Chapter 10 - Pier Forty-Two
Rain lashed against the windshield of Julian’s SUV as he blew through three consecutive red lights along the industrial waterfront. The storm had rolled in off the Atlantic, turning the harbor into a churning cauldron of black water and gray foam.
His phone sat on the dashboard, connected to Claire via the speaker system.
"I tried to stop them, Julian!" Claire was shouting through tears, her voice punctuated by the sound of sirens and hospital alarms in the background. "Two men in paramedic uniforms came in with a critical transfer order signed by the chief of pediatrics! When I demanded verification, one of them pulled a taser on me! They took her in a transport incubator! They took your baby!"
"It wasn't your fault, Claire," Julian said, his knuckles turning white against the leather steering wheel. "Listen to me carefully. Is Elena still safe?"
"Yes! We moved her into the sterile surgical suite behind biometric locks! Dr. Vance is with her, and the local precinct has twelve armed officers guarding the door! But Maya... Julian, she can only survive outside that incubator for forty-five minutes without the specialized nitric oxide feed! Her lungs will collapse!"
"I know where they are," Julian said, his voice flat, drained of all panic, replaced by an icy, terrifying clarity. "Pier Forty-Two. Marcus has an offshore cargo ship docked there. He’s taking her to international waters where no state warrant can touch him."
"Julian, wait for the police!" Claire pleaded. "You can't go in there alone!"
"If I wait for the state troopers, my daughter suffocates in the cargo hold," Julian said. "Claire... if I don't come back, Elena's power of attorney transfers to you. The trust documents in my coat make you the sole surviving executor of the Sterling estate. Protect her."
"Julian, don't—"
He tapped the screen, severing the connection.
Ahead, through the sheets of driving rain, the rusted corrugated iron gates of Pier Forty-Two loomed out of the darkness like the ribs of an ancient leviathan. A weathered sign read: Sterling Global Logistics – Private Commercial Wharf.
Julian killed the SUV's headlights. He shifted into third gear and slammed his foot down on the accelerator.
The two-ton vehicle surged forward, hurtling through the driving rain. The front steel brush-guard hit the chain-link gates with an apocalyptic crash of shearing metal and snapping padlocks. The SUV plowed through, tires spinning on wet timber and diesel-slicked concrete, sliding to a violent halt behind a stack of rusted shipping containers.
Julian kicked open the driver's door, the stolen suppressed pistol already drawn.
Ahead, tied to the rotting pylons of the deep-water slip, was an eighty-foot luxury motor yacht named The Sovereign. Its twin marine diesel engines were rumbling low in the water, spewing plumes of pale exhaust into the stormy night.
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On the aft deck, illuminated by harsh halogen floodlights, stood three men in tactical gear.
And standing at the top of the boarding gangway, wrapped in a cashmere trench coat, holding a portable, clear acrylic travel-incubator in his left hand, was Marcus Sterling.
