Chapter 78 - The Harbor of Phantoms
"Go!" Marcus shoved me toward the narrow trapdoor behind the desk.
I hauled the heavy wooden hatch open, exposing a rusted iron ladder dropping ten feet down into the dark, churning water beneath the pier. I lowered Emma first, guiding her small boots onto the rungs until she reached the wooden thwart of the battered aluminum skiff hidden beneath the timbers.
Evelyn followed, her limbs shaking with exhaustion, but the raw terror of the gunfire erupting above spurred her down the ladder.
Automatic fire shredded the wooden walls above our heads. Splinters and drywall dust rained down into the water as Marcus returned fire, his sidearm barking in controlled, rhythmic double-taps.
I swung down onto the skiff just as a deafening, localized shockwave ripped through the upper deck. A blinding flash of yellow-white flame illuminated the rotting pilings as the pursuit boat’s fuel tanks detonated on command. The roof of the cannery collapsed in a rain of burning timber and twisted corrugated iron, crushing the catwalk where the armed mercenaries had gathered.
"Marcus!" I roared, staring up through the smoking hole in the floorboards.
A shadow dropped through the smoke, landing heavily on the stern of our skiff. Marcus hit the deck, coughing through a blackened grin, his jacket smoking from the heat of the blast.
"Told you it would work," he wheezed, untying the painter line with one hand while violently yanking the outboard motor’s pull-cord with the other.
The two-stroke engine sputtered, coughed, and roared to life with a buzzing whine. Marcus shoved us off the piling, and the flat-bottom skiff shot out from beneath the burning inferno of the cannery, skimming across the black, shallow water of the shoal where no helicopter or heavy patrol craft could follow.
Behind us, the entire cannery was engulfed in a towering column of fire, lighting the coastal fog with a hellish crimson glow. The private helicopter banked sharply away from the rising heat, searching in vain for survivors in the burning slip.
We ran without lights, hugging the jagged coastline, dodging submerged boulders by sheer muscle memory and instinct. After forty minutes of bone-chilling transit across the bay, the skiff glided into the silent, shadow-draped slips of the municipal fishing docks on the mainland.
We tied off behind an abandoned ice house. Dawn was beginning to break on the eastern horizon, painting the heavy coastal clouds in dull, bruised shades of purple and slate gray.
Marcus pulled an unmarked black heavy-duty pickup truck out of a commercial storage bay he leased near the docks. We bundled Emma into the center of the cab, wrapping her in dry coats, while Evelyn took the passenger seat, staring straight ahead with grim resignation.
I climbed behind the wheel, my hands locking onto the steering column.
May you like
"Where to?" Marcus asked, checking his sidearm one last time.
"Home," I said, shifting the truck into drive. "To my mother's front door."
