Chapter 13 - The Leap Over the Bay
13
The sensation of freefall lasted only a fraction of a second before the heavy steel winch cable locked tight with a bone-rattling jerk that nearly tore Dileia’s fingers from the metal hoist.
Below them, the catwalk exploded into a hail of gunfire as General Marcus Reed and his tactical operatives spilled out onto the open platform, their weapons flashing muzzle fire into the night fog. Bullets pinged harmlessly off the heavy iron framework of the gantry crane, screaming off into the dark water of the bay.
Dileia buried her face against Julian’s chest, her left hand clutching his coat while her right hand kept a death grip on the Sig Sauer pistol. The wind whipped past them at terrifying velocity as the gantry hoist swung them in a massive, sweeping arc across the open water between Pier 42 and an anchored container ship waiting in the deep-water channel.
“Look down!” Julian yelled over the deafening roar of the maritime wind.
Dileia forced her eyes open.
Directly beneath them, rolling with the gentle swells of the bay, was the vast, flat deck of a Panamanian cargo freighter loaded with neat rows of towering metal shipping containers. And sitting right in the center of the cargo bay, illuminated by the amber glow of a mobile crane platform, was a sleek, black twin-engine helicopter with its rotor blades already spinning into a furious, deafening blur.
An extraction chopper.
“You planned this,” Dileia gasped, her voice muffled against his wool lapel as the hoist cable began to descend smoothly toward the cargo deck.
“I told you, Dileia,” Julian’s voice rumbled against her ear, calm and steady despite the chaos surrounding them. “You don't survive in Baltimore by playing defense.”
The heavy steel hoist lowered them gently onto the rubberized non-slip surface of the cargo freighter’s deck, right beside the open side door of the idling helicopter. A heavily armed pilot in a flight helmet waved frantically from the cockpit, signaling them to board immediately.
As soon as their boots touched the deck, Julian unclipped the hoist cable, grabbed Dileia by the hand, and hauled her into the cabin of the helicopter.
Before the sliding door could even be slammed shut, the chopper lifted off the deck with a violent, vertical surge, banking hard to the left and plunging into the low-lying sea fog that rolled off the Chesapeake.
Dileia collapsed onto the leather bench seat inside the cabin, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably now—not from fear, but from the sudden, crashing withdrawal of the adrenaline that had kept her upright for the past twenty hours.
Julian sat down beside her, checking the magazine of his pistol before sliding it back into his holster. He looked completely unruffled, as if swinging from a three-hundred-foot gantry crane over an icy bay was nothing more than a routine morning commute.
“Where are we going?” Dileia asked, her voice trembling slightly as she pulled the encrypted flash drive out of her pocket and held it up under the dim red cabin lights. “The logs are here. If we take these straight to the U.S. Attorney’s office in Washington before dawn, Senator Vance won't even have time to pack a bag.”
Julian shook his head slowly, his pale gray eyes fixed on the dark horizon outside the cabin window where the first faint streaks of pale lavender dawn were beginning to bleed through the clouds.
“The U.S. Attorney in Washington is on Senator Vance’s judicial payroll, Dileia,” Julian said quietly. “If we take those logs through standard federal channels, they will be impounded under ‘national security restrictions’ and buried in a classified basement before the morning paper hits the stands.”
Dileia froze, the cold weight of political corruption settling over her like lead. “Then who do we trust? Who has more power than a U.S. Senator?”
“We don't trust a politician,” Julian said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his secure satellite phone. He dialed a single, ten-digit number that wasn't saved in any directory, holding the device to his ear with absolute patience. “We go straight to the head of the Federal Organized Crime and Public Integrity Task Force. A man who owes my family a debt he can never repay, and who has been waiting three years for an excuse to tear Senator Richard Vance’s political empire down to the studs.”
The phone on the other end connected after a single ring.
“Director Vance,” a deep, gravelly voice answered crisply. “I was wondering when you were going to drop the other shoe.”
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Julian didn't smile. He looked at Dileia, his pale gray eyes softening just a fraction—the first time she had ever seen a crack in the granite armor of the most feared man in Baltimore.
“Pack your briefcase, Director,” Julian said into the receiver. “We’re bringing you the ledger.”
