Chapter 156 - Beneath the Seawall
The rain over the East River was deafening, the black water churning against the concrete bulkheads of the FDR Drive. We had left the Suburban three blocks away, cutting through the muddy maintenance paths beneath the highway overpass on foot.
My boots sank into the wet gravel, the river spray soaking through my jeans as the freezing March wind bit into my skin. Marcus moved ahead of me like a shadow, low and fast, his heavy dark coat blending completely into the night.
"There," Marcus whispered, pointing to an iron drainage grate partially submerged beneath the high-tide line near the base of the private pier behind 54 Sutton Place.
The townhouse rose above us like a brick fortress, four stories of dark Georgian architecture overlooking the river. A single dim light burned on the third floor, casting a sickly yellow rectangle across the wet slate roof.
"The tide is coming in," I murmured, watching the black water lap against the rusted bars. "The chute will be half-flooded."
"Take a deep breath and keep your weapon dry," Marcus ordered. He reached into his belt, pulled a heavy crowbar from beneath his coat, and wedged it between the iron bars. With a muffled grunt of exertion, his shoulders bunching beneath his soaked wool, he wrenched the grate free. The rusted hinges sheared off with a sharp snap lost beneath the roar of the FDR traffic above.
Marcus slid feet-first into the dark opening. I followed immediately, the freezing river water hitting my waist like a wall of needles. The smell of wet coal dust, motor oil, and ancient river silt filled my throat.
We crawled through forty feet of angled, slippery brick. The chute sloped upward, leaving the water behind, until Marcus’s boots hit solid concrete.
He reached back, grabbed my hands, and hauled me up onto the dry floor of the basement.
The room smelled of dry rot and hot furnace oil. A single overhead bulb cast long, swaying shadows across wooden crates stamped with the Mercer shipping insignia.
Above us, the floorboards creaked. Heavy, rhythmic footsteps moved across the parlor floor directly overhead.
"Two men upstairs," Marcus whispered, leaning close to my ear, his breath warm against my freezing skin. "One on the landing. Liam O’Hara won't be on the ground floor; he’ll be in the master bedroom with the child, waiting for his transport."
"What about the boat?" I asked, checking my pistol's chamber.
"Eleanor was right about one thing," Marcus said grimly. "O’Hara needs to move her by water. The city streets are locked down with police checkpoints because of the signal jamming. A boat is his only clean extraction to Long Island Sound."
Suddenly, the heavy iron door at the top of the basement stairs clicked open.
A bright beam from a tactical flashlight sliced down through the darkness, illuminating the coal dust floating in the air between us.
"Hey!" a rough Boston accent called down into the gloom. "Sully! Did you hear that pipe rattle down there?"
Marcus didn't hesitate. He stepped out from behind the furnace, raised his Colt, and fired twice through the wooden stairs.
The muffled cracks of the suppressed pistol sounded like heavy hammer blows. A sharp cry echoed down from the landing, followed by the heavy, tumbling thud of a body crashing down the steep wooden steps.
The man landed at my feet, his flashlight rolling across the concrete floor, illuminating a pool of dark crimson spreading beneath his neck.
"Move!" Marcus commanded.
May you like
We sprinted up the stairs, leaving the basement behind, and burst into the polished elegance of the Sutton Place foyer just as an alarm siren began to wail through the house.
***
