Chapter 53 - The Scent of Sea Salt and Kerosene
We left the Suburban tucked behind a wall of corrugated sea-cans three hundred yards from the gangway. The harbor smelled of briny rot, sulfur, and high-octane diesel. The wind off the slip slammed into my chest, soaking through my jacket, but the cold felt clean compared to the cloying, scented memory of Eleanor's lilac perfume.
"Federal warrants won't execute cleanly down here for another twenty minutes," Miller said, checking the magazine of her SIG Sauer. "The port authority police are tied up with a staged chemical leak at Gate 4. Arthur knew our response routes."
"It wasn't Arthur who staged the leak," I said, staring at the catwalks fifty feet above the deck of the ship.
A figure stood near the bridge wing, wrapped in an ankle-length white cashmere coat that flapped violently in the gale. Even from this distance, the posture was unmistakable: perfectly upright, chin elevated, hands tucked inside deep pockets with the effortless entitlement of a woman who had never once been asked to clean up her own blood.
Claire.
"She’s waiting for the tide to turn," Thomas said, pointing toward the heavy mooring hawsers straining against the bollards. "The engines are engaged. The moment the harbor pilot clears the channel, those lines drop."
"June, stay behind Miller," Thomas pleaded, his hand closing over my sleeve. "Arthur has armed deckhands. This isn't a courtroom."
"I spent my entire childhood inside their courtroom, Thomas," I said, pulling my arm free. "Where they set the rules, prosecuted my character, and found me guilty of existing every single morning. I’m not waiting on the dock while she sails away on what she stole from us."
Miller didn't try to stop me. She signaled to two port tactical officers flanking the crane line, their shotguns held in low-ready carries. "We breach the aft ladder. Keep your heads below the gunwale. If Claire moves toward the bridge, take the access stair."
May you like
We moved through the shadows of the container stacks, stepping over frozen puddles that reflected the sickly sodium lights of the gantry. Every step sounded like an echo of that terrible morning in the hospital room, when Eleanor looked at my oxygen cannula with disgust and told me that Claire’s future was worth more than my breath.
Now, on the rusted iron plates of Pier 42, that debt was coming due.
