Chapter 9 - The Harbor Slip
We broke out of the subterranean tunnel into the blinding glare of the Manhattan night, the cool salt air of the East River hitting our faces with a sudden rush.
Before us lay a sleek, black, unlit cigarette boat idling quietly against a private wooden pier, its twin inboard engines humming with a subdued, powerful vibration. A man in a dark turtleneck stood at the helm, holding a heavy mooring line ready to cast off the second we cleared the dock.
“Boss!” the man called out, waving us forward. “Federal cruisers just locked down the FDR access ramp. We’ve got to move now!”
Dominic shoved me toward the gunwale of the boat, helping me step down onto the non-skid deck before vaulting aboard himself.
“Push off, Marco!” Dominic commanded, drawing a collapsible stock rifle from a compartment beneath the console.
Marco kicked the mooring line free, and the boat surged forward instantly, slicing through the dark, choppy waters of the river with a roar that drowned out the distant sirens wailing from the street above.
I sat on the padded bench seat in the stern, gripping the stainless steel grab rail as the skyline of lower Manhattan—the glittering towers of finance, power, and law—blurred into a streak of amber and neon lights against the dark autumn sky.
My phone buzzed loudly in my apron pocket.
I pulled it out with a trembling hand. It was a text message from an Ohio number—the billing department of the St. Jude Medical Center in Columbus.
Payment received in full. Patient Mary Miller’s dialysis and transplant registry status have been successfully verified and secured for the next twelve months.
I stared at the screen, the fifty-thousand-dollar check still clutched tightly in my other hand, realizing with sudden, dizzying clarity that my mother’s life had just been bought and paid for with dirty money from a syndicate boss who was currently fleeing federal prosecution.
Dominic walked back from the helm, crouching down beside me on the bench as the boat cut across the open bay toward the New Jersey coastline.
“Your mother’s safe,” Dominic said quietly, reading the expression on my face. “Whatever happens to me tonight, that part doesn't change.”
“Why?” I asked, turning my head to look him straight in the eye, the wind whipping my hair across my face. “Why did you help me? You didn't even know who I was an hour ago.”
May you like
Dominic smiled faintly, a tired, distant expression. “Because thirty years ago, my mother sat in a charity hospital in Little Italy waiting for a check that never cleared. I swore a long time ago that anyone who understood the value of a single paragraph wouldn't have to beg for a life.”
Before I could reply, the dark shape of a high-speed U.S. Coast Guard interceptor peeled out from beneath the Brooklyn Bridge, its blue emergency strobes flashing to life, cutting a blinding swath across the dark water directly toward our stern.
Related Stories
