Chapter 37 - The Ghost Train of the Underworld
The armored black Mercedes sped through the subterranean maintenance tunnel at eighty miles per hour, its headlights cutting two blinding beams through the damp, concrete-lined darkness.
Behind the wheel sat Viktor, his hands gripping the leather steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity. In the passenger seat, Dante methodically checked the magazine of his Sig Sauer, sliding it home with a sharp, metallic click.
In the back seat sat Clara. She had removed the heavy diamond diadem, placing it carefully in its velvet case, but her two-meter golden hair remained braided down her back like a rope of spun sunlight. She stared out the bulletproof window into the rushing darkness of the tunnel, her reflection pale and ghostly in the glass.
"We're coming up on the East River junction," Viktor called out over the roar of the engine. "Telemetry shows Julian’s convoy pulled into Terminal 4 pier five minutes ago. They're loading onto a high-speed smuggling freighter—the *Nereus*—heading for international waters."
"He won't make it out of the harbor," Dante said, his voice cold as ice. "We cut him off at the loading ramp."
"No," Clara spoke up from the back seat, her voice cutting through the noise of the car with absolute authority.
Dante turned slightly in his seat, raising an eyebrow. "What do you mean, no? You want to let him board?"
"I want him to board," Clara said, her pale blue eyes locking onto Dante’s in the rearview mirror. "I want him to feel safe on his ship. I want him to look out at the harbor and think he won. And then... we take the ship away from him."
Dante stared at her for a long moment. A slow, appreciative smirk touched the corner of his mouth. "You really are Armando’s granddaughter, aren't you?"
"Worse," Clara whispered, looking back out the window. "I'm the person he tried to bury."
The Mercedes accelerated, roaring down the final stretch of the secret Bellandi transit line until the tunnel abruptly opened up into a massive, cavernous underground drydock hidden beneath the abandoned pier warehouses of the Brooklyn Navy Yard.
Parked in the drydock was a sleek, fifty-foot military-grade interceptor boat equipped with twin twin-turbo marine engines and stealth composite hulls—a ghost ship designed for wet-work operations in the dead of night.
Viktor slammed on the brakes, sliding the Mercedes to a halt right beside the interceptor’s boarding ramp.
"Get in," Dante commanded, opening his door and stepping out into the damp, echoing chill of the underground slipway.
Within seconds, they transferred into the interceptor. Viktor took the helm, his fingers dancing across the digital navigation console as the stealth engines hummed to life with a low, vibrating growl that rattled the teeth.
Clara stood at the bow of the boat, gripping the stainless-steel railing as the heavy steel sluice gates of the drydock slowly cranked open, revealing the dark, churning waters of New York Harbor and the towering silhouette of the cargo freighter *Nereus* anchored half a mile offshore, its diesel engines bellowing black smoke into the freezing night sky.
"Hold on," Viktor warned.
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He slammed the throttles forward. The interceptor leaped out of the drydock like a struck match, cutting across the dark water at terrifying speed, leaving a white wake of churning foam in its deadly path.
***
