Chapter 7 - THE SISTER'S WAR AND THE HARBOR TUNNELS
I climbed into the back of the sedan, my heart pounding.
Francesca hit the partition glass, and the driver floored the accelerator toward the harbor.
“How did you escape the sitting room?” I gasped, staring at Adrian’s sister. She looked exhausted, her clothes rumpled, but her eyes held the same fierce, unyielding fire as her brother’s.
“I didn’t escape,” Francesca said, her voice tight. “When I found out Sloane was selling me out to Dominic, I knew the mansion wasn't safe. I staged the blood, dropped my coat, and slipped out before Dominic’s men even reached the second floor. I had to make them think I was dead so they wouldn't rush the execution order on my son.”
The answer hit me. Francesca wasn’t a victim fleeing in the night. She was a mother playing a lethal game of chess.
“But your medical bracelet,” I said. “You left it.”
Francesca touched her bare wrist. “It has a GPS tracker in it. I knew Dominic’s hackers would trace it. I left it there to keep their eyes on the estate while I went to secure weapons.”
She looked at the pistol Adrian had given me. “My brother trusts you. That means I trust you. Do you really know the service tunnels under Pier 4?”
“My dad built them,” I nodded. “There’s a drainage grate near the south seawall. It leads directly beneath the main shipping containers.”
“Good,” Francesca said, racking the bolt of her rifle. “My son’s name is Leo. He’s five. He likes dinosaurs. We are not leaving without him.”
We arrived at Pier 4 just as the freezing rain began to fall. The docks were a labyrinth of rusted metal shipping containers, illuminated by harsh yellow floodlights.
Francesca’s driver parked two blocks away. We moved on foot, slipping through the shadows of the chain-link fence.
I led Francesca to the south seawall. The tide was low, exposing the heavy iron drainage grate my father had installed years ago. We pulled it open and crawled into the damp, echoing tunnel.
We moved in silence for what felt like hours, the smell of salt and rust filling our lungs. Finally, we reached a heavy metal ladder leading up to a maintenance hatch.
“This should put us right in the center of Sector B,” I whispered.
Francesca nodded. She pushed the hatch open an inch.
Above us, the heavy boots of Dominic’s guards paced the concrete. Through the crack, we could see a single red shipping container surrounded by four men with automatic weapons.
“He’s in there,” Francesca whispered, her breath hitching.
She pulled a flashbang grenade from her tactical vest. “When this goes off, close your eyes. Then run straight for the container doors. I’ll handle the guards.”
I gripped my small pistol, nodding.
Francesca pushed the hatch open, pulled the pin, and hurled the grenade.
A blinding flash of white light and a deafening boom rocked the pier.
I scrambled out of the hole, sprinting through the smoke toward the red container. Gunfire erupted behind me as Francesca moved with terrifying precision, dropping two guards before they could even clear their eyes.
I reached the heavy metal locking bars of the container. I grabbed the handle and heaved with all my strength.
The door swung open, revealing the dark, freezing interior.
“Leo!” I called out. “Leo, it’s okay! Your mommy sent me!”
I heard a small whimper from the back. I rushed in and found a little boy huddled behind a wooden crate, clutching his knees. He looked up at me with huge, terrified brown eyes.
“Are you Grace?” he whispered.
“Yes, sweetie. Let’s go.”
I scooped him into my arms, feeling how freezing cold he was.
As I turned to run out, the smoke cleared.
Standing at the entrance of the container, blocking our only exit, was Marcus. The traitorous head of security.
He aimed his gun directly at my chest.
“Put the kid down, Grace,” Marcus smiled, a cruel, empty expression on his face. “Dominic wants him alive. But he doesn’t care about the maid.”
I froze, shielding Leo with my body. Francesca was pinned down behind some crates fifty yards away, trading fire with the remaining guards. She couldn’t see us.
“Marcus, please,” I pleaded.
He pulled the hammer back on his gun.
But before he could pull the trigger, a sharp, metallic click echoed from behind him.
Marcus stiffened.
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Stepping out from the shadows of the adjacent container was a woman with silver hair pinned in a loose bun, holding a heavy shotgun leveled squarely at the back of Marcus’s head.
It was Mrs. Keene.
