Chapter 6 - Shadows in the Ward
"Step away from the safe," Cross said, his voice as smooth as polished slate.
He didn't yell. Men like Julian Cross never needed to yell; violence for them was merely a line item on an asset balance sheet. He was dressed in an expensive cashmere overcoat, utterly unbothered by the storm raging outside. Behind him stood two men built like shipping containers, their hands buried inside their dark windbreakers.
"Where is Victor?" I asked, keeping my hands visible, the blue folder still clutched tightly against my ribs.
"Victor is currently at the district station, giving a very emotional, very tearful interview to the local press about how much he loved his wife and child," Cross replied with a thin, mocking smile. "He’s doing quite well, actually. He even managed to vomit on camera when they showed him the weather radar. The public loves a grieving husband."
"He told you I was here," I spat.
"Victor doesn't know you're here. Victor thinks you are fish food fifty miles off Montauk," Cross murmured, taking two measured steps forward. "We monitor the yard’s internal security feeds, Mrs. Hale. When your clever little bookkeeper bypassed our firewall earlier today, we knew someone had pulled the fire alarm. And when the motion sensors in the machine shed tripped five minutes ago, I knew either a very bold burglar had broken in... or the dead had crawled out of the sea."
"You won't get this yard," I said, my voice hardening. "The police know everything. Marcus Vance talked. The forged lien is dead."
Cross sighed, an expression of mild fatigue crossing his face. "Marcus Vance is an idiot who lived in a basement. Documents can be replaced. Signatures can be contested for years in appellate courts while our cargo moves through your docks every single Tuesday. But you... you surviving creates a legal mess. An attempted murder investigation invites federal agencies. And federal agencies ask questions about our containers."
He raised the pistol, aligning the sights with the center of my forehead.
"A tragic double drowning is poetry," Cross whispered. "A mother surviving only to be killed in an industrial accident at her own marina while searching for her missing mind? That's just unfortunate."
Before he could squeeze the trigger, the heavy double doors of the boat shed behind him exploded inward.
A high-pressure industrial fire hose, clamped to the yard’s saltwater booster pump, unleashed a violent torrent of high-velocity water directly into Cross and his men. The immense pressure knocked the two henchmen off their feet, slamming them against the wooden keel of an overturned dinghy. Cross was shoved violently sideways, his pistol firing wild into the ceiling rafters as the deafening roar of water drowned out his shouts.
Behind the hose stood Dina, wearing a yellow slicker, her teeth gritted as she leaned all her weight into the heavy brass nozzle.
"Eleanor! Run!" she screamed over the thundering jet.
May you like
I didn't hesitate. I shoved the blue folder inside my waterproof coat, grabbed the black ledgers from the safe, and lunged through the side emergency exit into the howling rain.
***
