Chapter 9: Breaking Through the Net
Chaos erupted outside the warehouse doors as heavy boots crunched across the gravel and gruff voices barked crisp tactical commands. There was no time for hesitation, no room for fear. Grabbing Leo by the sleeve of his jacket, I pulled him toward the rear loading bay where a rusted metal fire escape led down to the dark waters of the slip below.
“This way!” I shouted over the rising roar of shouting men and slamming vehicle doors.
We burst through the emergency exit just as the front sliding door of the warehouse crashed open with a deafening bang. Flashlight beams cut wildly across the steel scaffolding above us as we scrambled down the rusted rungs of the ladder, the cold salt spray stinging our faces. Below us bobbed a small, motorized utility skiff tied to a rotting wooden piling—an old emergency boat Leo must have kept ready for a hasty exit.
“Get in!” Leo yelled, dropping down into the bouncing hull and pulling the starter cord with a sharp yank. The outboard motor coughed twice before roaring to life with a thick cloud of blue exhaust smoke.
I vaulted down into the rolling boat just as two security guards appeared on the loading dock above us, their flashlights pinning us in a harsh, glaring circle of white light. A bullhorn crackled to life, echoing off the concrete walls: “Stop where you are! Turn the vessel around or we will open fire!”
Leo slammed the throttle forward, spinning the skiff around in a wide, foaming arc that sent icy water splashing over the gunwales. I ducked low, shielding my face with my arms, waiting for the crack of gunfire that never came. Marcus Vance preferred quiet corporate disappearances to messy public shootings, especially near the docks where stray witnesses might be watching from passing cargo freighters.
As the skiff surged out into the open bay, leaving the shouting guards far behind in the mist, I looked down at my hand. The silver USB drive was still clutched safely in my glove. We had the evidence. The digital fortress of the Vance Foundation had just been breached.
Thirty minutes later, we pulled up to a hidden wooden pier half a mile down the coastline where Arthur was waiting with the truck. When we piled back into the cab, shivering and soaked to the bone, Thomas and Emily stirred from their fitful sleep. Thomas looked up at me with his pale, trusting eyes, his small fingers still wrapped in the sleeve of my oversized sweater.
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“Did you get what we needed, Mom?” he asked softly, his voice steady despite the lingering trauma of his captivity.
“Yes, sweetheart,” I said, pulling both children into a fierce, protective embrace while handing the drive over to Arthur for safekeeping. “We have everything we need to bring your father down once and for all.”
