Chapter 85 - Black Ice and Broken Glass
Descending the steep cliff path to the marina nearly broke me. Every step on the wet shale sent lances of fire shooting through the shrapnel wound in my shoulder. Noah grew restless, letting out small, muffled cries that I hushed with desperate whispers, pressing drops of clean water from my canteen onto his dry lips.
"Hang on, baby. Mommy's got you. Mommy won't let them touch you."
By the time I reached the rotting wooden docks of the abandoned logging depot, dawn was threatening to break. The eastern horizon was turning a bruised shade of purple and slate gray, bleeding cold morning light over the dark waters of the inlet.
Tied to the furthest mooring was an old twin-engine river patrol boat—outdated, scarred with peeling green paint, but heavily built with steel-reinforced fiberglass hulls designed to break through morning ice.
I jumped onto the deck, winced as my bruised ribs flared in protest, and ducked into the small cabin.
The starter key was gone, but hotwiring an ignition was the first thing my father had taught me before he was ruined by the Vance family's predatory banks twenty years ago. I pulled the panel beneath the wheel, stripped the two primary ignition leads, and sparked them against each other.
The twin diesel engines coughed, sputtered black exhaust, and then roared to life with a deep, throaty rumble that shook the wooden slip.
On the dashboard, an emergency satellite receiver still flickered with marine weather updates. But within seconds, the screen hijacked itself. The screen turned stark white, displaying the Vance corporate crest—the twin serpents entwined around a golden scale.
Eleanor’s face replaced the logo. She was seated in the leather interior of a luxury private jet, a glass of amber whiskey in her manicured hand, completely unbothered by the trail of blood and wreckage behind her.
"You really are your father's daughter, Clara," Eleanor said smoothly, her voice crisp through the boat’s crackling cabin speaker. "Stubborn. Relentless. Driven by sentimentality instead of logic. Did you truly think you could escape a closed net?"
"I don't need to escape the net, Eleanor," I said, casting off the heavy mooring lines with one hand while keeping Noah shielded against my chest. "I just need to tear the throat out of the fisherman."
"Look out your cabin window, my dear."
May you like
I froze, turning my eyes toward the mouth of the harbor.
Cutting through the morning fog, three sleek, dark gray interceptor gunboats were closing in formation, their bows throwing white foam as they blocked the channel leading out to open sea.
