Chapter 7 - SHADOWS OVER MARSEILLE
The limestone cliffs of the Calanques rose like jagged cathedral spires against the pale dawn light as the Vengeance glided silently into a secluded, private cove three miles west of Marseille.
There were no tourist yachts here.
No customs officials.
Just the gray, industrial concrete of Berth 9—an abandoned submarine pen dating back to the Second World War, now leased under a shell corporation linked directly to Richard Vance’s European logistics network.
Christian stood at the helm, his dark tactical jacket zipped to his throat, binoculars pressed to his eyes.
Behind us, Sofia was awake, her sensory glasses humming softly as she sat beside Grandma Isabella, listening to the old woman recount stories of the Genoa coastline before the syndicate wars tore their family apart.
“Maya,” Christian called out without lowering the binoculars.
I stepped up beside him on the bridge.
“Yes, Mr. Vance?”
“Look through the thermal scope at the northern gantry crane.”
I took the heavy rubber-armored binoculars from his hands, adjusting the focus dial until the grainy grayscale image sharpened into focus.
A massive gantry crane loomed over a dry dock where the skeletal hull of an experimental stealth submersible sat half-submerged in the greenish-gray Mediterranean water.
Surrounding the dry dock were twelve armed mercenaries wearing unmarked black tactical gear, their assault rifles slung across their chests as they patrolled the perimeter fence.
“That’s not a commercial salvage operation,” I whispered, lowering the binoculars. “That’s an active naval black site.”
“It’s Richard’s secondary headquarters,” Christian replied coldly. “He knew the Miami terminal was a liability. If our domestic assets burned, he intended to pivot his entire arms operation here within forty-eight hours.”
He turned to face me, his massive shoulders blocking the cool morning breeze coming off the cliffs.
“We’re going ashore in ten minutes.”
“You want me to stay with Sofia on the boat?” I asked quickly.
Christian shook his head.
“No. Sofia stays with Isabella aboard the interceptor under Miller’s guard. You’re coming with me.”
My breath caught in my throat.
“Me? On a tactical infiltration?”
“You have a photographic memory,” Christian said, his voice brooking no argument. “You spent three hours cleaning Richard’s private office on Star Island last month and memorized every ledger entry he owned. When we get inside that submarine pen, I need someone who can identify the master decryption keys before the security grid locks down.”
I swallowed hard, the reality of my new life sinking in.
I was no longer just an unlisted cleaning girl scrubbing silver tureens to pay for heart medication.
I was an operative in a syndicate war.
“Okay,” I said, lifting my chin. “Let’s go.”
Ten minutes later, the rubber Zodiac inflatable touched the slippery concrete of the Marseille slipway without a sound.
Christian vaulted over the bow first, his boots hitting the dock with athletic precision.
I followed right behind him, the damp sea air stinging my cheeks as we slipped into the cavernous, echoing shadows of the abandoned submarine pen.
The air inside smelled of stale diesel fuel, ozone, and wet concrete.
Row upon row of steel cargo containers stretched away into the gloom, bearing false labels of pharmaceutical shipments.
Christian signaled with two fingers, motioning toward a rusted steel staircase that led up to the control mezzanine overlooking the dry dock.
We crept upward in absolute silence.
At the top of the stairs, a heavy reinforced security door barred our way.
A digital keypad blinked with a red indicator light.
“Code?” Christian whispered, looking down at me.
I closed my eyes for three seconds, letting my mind travel back to the mahogany desk on Star Island where Richard had casually tossed his personal day-planner.
December 14th.
The coordinates of the Genoa vault.
04-12-98.
I reached out my hand and punched the four digits into the keypad with crisp, rhythmic precision.
Bip-bip-bip-bip.
The red light blinked green.
Clack.
May you like
The heavy steel door swung inward, revealing Richard Vance sitting at a steel desk inside the control room, his bruised face illuminated by the blue glow of three massive computer monitors as he calmly loaded a fresh magazine into his sidearm.
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