Chapter 5 - The Silence of the Harbor-5-
The harbor air was freezing, biting through my thin jacket and turning my breath into pale, ghost-like plumes. I kept low, my boots skidding on the slick, oil-stained concrete of the pier as I darted between the massive, towering skeletons of container cranes. Behind me, I could hear the erratic crunch of Oliver’s footsteps, his labored breathing echoing against the metal walls. He was losing his composure, and that made him dangerous.
I wasn't running toward an exit anymore. I was running toward the water’s edge. I had seen a small maintenance skiff tied to the side of the pier during my scouting, a flimsy, rusted thing that looked like it would sink if you breathed on it too hard. But if I could get to it, if I could get even fifty yards out into the fog, I could disappear.
I rounded the corner of a stack of containers and there it was—the skiff, bobbing rhythmically in the choppy, black water.
I didn't hesitate. I vaulted over the rusted railing, my feet hitting the wooden slats of the small boat with a hollow thump that sounded like a gunshot in the dead of night. I fumbled for the mooring line, my fingers numb, the knife from my pocket now gripped in my teeth as I sawed frantically at the thick, nylon rope.
One strand... two strands...
"Maya!"
Oliver’s voice was right behind me. He emerged from the darkness, his gun aimed, his face a mask of oily, burning rage. He stopped at the edge of the pier, his chest heaving.
"Get out of the boat," he commanded, his voice trembling. "Now. I’m tired of this. I’m tired of you."
I stopped sawing. I stood up in the rocking skiff, the ledger clutched tightly against my chest. "You're tired? Oliver, imagine how I feel. I've been dead for three years. I've been someone else's shadow, someone else's property, someone else's 'glorified nanny.' I'm done being tired. I'm ready to be dangerous."
He pulled the trigger.
The thwack of the suppressor was soft, but the impact was devastating. The bullet tore through the wooden side of the skiff, splintering the air just inches from my leg. The boat rocked violently, and I tipped over, my shoulder slamming against the engine casing.
I didn't scream. I reached into my bag and pulled out the only thing I had left—the flare gun I had stolen from the warehouse office’s emergency kit.
I didn't aim for Oliver. I aimed for the stack of containers behind him, the ones marked with the bright yellow “FLAMMABLE” warning signs.
"You want to end it?" I yelled, my voice ringing out across the harbor. "Let’s end it together!"
I fired.
The magnesium flare hissed through the night, a brilliant, blinding streak of red that slammed into the side of the container. For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then, a roar of orange flame erupted, consuming the metal stack and sending a shockwave of heat and light across the pier.
The force of the explosion threw Oliver off his feet. He tumbled backward, his gun skittering across the concrete.
I didn't watch. I sawed through the last strand of rope, kicked the skiff away from the pier with all my strength, and yanked the starter cord on the outboard motor.
The engine sputtered, coughed, and roared to life.
I didn't look back as I punched the throttle, the little boat cutting through the black water like a knife. The explosion lit up the harbor, casting long, frantic shadows against the warehouses, but I was already moving into the thick, protective blanket of the fog.
I was heading for the lights of a distant ferry, a public space where someone—anyone—would have to see me.
As I disappeared into the mist, I looked down at the ledger in my lap. It was wet, smeared with bilge water, but the names were still legible. I had the truth, I had the boat, and I had the lead.
I looked at the locket again—the picture of the first Maya.
May you like
"I'm going to make them pay for you, too," I whispered to the empty air.
I was Maya Vance (Replacement). And I was the worst mistake the Syndicate had ever made.
