Chapter 21 - The Surge of the Midnight Tide
Sterling did not flinch, but his eyes narrowed as Arthur stepped out onto the iron catwalk above the dock, the crowbar resting across his shoulder, his stance balanced and lethal against the sea wind.
"Arthur," Sterling said, tilting his head with genuine amusement. "I must congratulate you. Dying was an inspired bit of tax avoidance. But you overstayed your resurrection."
"Let the boy go, Julian," Arthur said, descending the stone stairs with measured, deliberate steps. "The Antwerp consortium has no legal claim. I deposited the original escrow receipts and the cancellation affidavits in Box 714 at the Atlantic Avenue repository three hours before Richard was arrested."
Sterling chuckled softly, tapping the leather folio against his thigh. "Box 714 was cleared by our couriers twenty minutes ago, Arthur. You always were too trusting of commercial vaults. We hold the paper. We hold the land. And now, we hold your entire bloodline in one very convenient tide-pool."
Sterling nodded slightly to the man on the right.
The heavy-set man in the tactical jacket raised a silenced automatic pistol, leveling it directly at Daniel’s chest.
"Arthur!" I screamed, stepping from the shadows of the chapel archway onto the upper landing, leveling Jessica’s revolver with both hands, aiming straight at Sterling’s heart. "Step away from my son!"
The second henchman spun toward me, raising his weapon, but before he could acquire his target, the deafening roar of twin marine engines shattered the sea-spray outside the cavern mouth.
A high-speed Coast Guard tactical interceptor, its blue law-enforcement flashers slicing through the heavy mist, slammed into the mouth of the cove, its bow wave tossing Sterling’s tender violently against the stone pilings. Over the vessel’s public address system, Catherine Ross’s voice boomed, magnified by five hundred watts of maritime audio:
*Federal Marshals! Drop your weapons! Julian Sterling, you are surrounded!*
Chaos erupted across the slick timber dock.
The gunman beside Daniel turned toward the incoming cutter, his aim wavering. Arthur leaped the final four steps, swinging the heavy iron crowbar with all the fury of fifteen years of exile, striking the gunman's arm and sending the weapon spinning into the churning black water. Daniel threw his weight sideways, knocking the second guard off balance just as the man pulled the trigger—the round gouging a deep scar into the creosote timber above Daniel's shoulder.
I pulled the hammer back on the revolver, screaming for Daniel to stay down.
Sterling, realizing the trap had collapsed, snatched the leather folio from the drafting table and sprinted toward the stern of his tender. "Cast off!" he roared to his pilot. "Cast off now!"
Arthur lunged across the dock to seize Sterling’s coat, his fingers catching the heavy cashmere just as the vessel's twin turbines surged with a deafening roar. The heavy nylon mooring line snapped under the violent torque, lashing across the dock like a bullwhip.
The thick hawser caught Arthur across the chest, lifting him clean off his feet and throwing him backward against the jagged granite rocks at the base of the cliff.
"Arthur!" I shrieked, tumbling down the wet stone stairs, completely ignoring the federal marshals swarming down the slip with tactical carbines raised.
Daniel broke free of his severed ropes, scrambling on hands and knees across the blood-slicked stone to where his father lay crumpled against the rocks. The Coast Guard cutter swept past, its searchlights blinding us, pursuing Sterling’s speeding boat out into the black, storm-tossed mouth of the Atlantic.
Arthur lay on the wet slate, his breath coming in shallow, bubbling gasps. A dark, crimson stain was rapidly blooming through the front of his wool shirt where the shattered timber had struck his ribs. His hand, cold and slick with seawater, reached out blindly until Daniel grasped it.
"Dad... Dad, stay with me," Daniel wept, pressing both hands against Arthur's chest to staunch the bleeding. "The medics are right behind them! Look at me, Dad!"
Arthur turned his head weakly toward me, his lips trembling into a faint, heartbreaking smile as I dropped to my knees beside him, gathering his head into my lap.
"Margaret..." he whispered, his voice fading beneath the roar of the incoming surf. "The box... Box 714... it was never the receipts..."
"Hush, Arthur, don't talk," I sobbed, tears blinding my eyes as the sirens began to wail along the bluff road above. "You're going to be fine. We're going home."
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"No..." Arthur choked, his eyes widening with a sudden, desperate urgency as his fingers dug into Daniel’s wrist with surprising strength. "Listen to me, Daniel... Box 714 was... the second will. Your mother... she isn't..."
Before the word could leave his lips, Arthur’s head fell back against my knees, his eyes rolling back as the mechanical shriek of the approaching ambulance siren cut through the midnight gale, leaving the rest of his secret drowned in the rising black water.
