Chương 6 - The Long Night
The third-floor corridor was choked with white, sulfurous smoke that smelled of burned gunpowder and shredded drywall.
At the entrance to the nursery, a second man lay face-down on the braided wool runner, surrounded by a spray of plaster dust and lead pellets. He was not moving; Rosa’s twelve-gauge blast had caught him squarely in the shoulder as he tried to cross the threshold, throwing him backward into the linen closet.
Inside the nursery, Rosa Delgado stood braced in the corner between the crib and the low bookshelf.
Her dark hair had come loose from its disciplined bun, hanging in wild, gray-streaked strands around her face. She held an ancient Remington 870 pump-action shotgun against her hip, her knuckles gray with effort, the barrel pointed directly at the open door. Her chest was heaving, her apron torn at the shoulder, but her eyes were ablaze with a terrifying, primeval clarity.
Behind her, standing upright in the crib with her hands gripping the top rail, was Lily.
The baby was covered in a fine dusting of white plaster from the ceiling. Her smock was crooked. But she was not crying. Her tiny face was red, her lower lip thrust out so far it looked swollen, her eyebrows locked down in a mask of absolute, unyielding rage that mirrored the man who now filled the doorway.
"Rosa," Nathaniel gasped, lowering his weapon.
The shotgun barrel dropped two inches. Rosa looked at him through the smoke, her face sagging with an exhaustion so deep she looked twenty years older.
"You took your time, Nathaniel," she wheezed, her voice raspy from the sulfur.
Nathaniel was across the room in three strides. He dropped his gun onto the braided rug, reached into the crib, and pulled Lily out, crushing her against his chest with a ferocity that would have bruised an adult.
The baby didn't flinch.
The moment her small body hit the damp wool of his shirt, she buried her hands into his open collar, grabbing his skin with her sharp little fingernails. She let out one single, sharp, furious bark of a cry—an angry, scolding sound—and then she leaned back, looked him directly in his bloodshot eyes, and made her face into the knot.
The eyebrows went down. The nose wrinkled. The mouth flattened into that hard, stubborn line.
Nathaniel’s chest heaved. He let out a ragged, half-sob, half-laugh, pressing his face into her hair, which smelled of plaster dust and baby soap.
"I know," he whispered, his body trembling against hers. "I know, Lily. I’m sorry. I’m late."
She stayed locked in that miniature scowl for another five seconds, auditing him, checking for damage, ensuring that the primary asset of her universe was still intact. Then, her little hand reached up, and her thumb found the corner of his eye, wiping away a drop of moisture that hadn't come from the fog.
Downstairs, the heavy wail of emergency sirens began to cut through the night. The flashing blue and red lights of the Boston Police Department painted the nursery ceiling through the lancet windows, turning the white smoke into swirling ribbons of purple and rose.
Evelyn appeared in the doorway, breathing hard, followed by four uniformed police officers with their weapons drawn.
"Clear!" Evelyn shouted to the officers, her voice shaking. "He’s inside! The child is safe!"
Nathaniel turned slowly. He held Lily in the crook of his left arm, his right hand resting flat against her back, keeping her head tucked beneath his chin so she couldn't see the man lying in the corridor.
"Evelyn," Nathaniel said. His voice was no longer that of a corporate executive. It was the voice of a sovereign who had just survived a siege.
"Yes, Nathaniel?"
"Where is Marcus Vance?"
Evelyn adjusted her glasses with a trembling hand. "His private jet is on the tarmac at Hanscom Field. He filed a flight plan for Nassau twenty minutes ago, the moment the Seaway locks started cycling again. He knows the raid failed."
Nathaniel looked down at Lily.
The baby had finally dropped her scowl. She had found his thumb and was holding it tightly, her eyelids fluttering with the sudden, heavy onset of shock and exhaustion.
"Call the tower at Hanscom," Nathaniel said, his voice dropping into a register that made the uniformed police officers at the door trade an uneasy look. "Tell the airport director that Cross Logistics owns the fuel farm at that facility. If Marcus Vance’s plane attempts to taxi onto the runway, cut the power to the ground control grid. Ground him."
"And then?" Evelyn asked.
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"And then," Nathaniel said, turning toward the window where the first gray light of dawn was beginning to tear through the fog over the harbor, "I am going to have breakfast with my daughter. And after that, I am going to put Marcus Vance in a cage."
***
