Chapter 6 - The Waterworks Egress
The pipe was ice-cold. The stagnant water soaked through my jeans instantly, sending a violent shock through my nervous system, but I clamped my teeth together to keep from gasping.
I crawled on my hands and knees for thirty yards, dragging the heavy leather briefcase beneath my belly to protect it from the water. Above me, the metallic scraping of heavy combat boots echoed through the main brick tunnel as Thorne’s contractors passed by the entrance of the drain, their heavy tactical flashlights throwing thin, fleeting sweeps of white light across the curved iron opening behind me.
I froze, pressing my face against the cold, slimy pipe wall until the light faded and the boots moved further down toward the chapel exit.
I didn't stop to breathe. I kept crawling.
After what felt like an eternity, the narrow iron pipe opened up into a larger brick vault. The air here was roaring with the sound of rushing water—the main storm overflow channel for the lower district. I stood up slowly, my knees shaking, my clothes heavy with cold water and grease.
I clicked my flashlight on for a fraction of a second.
I was standing on a narrow concrete catwalk above a six-foot-wide drainage canal that flowed rapidly toward the East River. To my left, a set of rusted iron rung ladders led up toward a heavy circular manhole cover thirty feet above.
I grabbed the rungs with my good hand, wedging the briefcase handle into my teeth so I could use both arms to pull my dead weight up the ladder. Every step was an ordeal; my wrist screamed in protest, my fingers slipping on the rusted metal, but the memory of Vance’s face and Sterling’s cold eyes pushed me upward inch by inch.
I reached the top. I braced my shoulder against the heavy cast-iron manhole cover and heaved upward with all the strength left in my legs.
The cover shifted with a loud, metallic screech, sliding back two inches to reveal a sliver of gray afternoon sky and the freezing drizzle of the city streets.
I hauled myself up through the opening, rolling onto the cold asphalt of a narrow service alley behind the municipal transit building.
The rain hit my face like needles. I pulled the manhole cover back into place with my shoe, pulled my soaked wool jacket tightly over my wet clothes, and looked down at the briefcase.
The leather was dark with river water, but the heavy brass locks were still intact. The seal hadn't been broken.
I stepped out of the alley onto 5th Avenue.
Three blocks away, the high limestone facade of the 4th District Courthouse was surrounded by flashing red and blue lights. At least eight police cruisers were parked at weird angles across the granite plaza, their emergency strobes casting frantic, bloody pulses of light across the crowd of reporters and passersby gathered behind the yellow police tape.
May you like
Sterling had locked down the building.
I turned my back on the courthouse, tucked the briefcase under my arm like a homeless woman carrying a bag of scrap paper, and began walking south toward the river, where I knew there was one place in the city where Sterling’s badges had no power.
