Chapter 27 - Blood on the Water
The descent down the eastern drainage trail was a nightmare of slick mud, jagged roots, and freezing sheets of rain that blinded the eyes and sapped the warmth from human flesh in seconds. Vincent moved like a ghost possessed, his boots sliding and catching on the steep incline, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps.
As he neared the private boat slip nestled in a rocky cove along the lake's jagged shore, the acrid smell of cordite and burning aviation fuel hit him before he even cleared the treeline.
"Frank!" Vincent shouted into the dark, his voice tearing through the wind. "Frank, report!"
Silence answered him, save for the rhythmic, violent crashing of grey-capped waves against the wooden pilings of the dock.
Vincent dropped low, rolling behind a moss-covered boulder twenty yards from the shoreline. His tactical flashlight clicked on, cutting a brilliant white beam through the driving rain. The scene illuminated before him made his stomach drop into an abyss far deeper than the ravine.
The twin-engine cruiser was tied to the slip, its starboard hull riddled with high-velocity bullet holes, dark engine oil leaking into the churning water to form an iridescent rainbow sheen. Floating face down near the edge of the dock was a tactical vest—Frank’s vest.
"No," Vincent muttered, a rare note of raw panic fracturing his ironclad composure.
He surged forward from the boulder, sweeping his Kimber in a wide arc as he cleared the perimeter of the boathouse. The interior was empty. Splintered crates, overturned fuel cans, and shattered glass littered the wooden floorboards.
Footsteps. Heavy, wet boots crunching on gravel outside.
Vincent spun around, his weapon leveling at the doorway just as a figure stumbled out of the brush, clutching a bleeding shoulder. It was Frank. The veteran operator was pale, his face smeared with mud and blood, dragging his right leg as he leaned heavily against the wooden doorframe.
"Frank!" Vincent rushed forward, grabbing the older man by his tactical harness and pulling him inside out of the freezing rain. "Where are they? Where's Nora and Lucy?"
Frank coughed, spitting a thick stream of dark blood onto the wooden planks. His eyes were wide, glazed with shock and exhaustion. "They... they weren't local syndicate, Boss. Professional extraction unit. Delta-tier. They came out of the tree line before we even reached the slip."
Vincent’s grip on Frank’s tactical vest tightened until his knuckles turned white. "Did they take them?"
"Not... not both of them," Frank gasped, his breathing shallow and rattling. He reached weakly into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, damp object, thrusting it into Vincent’s hand.
Vincent looked down. Resting in his palm was Captain Carrot—the battered, mud-stained stuffed rabbit belonging to three-year-old Lucy. One of its felt ears had been cleanly sliced off with a razor-sharp blade.
"Nora... Nora fought them off," Frank whispered, his eyes fluttering as consciousness began to slip away. "She threw herself between them and the kid while I covered the retreat. They... they grabbed Nora and hauled her into the chopper on the upper ridge. But Lucy... Boss, Lucy slipped through the guard rail during the scuffle. She's still down here in the caves."
Vincent stared at the mutilated stuffed rabbit in his hand. The grief and rage that had simmered in his veins for twenty years suddenly crystallized into something terrifyingly pure.
"Which cave?" Vincent asked, his voice dropping into a register so quiet, so devoid of human warmth, that even Frank shivered.
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"The old smuggling tunnels beneath the lighthouse," Frank breathed, his eyes rolling back as unconsciousness finally claimed him. "The ones your father sealed thirty years ago... Gabriel just opened them up."
***
