Nobody entered my private bedroom without permission.

"Hold on," I commanded, shifting the transmission into low gear.

Khloe didn't scream. She braced both hands against the dashboard, tucking the small wooden boat into her coat pocket.

The rain slammed against the windshield like gravel. The two town cars blocking the intersection ahead flicked their high beams on, blinding us with pure white light. Men in dark overcoats stepped out from behind the doors, automatic rifles raised.

"Are they going to shoot?" Khloe whispered, her voice tight.

"Not if they want what's in your pocket," I replied.

I didn't slow down. I slammed my foot onto the gas pedal. The heavy engine of my modified sedan roared, the supercharger whining as the speedometer surged past sixty.

"Vincent!" Khloe gasped.

"Trust me."

I aimed directly between the two parked town cars, targeting the narrow three-foot gap where their rear bumpers almost met. At the last possible fraction of a second, I yanked the steering wheel hard to the left and tapped the emergency brake.

The rear of our car whipped around in a controlled skid, slamming its heavy reinforced steel bumper into the front quarter-panel of the driver's town car. The impact sounded like an exploding mortar shell. Metal crumpled, glass shattered into a million sparkling diamonds, and the sheer momentum spun the enemy vehicle out into the wet street, opening a gaping hole in their barricade.

I straightened the wheel, stomped the accelerator, and we shot through the gap into the open boulevard leading toward the river bridge.

A hail of bullets tore through our rear window, spiderwebbing the safety glass into opaque frost, but the Kevlar-lined trunk absorbed the lead.

"They're right behind us!" Khloe called out, glancing back through the shattered glass.

The SUV from the side street had picked up speed, tailgating us by mere inches, its heavy grille guard gleaming under the streetlights.

"Open the glove compartment," I ordered, fighting the hydroplaning tires as we ascended the steel ramp of the old drawbridge.

Khloe clicked the latch open. Inside lay a snub-nosed .38 revolver and a spare magazine for my custom semi-automatic.

"Take the revolver," I said. "Do you know how to shoot?"

"No," she said, her hands trembling as she picked up the cold steel weapon.

"Point at the center of the windshield and pull the trigger until it clicks. That's all you need to know."

We crested the bridge, the black expanse of the river churning forty feet below us in the darkness. Suddenly, the lead SUV accelerated, swerving violently to pull alongside our driver's side.

The passenger window of the SUV rolled down.

Sitting in the passenger seat was a face I had seen in newspaper obituaries five years ago.

Julian.

He looked older, thinner, his once-handsome features haggard and worn by years of cocaine and running. But the sneer on his lips was unmistakable. He wasn't a hostage. He was sitting comfortably in a customized leather seat, wearing a tailored cashmere coat.

He wasn't trapped by Vance. He was working with Vance.

"Pull over, little brother!" Julian’s voice carried over the roar of the engines and the wind, amplified by an electric megaphone. "Give me the girl and father's watch, and I'll let you keep your company!"

Khloe’s breath caught in her throat. "He... he looks right at home with them."

"He was always a coward," I muttered.

Julian raised a hand, and the driver of the SUV violently jerked the wheel, slamming their heavy vehicle directly into our left door. The impact jolted us sideways, sending our tires skidding dangerously close to the bridge’s rusted iron railing.

"Give me the boy, Julian!" Khloe screamed through her cracked window, her face flushed with maternal rage. "Where is Leo?!"

Julian laughed, a sharp, barking sound that made my skin crawl. "The boy is safe with Uncle Victor, Khloe! He's worth five million dollars to me! Now hand over the watch or we run you both into the river!"

The watch.

Why was Julian so obsessed with an old pocket watch? A man on the run for five years didn't risk everything for sentimental family jewelry.

I looked down at the center console where the watch sat.

Answer one, open two.

Julian was alive. That was the answer. But the watch wasn't an heirloom. It held something far more dangerous than nostalgia.

The SUV rammed us a second time, grinding against our door panels with a shriek of tearing metal. The bridge railing gave way with a horrific groan, our right rear tire dangling over empty black space.

"Vincent!" Khloe cried out.

I didn't reach for the gun. Instead, I jammed the brakes hard.

Our car screeched to a dead halt. The sudden deceleration caused the heavier SUV to overshoot us by twenty yards. In that brief window, I threw the car into reverse, backed away from the broken railing, and spun the wheel to face forward again.

As the SUV spun around to face us on the bridge deck, the flashing headlights of six black Cadillacs crested the bridge from the opposite direction.

Paulie had arrived.

The Cadillacs formed an impenetrable iron wall across the lanes behind the SUV, their high beams pinning Julian and his driver like deer in headlights. A dozen armed men stepped out, rifles drawn and leveled.

Julian’s eyes widened in sheer terror. He realized in an instant that the ambush had failed.

"Back up! Back up!" Julian screamed at his driver.

The SUV reversed wildly, smashing through the opposite pedestrian barrier, clipping the iron girders, and careened down the access ramp toward the docks below, disappearing into the industrial fog.

"Boss!" Paulie ran toward my steaming car, his trench coat billowing in the wind. "Are you hit?"

"I'm fine," I said, stepping out of the vehicle and opening the door for Khloe. She was shaking from head to foot, clutching the revolver against her ribs. I gently took the gun from her cold fingers and slid it back into my holster.

"They headed for the old cold-storage facility at Pier 9," Paulie said, catching his breath. "Our scouts spotted Vance’s cars pulling in there twenty minutes ago. They've got the whole pier locked down."

I turned to Khloe. She looked battered, soaked, and utterly exhausted, but the fire in her eyes hadn't dimmed.

"Pier 9," she said. "Clara told me once... when Julian stole father's money, he bought a shipping container there. He told her it was his private vault."

I picked up the pocket watch from the console. I held it under the flashlight Paulie provided.

"Locker forty-four," I whispered, recalling her sleep-muttered words.

I wedged my thumbnail into the seam beneath the winding stem of the silver watch. With a soft click, the back plate didn't just reveal the mechanical gears—it swung open on a secondary hinge, revealing a tiny, hollow compartment.

Inside lay a small, high-density magnetic keycard, stamped with the logo of the Pier 9 automated vault system, and a miniature brass key labeled with a locker number: 44.

Khloe gasped. "He didn't just leave a watch. He left the master key to Vance's money."

"Not Vance's money," I said, staring at the brass key. "My father's real records. The ones proving Vance’s entire empire was built on stolen harbor territory."

I looked at Khloe. "Leo isn't just Julian's son. Under my father's will, if Julian had a legitimate heir, fifty-one percent of the entire harbor development transferred to that child on his fourth birthday."