutching my ribs where a muscle had pulled.
"They anticipated the route," Marcus panted, wiping soot from his eyes.
"Someone gave them the safe house coordinates, Boss."
Nolan stood by a narrow arrow-slit window, watching the perimeter through the scope of his rifle.
"There are only four people who knew about the Yonkers refinery, Marcus."
"The council elders," Marcus muttered.
"Uncle Dominic," Nolan said.
His voice dropped into pure, unadulterated ice.
"Dominic sold the route to Sterling."
My head snapped up.
Dominic Voss.
Nolan's uncle.
The senior patriarch of the Voss syndicate who had sat in the front row of the auction thirty minutes earlier.
"Your own family?" I breathed.
"In this business, Olivia, family is simply the enemy you share a last name with," Nolan said.
He turned toward me.
In the faint amber glow of the burning van outside, his face looked carved from marble.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a rugged, military-grade satellite smartphone.
He slid the micro-SD card into the reader slot on the side.
The screen illuminated with a bright green progress bar:
DECRYPTING ARCHIVE... 12%... 34%...
"What's on that card, Nolan?" I asked, stepping closer to him.
"The names of every politician, judge, and federal agent Sterling owns," Nolan said.
"And the offshore accounts through which Sterling laundered forty million dollars of Port Authority funds."
The progress bar completed with a soft chime.
A list of encrypted folders appeared on the screen.
The first folder was labeled: PROJECT ICARUS — STERLING / VANCE / BENNETT.
I froze.
"Bennett?"
Nolan opened the file.
A bank transfer authorization appeared from three days ago.
Pay to the order of: Kara Bennett.
Amount: $200,000.00.
Memo: Delivery of Carver Target to Westchester Auction.
The signature at the bottom was not Harold Sterling's.
It was Kara's own digital signature.
She hadn't borrowed money from loan sharks.
She had contracted with Sterling to find me.
She had spent six months pretending to be my struggling best friend while setting up the exact room where I would be sold.
A dry, bitter sob caught in my throat.
I pressed my forehead against the cold iron of the boiler.
"I gave her my rent money last month," I whispered.
"I ate dry cereal for two weeks so she wouldn't be evicted."
Nolan walked over to where I stood.
He didn't offer empty reassurances.
He didn't tell me everything would be fine.
He simply reached out, his gloved fingers taking my chin, tilting my face upward until my eyes met his.
"You have an honest heart, Olivia."
"Your father had one too."
"It's a dangerous thing to carry in New York."
"Then why didn't you let them buy me?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"You could have let Sterling's men take me."
"You could have tracked the locket later."
Nolan’s thumb brushed the tear tracking down my cheek.
"Because eight years ago, I promised Arthur Carver that if anything ever happened to him,"
"his daughter would never stand alone in the dark."
Before I could speak, the tin roof above our heads shrieked.
A heavy steel grappling hook punched through the corrugated metal forty feet above us.
A tactical rappel line dropped through the rafters.
A tear-gas canister struck the concrete floor ten feet away, hissing a dense cloud of white, suffocating chemical smoke.
From the high rafters, a voice boomed down with mechanical amplification:
"NOLAN VOSS!"
Dominic Voss's voice.
May you like
"THROW THE PHONE INTO THE VAT!"
"OR WE BURN ARTHUR CARVER'S DAUGHTER ALIVE IN THIS TANK!"
