PART 24
The storm had returned,
whipping the ocean into a frenzy of black waves against Pier 14.
The River Stone Warehouse was a massive,
rusting tin structure at the edge of the shipping docks.
It was eleven forty-five.
I walked down the long,
empty pier,
the wind tearing at my clothes.
In my right hand,
I held a fake ledger,
a dummy book the FBI had prepared,
packed with tracking devices.
But in my pocket,
I held something else.
My father’s old snub-nosed revolver,
the one he kept hidden under his workshop floor,
which I had grabbed before the house burned.
The FBI was three blocks away,
waiting for my signal,
but I didn't plan on giving it.
If Vance saw a single flashing light,
he would drop Noah into the dark water.
I couldn't risk it.
I pushed open the heavy sliding door of the warehouse,
the metal groaning loudly.
Inside,
it was cavernous,
smelling of salt,
rust,
and old diesel.
A single floodlight hung from the rafters,
illuminating a chair in the center of the floor.
Sitting in the chair,
tied with heavy ropes,
was Noah.
His mouth was taped,
his eyes wide with terror,
tears streaming down his little cheeks.
When he saw me,
he let out a muffled cry,
struggling against the bonds.
"Noah!"
I cried,
stepping forward.
"Stay right there, Emma,"
a voice boomed from the shadows above.
Judge Vance stepped into the light on the metal catwalk,
holding a remote control in his hand.
He pointed down at a heavy crane hook hovering directly over Noah’s head.
Attached to the hook was a large block of concrete.
"One button,"
Vance smiled,
his face twisted with madness,
"and your son becomes an anchor."
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"Drop the book, Emma."
"Right now."
