Chapter 56 - The Dry Dock Ambush
The interior companionway of the *Augusta Nine* was a narrow, claustrophobic nightmare of rattling bulkheads and exposed hydraulic lines. The air grew thicker with every descending step, shifting from the salt bite of the deck to the suffocating stench of warm marine oil, rust, and old bilges.
We reached the entrance to Cargo Hold 3—a cavernous steel chamber half-filled with heavy industrial pallets secured by steel cables. Overhead, the emergency auxiliary lights cast long, jaundiced shadows across the ribbed steel floor.
"Claire!" I called out. My voice echoed through the metal ribbing, bouncing between the bulkheads like an iron bell. "It’s over. The harbor pilot isn't coming. Eleanor gave Miller the manifests."
A soft, melodic laugh floated down from the catwalk running along the port bulkhead.
"Eleanor always was a weak woman, June," Claire’s voice drifted down, completely devoid of fear. It sounded conversational, almost playful, the exact tone she used when we were children deciding which doll to dismember in the attic. "She thought manners and pearls could replace ambition. She actually believed I would spend the rest of my youth hiding in a Spanish villa with her, listening to her complain about the humidity."
I looked up. Claire was standing thirty feet above us on the steel grate of the gantry walk. She had discarded the white cashmere coat; she wore dark tactical trousers and a heavy black wool sweater, her blonde hair pulled back into a severe knot. At her feet sat a large, waterproof Pelican case—the ledger, the bearer bonds, and the final remains of the Holloway empire.
In her right hand, resting casually against her hip, was a nickel-plated semi-automatic pistol.
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"Drop the weapon, Claire!" Miller shouted, stepping clear of a machinery casing to get a clean angle. "Federal agents have the perimeter secured. There is nowhere for this ship to go."
"You really don't understand how the world works, do you, Inspector?" Claire smiled, stepping closer to the safety rail. "My father didn't just buy politicians. He bought port directors. In three minutes, the auxiliary scuttling valves on the lower ballast tanks will open. This ship isn't leaving Norfolk, June. It’s sinking in the channel. And while you two are swimming in ten feet of freezing diesel sludge, I’ll be on the harbor launch that’s already idling beneath the stern discharge port."
