Chapter 7 - Shadows in the Drydock
The boardroom erupted into absolute bedlam. "Security!" Garrett screamed, lunging for the wall-mounted emergency intercom, his voice cracking into a high, hysterical screech that bounced off the glass. "Get security up to the executive suite right now! Trace that feed! They’re broadcasting from inside the compound!" "Save your breath, Garrett," Old Dan said calmly, standing up from his chair and adjusting his grease-stained cap. "The harbor security guards were hired by Rosalind's father twenty-five years ago. They don't answer to the Thorne family. And right now, they’re locking the front gates of the shipyard on federal authority." On the massive digital screen, Tobias tapped a key on his console. A split-screen appeared beside his face, displaying three live video feeds: The first feed showed four unmarked federal law enforcement sedans and two black SUVs from the Georgia State Patrol rolling quietly through the main gates of Sullivan Maritime, blocking the exits with flashing blue lights. The second feed showed the interior of the country estate’s pantry, where two state forensic detectives in blue latex gloves were carefully photographing the bottle of thallium sulfate and Garrett’s handwritten dosage cards. The third feed showed Captain Ross—the corrupt maritime surveyor—sitting in a small interrogation room at the county courthouse, weeping into his hands while two federal prosecutors slid his offshore bank statements across the table. "You're done, Garrett," Rosalind’s voice cut through the monitors with chilling finality. "The FBI’s maritime crimes division took over the investigation three hours ago. They have the dashcam telemetry from our SUV, recovered from the cloud drive before you cut the main power. They have the wire-cut analysis from the state forensic lab. And they have eighteen months of pharmacy records linked to your private corporate card." Penelope was hyperventilating, backing away from the table until her shoulders hit the wall, her eyes wild with terror. "Garrett, do something!" she shrieked, clutching her stomach. "You told me it was foolproof! You told me they would never find the bodies! You said we would be in St. Barts by Friday!" Garrett didn't look at her. The arrogant, composed sociopath had completely disintegrated, replaced by a cornered animal whose survival instincts had stripped away all rational thought. He lunged across the table, grabbed the heavy brass ship’s chronometer from the center display, and hurled it through the plate-glass window overlooking the drydock. The glass shattered with an explosive, deafening roar, sending shards of heavy plate raining down onto the catwalk forty feet below. Wind from the river rushed into the boardroom, scattering corporate contracts and financial ledgers into a chaotic white vortex. Before Old Dan or the engineers could tackle him, Garrett vaulted through the shattered frame, landing heavily on the metal maintenance catwalk, rolling once, and scrambling to his feet with the wild agility of a madman. "Garrett!" Penelope screamed from the ruined window. He didn't look back. He sprinted down the industrial iron staircase toward the drydock basin, where the massive hulls of the naval barges cast long, impenetrable shadows across the concrete floor. "Dan, he's heading for the south drydock," Tobias’s voice boomed through the room's speakers. "The sluice gates are open for the morning tide. If he reaches the service launch at Dock Four, he can make the open sound before the coast guard cuts him off." "He's not reaching the sound," Rosalind’s voice answered. On the video screen, Rosalind turned and stepped out of the frame. Two seconds later, the heavy steel fire doors at the rear of the drydock maintenance tunnel slid open with a deep hydraulic groan. Stepping out onto the concrete apron of the drydock—wearing heavy work boots, her dark hair whipped by the river wind, holding a long steel rigging wrench in her gloved hand—was Rosalind Sullivan. Behind her walked Tobias. He moved with the heavy, unstoppable power of an iron piston, his long strides eating up the distance across the wet concrete, his gaze locked on the fleeing figure of the man who had tried to drown them in the dark.
