Chapter 9 - BLOOD ON THE CONCRETE
The Stamford Yacht Basin was shrouded in thick, swirling fog when I arrived in Marcus’s secondary tactical SUV.
The rain had turned into a relentless, icy drizzle. At the far end of Dock C, a 90-foot luxury motor yacht named The Black Pearl had its twin diesel engines rumbling, exhaust plumes mingling with the sea mist.
Federal sirens wailed in the distant city streets, but they were still five minutes away. Julian didn't have five minutes—and neither did I.
I moved silently along the wet wooden pier, keeping low behind the fiberglass hulls of moored sailboats. Through the illuminated salon windows of the yacht, I saw Evelyn sitting on a leather bench, clutching her splinted leg, screaming hysterically at Julian.
Julian was at the helm station, frantically trying to cast off the stern mooring lines. He looked like a walking corpse—his skin gray, his eyes bloodshot, his movements erratic from fever and blood loss.
I stepped onto the aft deck.
The wooden planks creaked beneath my boots.
Julian spun around instantly, pulling a stainless-steel revolver from his belt. "Vance!"
He fired. The bullet splintered the mahogany doorframe an inch from my ear.
I dove across the wet teak deck, tackling him around the waist. We crashed through the salon’s glass sliding doors, tumbling into the luxurious interior in a flurry of shattered glass and splintered wood.
The gun flew from Julian’s grip, skittering across the floor and sliding beneath Evelyn’s feet.
Julian grabbed a heavy brass nautical clock from the bulkhead and smashed it into the side of my head. Pain exploded behind my eyes, sending me sprawling backward onto the carpet.
Julian scrambled on top of me, his hands wrapping around my throat with the wild, frenzied strength of a cornered animal.
"You took everything from me!" Julian snarled, his scarred face inches from mine, spittle flying from his lips. "The money, the legacy, Sarah... and now my life! If I’m dying, Vance, you’re coming with me to the bottom of the Atlantic!"
His thumbs dug savagely into my windpipe, cutting off my air. Darkness began to creep around the edges of my vision.
Behind him, Evelyn grabbed the fallen revolver from the floor with trembling hands. She pointed the barrel directly at my forehead.
"End it, Julian!" Evelyn screamed, her face contorted with pure madness. "Shoot him and cast off the lines!"
I forced my hands upward, fighting through the suffocating blackness. I grabbed Julian’s broken nose with my left hand, wrenching it sideways with all my remaining strength.
Julian screamed in agony, his grip slipping from my neck.
In that split second of freedom, I drove my right palm upward into Julian’s chin, throwing him off me. I rolled across the floor, sweeping my leg and kicking the revolver out of Evelyn’s hand. The gun discharged, the bullet blowing out the salon’s overhead lighting fixture in a shower of sparks.
Julian lunged at me again, his hands clawing for my eyes.
I caught his arm, pivoted on my heel, and executed a textbook hip throw. Julian flew through the air, crashing spine-first over the marble galley counter. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs with a sickening crack of breaking ribs.
He slumped to the floor, coughing up blood, unable to stand.
I stood over him, my chest heaving, blood dripping from the cut on my forehead onto his chest. I pulled my Glock and pressed the cold muzzle against the center of his forehead.
"Eight years ago, you should have stayed dead, Julian," I panted.
Julian looked up into my eyes. For the first time, the psychotic arrogance vanished, replaced by the sheer, pathetic terror of a broken man staring into the abyss.
"Please..." he whispered, his voice trembling. "Don't..."
Behind us, the flashing red and blue lights of fifty federal and state police cruisers illuminated the marina fog. Armed FBI HRT tactical operators swarmed the dock, their laser sights painting the yacht’s cabin.
"FBI! DROP YOUR WEAPONS! DO NOT MOVE!"
I slowly lowered my weapon, decocked it, and placed it on the counter.
I looked down at Julian, then at Evelyn, who had collapsed into the corner, weeping in utter ruin as federal agents stormed the deck with assault rifles raised.
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"Death is too easy for you, Julian," I said softly as the agents tackled him to the floor in handcuffs. "You’re going to spend every remaining day of your life in a federal supermax, watching the world move on without you."
***
