Chapter 8 - The Ghost of the Docks
Julian vanished into the darkness with a strangled cry, followed a second later by a dull splash swallowed instantly by the roaring floodwaters. Diana did not watch him fall. She spun around immediately, dropping to her knees beside Marcus.
The veteran operative was breathing in short, shallow gasps, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips. The round had found the seam in his tactical vest, piercing his lung. His fingers gripped Diana’s forearm with fading strength.
“The boat...” Marcus rasped, coughing weakly. “Piers... twenty-two. Old man... waiting.”
“Save your breath, Marcus,” Diana said, pressing her hands firmly against his chest wound, trying to stem the arterial tide. “We’re taking you with us.”
Marcus managed a faint, bloody smile, shaking his head. “I was paid... to die for the house of Sterling ten years ago, Lady Diana. Just making good... on the contract.” He looked past her, his eyes locking onto Lily, who was trembling, clutching the hem of Diana’s dress. “Protect... the lineage.”
His hand slipped from her arm, falling limply against the wet metal grate. His eyes stared blankly up at the cavernous ceiling, reflecting the distant glare of the floodlights.
Diana closed his eyes with two steady fingers. She paused for a single second, allowing the weight of the moment to pass through her, then stood up. Grief was a luxury she could not afford.
She scooped Lily into her arms, securing the shivering girl against her chest. “Hold on tight, baby,” she said, her voice steady and warm despite the cold rain. “We have to run now.”
They navigated the remaining high catwalks, moving westward through the industrial complex as the floodwaters completely consumed the lower staging ground. Diana reached the emergency egress tunnel that cut through the old river levee, emerging five minutes later onto a deserted wooden pier slick with fog.
The smell of salt and rotting timber filled the air. Moored to the rusted pilings was a sleek, matte-black offshore interceptor craft, its twin engines purring with a low, muffled rumble. Standing on the deck under the yellow halo of a single lantern was an elderly man dressed in an oilskin coat, leaning heavily on a silver-headed cane.
He looked up as Diana approached the gangway. His hair was silver-white, his face carved with the cruel, unyielding lines of a man who had ruled an underworld empire for half a century.
May you like
Arthur Sterling. Her father.
“You’re late, Diana,” the old man said, his voice like grinding stones. “And you’ve made quite a mess of Alexander’s little party.”
