Chapter 11 - The Dry Docks of Saint-Nazaire
The Atlantic gale slammed against the aircraft's cockpit glass as the low, industrial skyline of Saint-Nazaire emerged through the dense sea fog. Vincent had flown for three agonizing hours barely fifty feet above the tree lines and coastal hills, keeping the aircraft completely invisible to ground-based radar networks.
He brought the plane down hard onto a desolate, decommissioned military runway bordering the coastal salt marshes. The landing gear groaned under the stress, but the tires held.
Vincent killed the engines immediately. The silence that rushed back into the cabin was broken only by the howling Atlantic wind and the distant, rhythmic clang of shipyard cranes operating in the deep-water harbor three miles away.
He turned back to the cabin. Leo was awake, sitting perfectly upright, his hands gripping the edges of his seat.
""Leo,"" Vincent said, unbuckling his harness and moving to the rear. He opened the tactical crate, withdrawing a lightweight tactical vest and fitting it snugly over Leo's canvas coveralls. ""From this moment on, you stay inside this fuselage until I return with your mother.""
""No,"" Leo said immediately, his voice surprisingly firm for an eight-year-old child. His chin tilted up, mirroring Vincent’s own stubborn line of the jaw. ""Mother said Julian will execute her the moment the papers are processed. The board meeting is at dawn, isn't it?""
Vincent checked his chronometer. It was 4:15 AM. In less than two hours, Julian would produce forged notarized signatures, Clara's forced biometric authorizations, and officially assume control of the empire.
""Leo, it is too dangerous,"" Vincent insisted.
""You need me,"" Leo said, holding up the silver medallion hanging from his neck. ""Julian has Clara locked in the vault of dry dock four. She told me when they took her that the door uses a retinal scan and my thumbprint. Julian can't open it without cutting off my finger, Grandfather. He doesn't know you have me. He thinks I'm dead in Paris.""
Vincent stared at the boy. The realization struck him with profound weight: Leo was not merely an innocent victim in this war; he was Clara’s ultimate insurance policy.
""Very well,"" Vincent said quietly, checking the action on his suppressed rifle and securing it to his chest. ""We move together. But if I say run, you run toward the sea and do not look back.""
They left the plane hidden beneath the dense gorse bushes of the marsh and moved on foot through the shadow of the colossal shipyard. Massive cargo vessels hung suspended in mid-air inside the enormous concrete dry docks. Floodlights swept across the perimeter fences, where private armed guards wearing the corporate insignia of Julian’s shell companies paced with German shepherds.
Vincent tracked the patrol rotations with practiced eyes. He led Leo beneath the elevated crane tracks, avoiding the searchlights by slipping through the storm water runoff ditches.
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As they reached the edge of Dry Dock Four, Vincent saw an armored command convoy parked outside the administrative building.
And standing on the catwalk above the massive concrete chasm was Julian de La Tour, wrapped in a black cashmere overcoat, speaking aggressively into a satellite phone while two heavily armed mercenaries stood guard behind him.
