Chapter 6 - The Gloucester Run
The bulletproof Maybach cut through the predawn fog along Route 1A like a black knife through wet silk. The interior was silent save for the low, rhythmic hum of the satellite phone tracking Frank’s encrypted channel as the vehicle hugged the coastline toward Gloucester harbor.
Emily sat in the passenger seat, her fingers tracing the edge of the leather armrest. Through the reinforced glass, the jagged cliffs of Cape Ann loomed like ancient teeth against a sky turning the color of bruised iron.
"You're taking a massive risk bringing me along, Mr. Carter," she said without turning her head. "If I had any sense, I would have taken the keys to the station wagon while you were in the armory and kept driving until I hit the Canadian border."
Michael kept his eyes on the road, his hands steady on the steering wheel despite the slick, salt-sprayed asphalt. "You didn't drive away."
"Because of my brother," she said bitterly. "You made sure of that."
"No," Michael replied, his voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. "You didn't drive away because you wanted to see the look on the man’s face when I dismantle his entire operation. People like us—people who have had everything taken by men in boardrooms—don't run. We settle accounts."
They turned off the coastal highway onto a narrow service road flanked by rusted corrugated iron warehouses and abandoned fish-processing plants. The Gloucester pier smelled of dead salt, diesel fuel, and the cold, flat brine of the open Atlantic.
At the end of the pier sat a nondescript cinder-block building bearing the faded logo of Vanguard Maritime Logistics. A single amber light flickered above the heavy steel side door, and a sleek, black Range Rover with diplomatic plates was parked illegally across the loading bay.
"Frank," Michael said into the dash console as he cut the engine.
"In position," Frank’s voice crackled through the encrypted radio from the second vehicle trailing twenty yards behind them. "Local harbor patrol is paid off for the next twenty minutes, but we’ve got three armed guards by the loading dock doors."
"Don't kill them if you don't have to," Michael said, opening his door and stepping out into the biting coastal wind. "I want them conscious when I ask them who gave the order."
Emily followed him out, pulling her wool coat tightly around her shoulders as the salt spray hit her face. The air here was different from the manicured lawns of the North Shore estate—it tasted of oil, rust, and old corruption.
"Stay behind me," Michael ordered, his hand slipping inside his coat to rest on the butt of a compact Sig Sauer pistol.
May you like
"I've handled worse than dock guards, Mr. Carter," Emily said, stepping up beside him instead of behind him. "My father taught me how to strip a Beretta before I learned how to ride a bicycle."
A grim, dark smile flickered across Michael’s face for a fraction of a second. "Let’s see if you remember your lessons."
