Chapter 17 - Cold Harbor, Burning Sky
"Down!" Claire yelled into her comms.
The world erupted into fire.
From the crane catwalks, heavy machine guns opened fire, riddling the rusted forklift with a storm of high-caliber rounds. Steel sparkled and shrieked as armor-piercing bullets punched through metal, sending sparks and shrapnel flying through the rain.
Claire rolled sideways into the narrow gap between two green shipping containers just as the forklift’s fuel tank exploded into a brilliant fireball of orange and black smoke.
On the roof above, Frank fired his sniper rifle. The muzzle flash blossomed three times in rapid succession. High up on the crane superstructure, two enemy snipers plummeted forty feet through the rigging, crashing into the concrete dock with sickening thuds.
"Cross is retreating toward the ship's bridge!" Frank barked through the comms. "Claire, the local police sirens are sounding in the distance! Cross called in a fake terrorist attack! The NYPD Tactical Response Unit is four minutes out! If they find you here with these crates, you’ll be gunned down on sight!"
"Buy me two minutes!" Claire shouted back.
She sprinted through the labyrinth of shipping containers, moving with the lethal grace of a predator stalking through tall grass. Her tactical pistol was up, double-tapping two mercenary guards who rounded the corner with submachine guns. Both men dropped before their weapons cleared their holsters.
She emerged onto the main gangway of the ship, ascending the metal stairs toward the bridge. Rain whipped her face, stinging the open cut on her cheek, but she felt no pain.
At the top of the gangway, the bone-masked assassin stood waiting for her.
His bone mask had been shattered on one side from the shotgun blast earlier, revealing half of a horribly scarred face—a map of chemical burns and missing flesh. In his hand, he swung a heavy steel chain hooked to an iron cargo grapple.
"You should have let Margaret kill the child," the assassin hissed, swinging the chain with terrifying velocity. "It would have been cleaner."
He launched the heavy chain forward.
The iron hook tore through the air, aimed directly at Claire’s throat. Claire ducked under the whistling metal, feeling the cold air brush her scalp, and closed the distance with suicidal speed.
She slammed into the assassin's wounded shoulder, driving him back against the ship’s railing. The assassin roared in pain, dropping the chain and locking his massive hands around Claire’s throat, lifting her feet off the metal grating.
Claire’s airway closed instantly. Dark spots exploded across her eyes as his iron grip tightened, crushing her windpipe.
*Fight!* a voice screamed inside her mind. *For Emma! Fight!*
Claire reached down to her utility belt, not for a gun, but for an industrial road flare.
With a savage flick of her wrist, she struck the ignition cap.
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A blinding, three-thousand-degree white-hot phosphorus flame erupted into life. Claire drove the roaring flare directly into the exposed, scarred side of the assassin’s face.
***
