The bike was bright purple with a white basket and streamers that fluttered when Lily rode too fast.

Mercer’s tactical dispatch had already widened the perimeter, but the harbor was twenty miles of jagged coastline, choked with commercial docks, abandoned shipping yards, and decaying fish-processing plants that had been shuttered since the mid-nineties.

"State police are locking down the bridges along the bay," Mercer said, barking orders into his radio as he led us down the steps toward his unmarked Yukon. "Coast Guard Sector New York has two cutters sweeping the inlets. If they put a vessel in the water, we’ll see their heat signature within ten minutes."

"They won't use a normal marina," Ryan said grimly, climbing into the back seat beside me while Mercer took the driver's side and slammed the door. "If Brenda and Marcus have been funneling Apex cash into domestic shell corporations, they own property out here. Marcus bought a fleet of salvage tugs three years ago during the bankruptcy auction."

"We already checked Marcus's registered assets," Mercer said, throwing the heavy SUV into reverse and tearing out of the driveway, the siren cutting through the night with a deafening, rhythmic wail. "Everything under his name was seized under the RICO order yesterday morning."

"Not under his name," I interrupted, leaning forward between the front bucket seats, my mind racing through the thousands of corporate tax filings I had audited during our financial investigation. "Marcus never owned anything in his own name. He used his mother’s maiden name—Vance. When we were tracing the Cayman shell accounts, there was a subsidiary registered in Delaware called Vance Marine Logistics. They owned a decommissioned icehouse on the north edge of the Old Salt Creek channel."

Mercer’s hands tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles went dead white. He glanced at the mounted tablet on the dashboard and tapped the screen twice.

"Dispatch, this is Mercer. Run a cross-reference on Vance Marine Logistics, physical site Salt Creek Channel, mile marker fourteen."

A moment of static crackled over the radio, followed by the monotone voice of the night operator. *“Unit 1-Mercer, records show the Salt Creek parcel was foreclosed in 2018, currently listed as industrial blight. No active power meter, but automated surveillance cameras on the adjacent bridge captured a utility vehicle matching your BOLO heading down the service road seven minutes ago.”*

"Holy shit," Ryan muttered, slamming his fist into his thigh. "They're there."

"They have a twenty-minute lead on us," Mercer warned, flooring the accelerator as the SUV rocketed down the dark, tree-lined highway, the speedometer needle sweeping past eighty. "If they have a boat waiting, they can clear the three-mile territorial line before the Coast Guard can intercept."

"We can't let them get her on the water," I whispered, pressing my forehead against the cold glass of the window, staring out into the rushing blackness of the pine woods. "If they reach open ocean, Lily is gone."

Outside, the first fat drops of rain began to splatter against the windshield, smearing the yellow glare of the roadside lamps into long, bloody streaks of light. The sky was opening up, a sudden coastal squall rolling in off the Atlantic, whipping the trees into a frenzy and drowning the world in blinding, sideways water.

As the SUV turned off the paved highway and onto the rutted gravel of the Salt Creek service road, Mercer killed the siren and the headlights.

The vehicle plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness, guided only by the faint green glow of the night-vision heads-up display projected onto the glass. The gravel crunched softly under the oversized off-road tires, the sound swallowed whole by the roar of the pouring rain and the howling wind tearing through the reeds.

Through the rain-streaked darkness, the silhouette of the old icehouse emerged like the rotting skeleton of a dead whale, perched at the edge of the black, churning water of the tidal creek.

And parked right beside the loading dock, its engine ticking faintly through the downpour, was the matte-black van.