Chapter 13 - Ash on the Water
The transmission dissolved into a high-pitched drone, followed by the cold, definitive click of a disconnected line. Julian’s world narrowed into a pinpoint of blinding white rage. His blood ran cold; every muscle in his body turned to stone.
""Maya..."" he whispered.
Dominic looked up from the wet deck, his eyes hollow with the sudden realization of their total defeat. ""It was... the foreign syndicate,"" he mumbled through bloodied teeth. ""The Zurich group. They had a tracking team monitoring Vance from the moment he left the compound. They didn't want the ledger... they wanted the girl to leverage the trust assets.""
Julian grabbed Dominic by the collar, lifting the dying man until their faces were inches apart. ""Where did they take her, Dominic? Speak, or I swear to God I will drop you into these propellers alive.""
Dominic shook his head weakly, tears mixing with the rain streaming down his gaunt cheeks. ""The old iron foundry... at the north harbor docks. That’s their staging base before the cargo freighter leaves for international waters at dawn.""
Julian shoved Dominic back onto the wooden pier. He didn't execute him; leaving Dominic to bleed out on the cold, lonely rocks under the mocking sky was a far worse punishment.
""Julian, please!"" Helena pleaded from the hull of the boat, clutching her wounded leg, her designer clothes soaked and ruined. ""Take me with you! You can't leave me here! They’ll kill me!""
Julian looked at his sister with eyes colder than the ocean depths. ""You made your choice, Helena. You chose the boardroom over our father’s life. You can answer to whatever comes down that tunnel.""
With a single fluid strike of his combat knife, Julian severed the mooring lines holding the launch to the pier. He leaped into the pilot's console, punched the dual ignition toggles, and slammed the throttles forward. The twin four-hundred-horsepower outboards roared to life, shooting the boat out of the sea cave and directly into the raging black swells of the Atlantic storm.
Behind him on the rocky jetty, the flashlight beams of the pursuing mercenary unit finally emerged from the tunnel. Gunfire sparked against the dark rocks, and Helena’s shrill screams were abruptly cut short by the hollow, rhythmic thuds of suppressed automatic weapons.
Julian didn't look back. He gripped the steering wheel with one blood-stained hand while pressing a field dressing against the gunshot wound on his ribs. His eyes were fixed on the distant industrial glow of the north harbor docks, where the rusty smokestacks of the iron foundry pierced the storm clouds like broken needles.
He checked his wrist compass: 4:18 AM. Dawn was less than two hours away.
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He pulled out the resin-encased flash drive and slid it into the tactical radio's data port, transmitting an unencrypted emergency broadcast to the international maritime authority, interpol, and every major news network in Western Europe.
If he was going into hell, he was going to make sure the fire burned every corrupt empire to the ground.
