Chapter 8 - Fire on the Hudson
Before his men could raise their weapons, I dropped behind the heavy oak table and fired three rapid shots.
The first round hit the lead contractor squarely in the chest, dropping him instantly. The second and third rounds caught the second gunman in the shoulder, throwing him backward into the stone doorframe.
Muzzle flashes illuminated the dark vault like lightning strikes. Bullets slammed into the ancient oak table, showering me with splinters and wood dust.
I reached out, pulled the pin on the first incendiary grenade, and rolled it across the floor directly toward the vault doorway.
“Grenade!” one of the contractors yelled in panic.
The grenade exploded into a blinding white sun of thermite fire, generating temperatures over four thousand degrees. The intense heat ignited the old wooden crates, security files, and ancient grain alcohol stored in the vault, turning the doorway into an impassable wall of roaring flames!
Marcus screamed as the heat scorched his face, backing out into the hallway as his remaining men scrambled through the fire.
I grabbed my duffel bag, ran to the back corner of the vault, kicked the iron storage rack aside, and dropped into the secret Prohibition tunnel, slamming the trapdoor shut behind me.
The tunnel was cool, dark, and narrow.
I sprinted down the damp brick pathway, my boots splashing through shallow groundwater, the roar of the vault fire fading behind me.
For ten minutes I ran, guided only by the dim beam of my weapon flashlight, following the yellow line painted on the old walls.
Ahead, the smell of fresh river air and saltwater began to cut through the smoke.
I emerged through a rusty iron gate at the base of a stone cliff overlooking the Hudson River.
Tucked into a private cove beneath the cliff sat my family’s old boathouse—a weathered wooden structure built on heavy wooden pilings extending out over the dark, rushing water.
A fifty-foot black metal-hulled offshore speedboat sat floating inside the slip, its twin diesel engines humming with a low, powerful vibration.
I vaulted over the railing onto the deck and pushed through the cabin door.
Hannah was sitting on the leather bench inside, holding Grace close. When she saw me walk in—covered in soot, blood, and gunsmoke, but alive—she let out a sob of relief.
“Gabriel!”
Grace looked up from her mother’s lap, her tiny eyes locking onto mine, and held out her small arms.
“We’re clear,” I panted, stepping up to the helm and grabbing the dual throttle levers. “The evidence is with the FBI. But Marcus's men will be coming by land in minutes. We have to move.”
I slammed the throttles forward.
The twin twelve-hundred-horsepower engines roared to life, shooting the black boat out of the slip like a missile, tearing through the dark, choppy waters of the Hudson River toward the open sea.
Behind us, up on the high cliffs overlooking the river, the grand Caruso Estate was illuminated by flashing red and blue police lights, siren wails echoing across the valley as federal agents descended on the burning house.
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My family’s old empire was collapsing into ashes.
And on the deck of that boat, surrounded by the dark river, I held my brother’s daughter in my arms, watching the lights of Manhattan gleam in the distance.
