Chapter 6 - The Broken Harbor
Falcon burst into the steel loft. Rosie was sitting on the floor, lining up small plastic spools of thread by color. She looked up with wide, questioning eyes, sensing the sudden shift in the air before he even spoke. Children raised in hiding develop an animal instinct for terror.
"Shoes, Rosie," Falcon said, his tone gentle, steady, yet leaving no room for delay. "We’re going on a trip."
The three-year-old scrambled without crying, slipping her small feet into her red canvas shoes. Falcon scooped her up in one arm, threw a canvas rucksack over his shoulder, and kicked down the secondary escape hatch that led directly out to the gantry overlooking the water.
Outside, the late afternoon sky was bruised purple, heavy with an approaching autumn squall. Down on the tarmac, two black sedans were already creeping between the mountains of rusted shipping containers. Four men stepped out, their faces obscured by the shadows of their trench coats.
Falcon moved like a phantom along the catwalk. He reached the crane platform, hitting the manual release that sent an empty iron cradle swinging toward the far dock. Clasping Rosie securely against his ribcage with his left arm, he caught the chain of the swinging cradle with his right hand, riding the arc over the open water before dropping ten feet into the soft silt of the low-tide shore.
"Hold onto my neck," he whispered against her ear. Rosie buried her face into the collar of his denim jacket, her tiny fingers clutching the fabric with all her strength.
They ducked under the wooden piers, water lapping at his boots. Ahead lay the rusted perimeter fence that opened onto the industrial rail spur. But as Falcon rounded the pillar of the coal chute, a figure stepped out from behind a concrete stanchion, blocking the way.
It was Victor, Lucian Vane’s brother. Thinner, sharper, with predatory eyes and a silver-tipped walking cane. In his gloved right hand was a compact automatic pistol with an elongated suppressor.
"Jax," Victor said, his lips curling into a triumphant sneer. "Ten years you ran our private security. Did you really think you could vanish behind a welder's mask? And you took my brother's prize."
Falcon shifted Rosie behind his right shoulder, shielding her entirely from view. His left hand drifted casually toward his jacket pocket.
"She’s an orphan, Victor. She has nothing to do with Vane's empire. Walk away."
"An orphan?" Victor chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "She is the sole heir to the Blackwood estate, Jax. Lucian can't break the family trusts without her signature—or her death certificate. You know how this business works. No loose ends."
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Victor leveled the gun at Falcon’s chest.
Before the man could pull the trigger, the scream of a diesel train horn ripped through the fog behind him. Falcon lunged forward, throwing his entire weight not away from the gun, but directly toward the shooter.
