Chapter 7 - The Enemy of My EnemyThe radio went dead.
Calvin swore viciously, kicking an empty oil drum that echoed hollowly across the concrete bunker. "Murdering cops? Framing us for kidnapping Arthur? The entire NYPD will have shoot-on-sight orders by sunrise!"
"Donovan owns the Twelfth Precinct's night command," I said, pacing the length of the steel desk. "He controlled the narrative the moment Wallace pulled us into that diner. He orchestrated the crime scene at Elena's apartment to look like an internal cartel war where we slaughtered our way out."
"Which leaves us completely isolated," Natalie said, her mind already working three steps ahead, analyzing the board like a chess master. "We can't use our bank accounts. We can't access our safehouses. Any vehicle we put on the road will be flagged by automated license plate readers within twenty minutes."
"Then we stop playing defense," I said.
I looked down at the documents in Natalie's notebook. "Arthur Vance is the weak link. Donovan thinks he’s running the show, but Arthur is a coward. He’s the paper architect. Without Arthur’s digital keys and legal affidavits, Donovan can't transfer corporate ownership of Kinsley Holdings to Moretti."
"Donovan claims we kidnapped Arthur," Natalie noted, her eyes narrowing. "Which means Donovan is keeping Arthur hidden somewhere secure until the transfer clears."
"Where would Donovan stash a terrified corporate lawyer in Manhattan?" Calvin asked.
"He wouldn't stash him in Manhattan," Natalie said instantly. "Arthur suffers from acute agoraphobia whenever he’s under stress. He has a private medical retreat—a luxury wellness penthouse on the Jersey City waterfront owned under his mother’s maiden name. Donovan thinks it’s off the books, but Arthur had me arrange the utility billing under a discretionary expense account last winter."
I looked at her with genuine respect. "You really did keep track of every dime."
"I told you: unnecessary suffering is terrible time management." A fleeting, razor-sharp smile touched her lips before fading back into serious calculation. "The problem is getting across the Hudson River. The tunnels and bridges are crawling with state troopers looking for the Suburban."
"Then we don't use the bridges," I said, turning toward the warehouse loading bay doors. "We're sitting on the waterfront. Calvin, does the harbor launch still have fuel?"
Calvin grinned, the dried blood on his temple cracking. "Twin inboard diesels, boss. Full tank. She’ll do forty-five knots through the harbor chop, and maritime radar doesn't care about NYPD APB bulletins."
Twenty minutes later, Elena and Maya were securely hidden in the terminal's sub-basement vault, stocked with food, water, and an emergency satellite beacon set to trigger only if we didn't return within eight hours.
"Come back, Roman," Elena whispered, hugging me tightly in the dark corridor. "Don't let them take what Dad built."
"Nobody takes what's ours," I promised, kissing Maya's forehead before turning back to the docks.
The rain had turned into a thick, low-hanging harbor fog as the sleek, matte-black cigarette boat cut through the swells of the East River, slipping under the Brooklyn Bridge like a shadow. Natalie stood beside me at the helm, wearing a dark waterproof windbreaker, her eyes scanning the Jersey shoreline through night-vision binoculars.
"Approaching the Jersey City marina," she signaled over the engine's muffled rumble. "Private dock behind the luxury high-rises at Exchange Place. Guard tower at the gate."
"Calvin, kill the throttle," I instructed. "We drift in on the tide."
We glided silently into the slipway under the cover of the morning fog. Natalie and I cleared the dock security gate in under thirty seconds, bypassing the magnetic locks with a bypass shunt Calvin carried in his kit.
We took the private service elevator to the forty-fourth-floor penthouse.
When the doors opened directly into the marble foyer, the smell of expensive Scotch and cigar smoke hung heavy in the air. Sitting in the center of the lavish living room, wearing a silk dressing gown with a glass of Macallan shaking violently in his hand, was Arthur Vance.
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Standing behind him, checking an automatic pistol, was none other than Mickey Wallace—his face wrapped in heavy medical gauze, dried blood seeping through the bandages across his shattered cheekbone.
"Look who made bail," Mickey snarled, raising his weapon the second the elevator doors parted.
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