Chapter 8 - The Subterranean Exchange
The damp chill of the subterranean tunnel wrapped around us like a wet blanket.
Water dripped somewhere in the distance, echoing off the curved brick arches of a nineteenth-century storm drain that had been converted into a private transit corridor decades ago.
“Where does this lead?” I asked, keeping close to Dominic’s shoulder as we stepped out of the elevator car onto the slick concrete floor.
“Straight to the bulkhead slip behind the South Street Seaport,” Dominic answered, leading the way with his pistol raised and pointed down the dim corridor. “There’s a private launch waiting. We have about four minutes before Vance’s tactical team realizes the service elevator bypasses the street-level blockades.”
“I’m not running away with you, Mr. Russo,” I stopped walking, planting my feet firmly against the damp concrete. “You gave me a check for my mother’s medical care, and I appreciate that more than you’ll ever know. But I am not a fugitive. I have a dissertation to finish, a defense committee waiting in Morningside Heights, and a life that doesn't involve dodging federal indictments in a sewer.”
Dominic stopped, turning back to look at me in the dim light. The hard, ruthless mafia boss facade melted away for a brief, startling moment, replaced by an intense, heavy vulnerability.
“You think you can just walk back onto a Columbia campus tomorrow morning and pretend none of this happened?” Dominic asked, taking a step closer. “Vance saw you in that office. He saw you take my retainer. To the federal government, you aren't just an innocent student anymore—you’re an unindicted co-conspirator who just dismantled a federal wiretap operation with a single legal reference.”
My breath hitched. The chilling reality of his words settled over me like lead.
He was right. In the eyes of the Justice Department, my academic expertise had just crossed the line from theoretical research into active operational interference.
Before I could answer, a sharp, metallic echo reverberated down the tunnel behind us—the distinct sound of heavy boots hitting the concrete stairs of the service shaft we had just abandoned.
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“They’re in the sub-level!” a distant voice shouted through the damp air. “Cut off the bulkhead exit!”
Dominic grabbed my arm, his grip firm but not bruising. “We can argue about your dissertation on the boat, Casey. Right now, we move.”
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