Chapter 7 - THE YONKERS MARINA
The pipe vomited me out into the black, swollen waters of the Hudson River.
Freezing water slammed into my face, tearing the rubber mask from my nose.
I went under.
Salt and mud filled my mouth.
The current seized my waterlogged uniform, dragging me down toward the rotted timber pilings of the marina.
Fight, my father's voice echoed in my mind.
Don't you dare stop kicking, Livvy.
I kicked with everything I had left.
My hands clawed through the icy foam until my fingers struck rotted cedar wood.
I broke the surface, gasping for air that burned like broken glass.
Rain lashed down in blinding sheets.
Behind me, three hundred yards up the shoreline, the top two floors of the sugar refinery were engulfed in a roaring tower of orange and black flame.
Secondary explosions rattled the night sky as the old fuel reservoirs ignited.
I hauled myself onto a low wooden floating dock, coughing up river water.
My body was shivering so violently my teeth were clicking like castanets.
I reached into my soaked apron pocket.
The satellite phone was there.
Its waterproof casing had held.
The green screen was still illuminated:
ARCHIVE READY: STERLING_CONSPIRACY_EVIDENCE.PDF
Beside the document sat a blinking red icon:
TRACKER ACTIVE — INCOMING VESSEL: 60 SECONDS.
Across the choppy water of the slip, a low, muffled rumble vibrated through the pilings.
A thirty-foot black Kevlar-hulled tactical interceptor boat cut through the fog.
No running lights.
Twin five-hundred-horsepower inboard engines purring like predatory cats.
The boat slid alongside the floating dock with a gentle scrape of rubber bumpers.
A man leaned over the gunwale, extending a massive, calloused hand toward me.
Marcus.
His face was streaked with soot and blood from a deep shrapnel cut on his cheek, but he was alive.
"Take my hand, Miss Carver!" Marcus yelled over the engine rumble.
He hoisted me over the aluminum rail onto the deck as if I weighed nothing at all.
He threw a heavy dry wool blanket around my shoulders and shoved me into the heated wheelhouse.
I collapsed onto the bench, clutching the blanket to my chest.
"Where is Nolan?!" I screamed, grabbing Marcus's vest.
"Where is he?!"
Marcus looked through the rain-streaked windshield toward the burning refinery.
His jaw was set in stone.
"The Boss ordered me to extract you to the city, Miss Carver."
"No!" I shouted, standing on trembling legs.
"He was right beneath the hatch when the grenades went off!"
"We're not leaving him!"
Before Marcus could answer, the beam of an infrared searchlight swept across our wheelhouse glass.
From the southern breakwater, two high-speed harbor patrol boats bearing the official seal of the Port Authority surged into the marina channel.
Sirens wailed across the water.
A voice bellowed through an electric bullhorn from the lead vessel:
"UNAUTHORIZED CRAFT AT YONKERS SLIP FOUR!"
"CUT YOUR ENGINES AND PREPARE TO BE BOARDED!"
Marcus cursed, slamming the throttle forward.
"Port Authority tactical teams," Marcus growled.
"Sterling called in his personal security detail."
"They're going to box us against the sea wall."
The interceptor boat leaped forward, its twin engines roaring at maximum thrust.
Tat-tat-tat-tat!
Heavy machine-gun fire from the patrol boats stitched across our rear deck, chewing through the fiberglass engine cowling.
Marcus yanked the wheel hard to port, carving a tight turn through the freezing chop.
Then, from the shoreline fifty yards behind the patrol boats, a single rifle shot cracked through the storm.
CRACK.
The searchlight on the lead patrol boat exploded in a shower of sparks.
The boat swerved wildly out of control, its pilot slumped over the helm, crashing into a wooden navigation piling with a sickening crunch of fiberglass.
On the narrow concrete pier jutting out from the burning refinery stood a solitary figure.
Soaked in river water.
Shirt torn to ribbons.
Holding a heavy sniper rifle braced against his hip.
Nolan.
He had crawled through the lower outflow pipes.
He was bleeding from his left shoulder, his face smeared with black grease and ash, but his posture was that of an unbroken warlord.
Marcus slammed the reverse thrusters, bringing our stern within six feet of the pier.
"JUMP, BOSS!"
Nolan didn't drop the rifle.
He vaulted the iron railing, clearing the black water, and landed hard on our aft deck.
The boat shuddered under his weight.
He didn't stumble.
He kicked the wheelhouse door open, his icy blue eyes sweeping the cabin until they locked onto me.
He stepped inside, dropping the empty rifle to the floorboards.
He reached out with his bare, bruised hand.
He didn't say a word.
He simply pulled me against his soaking-wet chest, wrapping his arms around my shoulders with a grip so fierce, so suffocating, that every beat of his heart pounded directly against my ribs.
I buried my face into his neck, inhaling the smell of river salt, smoke, and rain.
"You're alive," I sobbed into his skin.
"I told you, Olivia," he whispered against my hair.
His voice was hoarse, thick with blood and smoke.
"I keep my promises."
He pulled back slightly, looking down into my eyes.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, bloodstained gold signet ring.
The Voss family seal.
He took it from his finger and dropped it into my palm, closing my fingers over the cold metal.
"Sterling is at his penthouse on 57th Street," Nolan said.
May you like
"He thinks we're at the bottom of the Hudson."
"In one hour, we take his city from him."
