Chapter 3 - FLIGHT THROUGH THE FOG
The narrow servant’s door popped open into the damp lavender gardens behind the East Wing. Heavy sea fog had rolled in off the coast, blanketing the fifty-acre estate in a thick, milky haze. Sirens were already beginning to howl from the main security gatehouse near the front entrance—Bianca was locking down the perimeter.
"Can you stand?" I asked, setting Evelyn down on the stone bench beneath the weeping willow tree.
Her legs buckled immediately, her muscles completely atrophied from three years of near-immobility. I picked her back up, pulling her close against the biting morning chill.
"The old boat house," she whispered, her translucent skin pale in the fog. "The underground canal... it connects to the river."
"It was sealed off twenty years ago," I said.
"No..." she rasped, pointing a thin, bruised finger toward the tree line. "Bianca used it... to ship unaccounted cargo... I heard the engines running under the floor at night."
My mind raced. If Bianca was using the old smuggling tunnels beneath the manor, it meant she wasn't just committing corporate fraud—she was involved in illegal maritime trafficking. That was how she had funded her acquisition of rival logistics firms over the last three years.
Footsteps crunched through the gravel path fifty yards away. Men were shouting in the fog, flashlight beams cutting through the white haze like yellow swords.
"Search the perimeter!" Arthur’s voice boomed through a megaphone. "Check the tree line! Do not let the vehicle leave!"
I darted into the thick rhododendron bushes, keeping low to the ground. Evelyn held her breath, her fingers clutching my shirt collar so tightly her knuckles turned white.
We reached the subterranean stone entryway of the historic boathouse. The heavy iron door was secured with a modern digital keypad lock—a stark contrast to the moss-covered granite walls.
"Julian..." Evelyn rasped. "The code... she wrote it on the back of a silver compact... 1024..."
I punched in the numbers on the stainless steel keypad: 1-0-2-4.
The magnetic latch clicked, and the heavy door slid open with a soft hydraulic hiss. Inside lay a cavernous underground dock. Moored in the black water was a sleek, jet-black high-speed tactical launch—a vessel that didn't appear on any of Vance Global's official registry books.
I hurried down the slick concrete steps and laid Evelyn gently on the leather bench inside the boat's heated cabin. I found a emergency wool blanket in a supply chest, wrapping her tightly up to her chin.
"Stay down," I told her, kissing her forehead. Her skin was ice-cold, but the warmth of life was slowly returning to her eyes.
"Don't leave me..." she whispered, terror flickering in her amber gaze. "Don't let her take me back to the dark..."
"Never again," I swore. "I will burn this entire city to the ground before anyone touches you."
I jumped into the captain's chair and hit the ignition switches. The twin V8 marine engines roared to life, their muffled thunder reverberating through the cavernous underground stone chamber.
Above us, the steel garage door that blocked the tunnel exit to the ocean began to lower—Bianca had activated the emergency lock from the manor's central control room!
"She's closing the sea gate!" I yelled.
I slammed the throttle wide open. The boat surged forward with explosive acceleration, pitching backward as the dual propellers dug into the dark water. The black hull rose on its hydrofoils, screaming down the narrow stone tunnel directly toward the descending steel barrier.
The gap was closing fast—ten feet, six feet, four feet!
"Duck!" I roared, throwing myself over Evelyn’s body.
The boat's windshield sheared off against the bottom edge of the heavy steel gate with a deafening screech of ripping metal and glass. Sparks exploded across the cabin like fireworks. But the boat’s momentum shoved us through, shooting us out of the cliffside tunnel into the violent, roaring waves of the North Atlantic Ocean.
Behind us, high up on the cliff terrace overlooking the sea, the silhouette of Vance Manor loomed like a black castle against the gray sky. Standing on the high balcony, her slate-gray suit whipping in the gale-force wind, was Bianca.
May you like
She was watching us through binoculars, her phone pressed to her ear.
I didn't care. I turned the boat south toward Boston, where the only man I could still trust was waiting: Dr. Marcus Vance, my estranged uncle, and the former chief medical examiner of the city.
