Chapter 11 - Washed Ashore
The shock of the freezing sea felt like a thousand needles driving into Julian’s flesh. The water was pitch black, churning with crosscurrents that threatened to rip Sarah from his grip. He fought his way toward the surface, his lungs screaming for air, his heavy leather shoes dragging him down like anchors.
He broke the surface with a ragged gasp, salt water filling his mouth and nostrils. Above him, sixty feet up, the silhouette of the ruined harbor master's office was framed by the rain. Three distinct beams of high-powered flashlights swept across the frothing black water, cutting through the swells like searchlights on a prison yard.
Julian didn't try to swim toward the dock. He let the fierce harbor rip current drag them away, floating on his back while keeping Sarah’s chin above the surface. He kicked toward the southern shore, where a line of abandoned rail yards met a strip of jagged, rocky shoreline.
Every kick was pure agony. His tailored suit was soaked through, weighing fifty pounds, but he refused to release Sarah. She was limp, her head lolling against his shoulder, her pulse weak but faintly fluttering beneath his cold fingers.
After what felt like hours of fighting the swells, Julian’s knees scraped against jagged river rocks. He dragged himself through the freezing surf, hauling Sarah onto a patch of black, oil-slicked gravel beneath the pilings of an abandoned rail bridge.
He collapsed beside her, vomiting salt water onto the rocks. His entire body shook violently from hypothermia. He reached into his coat pocket—the cassette tape and the sealed manila envelope were still there, protected by the heavy waterproof lining of his inner pocket.
Julian crawled to Sarah’s side, pressing his thumb against her carotid artery. Her skin was ice-cold, her lips tinged blue, but her heart was still beating. The bullet had passed cleanly through the fleshy part of her shoulder, washed clean by the sea water, but she was going into shock.
""Sarah... wake up,"" Julian whispered, shaking her gently. ""We need to move. They'll search the shoreline.""
Sarah’s eyelids fluttered open, dark with pain. She looked up at Julian through the shadows of the bridge. ""Julian... you have to listen to me.""
""Don't speak. I'm getting you to a clinic.""
""No clinics,"" she gasped, her hand feebly clutching his wet lapel. ""Richard owns the board of County Health. Every gunshot wound gets reported to his private security team within ten minutes.""
""Then where do we go?""
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Sarah coughed, spitting a mixture of seawater and blood onto the gravel. ""The rail yard... warehouse seven. An old friend of Thomas runs an underground freight line. His name is Frank. Tell him... tell him the sparrow has returned to the nest.""
Julian looked up through the girders of the bridge toward the distant hills of Crestview Terrace. He knew Richard would have already dispatched men to Oakhaven. His wife and daughter were in lethal danger, and his only allies were a half-dead woman and a rusted cassette tape from nineteen ninety-nine.
