Chapter 2 - The Ballast Tank at Pier 9
The air in the concrete security bunker seemed to thin to nothing.
Leo did not type. The fans on the server rack hummed like a low, metallic dirge.
Marcus did not slam his fist into the console. He did not curse. The stillness that overtook him was an abyss—the kind of subterranean quiet that preceded an offshore squall capable of ripping keels from hulls.
“Locked in the ballast tank,” Marcus repeated. His voice was lower than a whisper, but it made the hairs on my forearms stand on end.
“Yes, sir,” I breathed, the sutures pulling painfully against the raw flesh of my jaw. “She told Victor Vance that an indebted diabetic servant disappearing at sea would never draw an inquiry. She said the harbor police would assume I fell off the service slipway during the midnight gale.”
Marcus reached out. His large, calloused hand came to rest gently beneath my uninjured right chin, his thumb tilting my face up toward the harsh fluorescent glare.
He inspected the two neat rows of black silk stitches, the edge of the surgical gauze, and the mottled violet swelling that ran from my ear down into my collar. His touch was warm, steady, and terrifyingly gentle.
“What was your mother’s name, Elena?”
The question caught in my throat. “Sarah. Sarah Frost. She passed away four years ago.”
“Her father was Thomas Frost,” Marcus murmured, his dark brown eyes holding mine with an intensity that made the floor feel unstable beneath my shoes. “The master rigger at the North End dry docks.”
I blinked through a sudden sheen of tears. “You... you knew my grandfather?”
“Thomas Frost pulled my older brother out of a burning engine room in the winter of ninety-eight,” Marcus said softly. “He took third-degree burns across both hands and never asked for a dime of compensation. He told my father that men who work the water keep each other alive, or the water takes them all.”
He slowly lowered his hand.
“And tonight, his granddaughter took a steel weapon to the jaw to keep my ships from sinking.”
He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew his personal gold money clip. He slid ten crisp, banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills onto the metal desk—one hundred thousand dollars in federal reserve notes.
“Mr. Cross... no,” I stammered, pulling back. “I didn't bring you the card for money. I brought it because she was going to destroy your family.”
“This isn't wages, Elena,” Marcus said, his voice absolute and final. “This is the first draw on a lifetime debt. Your insulin will be delivered by courier to the master suite every Monday. You will never count eighteen dollars in a bank account again.”
He turned to Leo.
“Where is Victor Vance?”
“He’s staging at the Pier 9 maintenance slip, boss,” Leo replied, tapping the terminal. “Sitting in an unmarked surveillance van, monitoring the Coast Guard tactical frequencies, waiting for Vivienne to signal that the convoy has cleared the harbor light.”
A cold, lethal smile curved the corners of Marcus Cross’s lips.
May you like
“Take six tactical operators. Bring Victor Vance to the boathouse cellar. Intact, if possible. If he raises a hand, break both of his collarbones.”
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