Chapter 15 - The Lighthouse at Heron Rock
Heron Rock was an isolated jagged spire of granite rising out of the foaming surf four miles off the coast of Portland. Abandoned since the Coast Guard automated the maritime signals in the late 1970s, the lighthouse had stood as a silent, decaying sentinel against Atlantic squalls.
Clara stood at the helm of the tactical cutter provided by the Coast Guard’s maritime interdiction unit. Beside her, David adjusted the straps of his tactical vest, double-checking the encrypted comm-links with the federal tactical team trailing three nautical miles behind them in stealth pursuit vessels.
"The tide is rising," David warned, looking through high-magnification thermal binoculars at the lighthouse silhouette. "Heron Rock is surrounded by submerged reefs. We can't bring a large cutter in without running aground. We’ll have to take the rigid inflatable boat."
"She’ll expect you to come with a small army," Clara said, tying her dark hair back against the biting wind. "Which is why you stay offshore until I reach the beacon room. Eleanor doesn't want a firefight with federal agents; she wants the digital ledger validated in person. If she thinks I’m cornered, she’ll come out of the shadows."
"Clara, this is insane," David said, his hand gripping her arm, his eyes burning with protective intensity. "She’s a sociopath who erased her own identity for twenty years. You don't walk into the lion’s den alone."
"I took down Julian with twenty-four hours of forethought," Clara said softly, meeting his gaze with unyielding resolve. "I have had three months to study Eleanor’s architecture. I am not the prey, David. I never was."
David looked at her for a long moment, seeing the unbreakable diamond beneath the surface. He nodded grimly. "Ten minutes. If your tracker stops moving for more than ninety seconds, we breach the island and burn it to the waterline."
The inflatable craft cut through the black, churning waves, landing silently in a sheltered cove beneath the towering granite cliffs of Heron Rock. Clara stepped onto the slippery, seaweed-covered rocks, holding a ruggedized waterproof briefcase in one hand and a concealed ceramic firearm in her coat.
The iron spiral staircase inside the lighthouse groaned with age and salt-rot as Clara ascended. Step by step, the sound of the howling gale outside faded, replaced by the rhythmic hum of a portable satellite workstation.
When she stepped onto the landing of the beacon chamber, she found the room illuminated by three high-intensity halogen lanterns.
Sitting behind a folding steel field desk, sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup amidst the salt-stained ruins of the lighthouse, was Eleanor Vance.
She was in her late sixties, her silver hair styled in a severe, elegant chignon, her face chiseled and unlined, save for the predatory creases around her steel-gray eyes. She wore a tailored cashmere overcoat that seemed wildly out of place against the peeling paint and rusting iron.
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"You have your mother’s cheekbones, Clara," Eleanor said smoothly, not even looking up as Clara entered. "And, unfortunately, Arthur’s stubbornness. Sit down. Let us settle our accounts."
***
