Chapter 77 - The Shadow of the Sirens
Before we could finalize our counter-transmission, the rhythmic, heavy thumping of helicopter blades sliced through the damp fog hanging over Deadman's Shoal.
Marcus instantly lunged across the desk and slammed the laptop shut. He killed our red lamps with a single motion, plunging the old dockmaster's office into pitch-black shadow.
"Emma, down," I hissed, pushing her gently beneath the heavy oak desk and sliding in beside her, shielding her with my body.
Through the cracked, grime-crusted windows of the cannery, a high-intensity spotlight swept across the rotting pilings outside. The harsh beam penetrated the gaps in the corrugated siding, throwing long, skeletal bars of light across the peeling walls.
"They picked up the uplink," Marcus whispered, drawing his sidearm from its holster and racking the slide with a muffled click. "They were monitoring the cellular towers along the coast for any burst transmission tied to the *Vanguard's* master keys."
The chopper hovered low, kicking up a furious vortex of sea spray that rattled the tin roof like hail. The wash of the blades churned the black water beneath the floorboards, making the entire pier shudder.
Over the engine thrum, a voice boomed through an external loudspeaker, echoing against the rocky cliffs of the shoal:
*Vessel registered to Marcus Vance. You are harboring a fugitive from a federal maritime investigation. Power down all systems and prepare to be boarded. Any resistance will be met with lethal force.*
"Federal?" Evelyn breathed, her voice trembling in the dark. "Harlan didn't have federal marshals on his payroll."
"They aren't feds," Marcus spat quietly, keeping his back pressed against the doorway. "Listen to the cadence. No agency identification, no vessel registry call. That's a private rotor-wing belonging to Aegis Vanguard Security—Harlan’s offshore shell contractor. They’re running private mercenaries under a falsified coast guard transponder."
Footsteps sounded on the exterior catwalk—heavy, tactical boots crunching over rotted wood and broken glass.
"David," Marcus murmured, his eyes glittering in the thin sliver of moonlight breaking through the clouds. "The back exit leads straight down to an old bait-loading slip. There’s a rusted flat-bottom skiff tied to the low pilings. It has an old pull-start outboard."
"I’m not leaving you behind, Marcus," I said, adjusting my grip on the dive knife I had retrieved from my gear.
"You aren't leaving me behind," Marcus replied, handing me his spare magazine and a set of keys. "I’m blowing the fuel line on our pursuit boat. The moment they step inside the main shed to clear the perimeter, I trigger the deck flare. That boat has eighty gallons of high-octane diesel sitting in a breached auxiliary tank."
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He looked down at Emma, his rough, weathered face softening for a split second. "Get her to the mainland, David. Finish what you started at that house."
Before I could answer, the rotted wooden door at the far end of the processing hall burst inward with a splintering crash.
