Chapter 11 - The Blackout at the Docks
The junction box detonated in a violent shower of blue sparks, plunging the cavernous transit shed into suffocating blackness.
Shouts and the sharp metallic clicking of weapon safeties echoed through the void. Tactical flashlights flared to life instantly, their beams crisscrossing like white spears through the dusty air.
"Do not shoot the girl!" Julian roared in the dark. "Kill the woman! Bring me the girl!"
Victoria didn't run toward the main exit. She knew the layout of the old harbor; the transit hub backed onto the old cold-storage loading dock overhanging the bay. She grabbed Clara’s hand and moved swiftly along the row of metal lockers, keeping low beneath the line of sweeping flashlights.
A burst of automatic fire ripped through the metal lockers above their heads, sending jagged shards of tin and lead whistling through the corridor. Clara gasped, dropping to her knees as a ricochet struck the concrete an inch from her foot.
Victoria swept the girl up into her arms, ignoring the screaming pain in her own back where the shrapnel from the explosion had burned into her flesh. She kicked open the rusted emergency door leading to the outdoor piers.
The storm was at its zenith. Freezing rain slammed against the concrete docks, and the black waters of the bay churned violently against the pilings ten feet below.
Behind them, the emergency door flew open. A flashlight beam pinned Victoria against the safety rail.
"End of the line, Mrs. Vance," one of Julian’s operatives shouted, stepping onto the wet wood of the pier, his submachine gun leveled at her chest.
Before he could squeeze the trigger, a vehicle engine roared from the access road behind him. A high-beam glare engulfed the shooter, followed by the deafening sound of tires screeching on slick concrete.
The black town car struck the gunman with brutal force, sending him flying into the icy black waters below.
The car door swung open. A battered, bleeding figure stepped out into the rain, clutching his shattered ribs.
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It was not Arthur.
It was Richard Vance, his silk tuxedo soaked in mud, his face contorted with a mixture of terror and desperate rage.
