Chapter 10 - The Thunder Over Chouteau Island
The lower drainage tunnel was a four-foot concrete pipe that had carried industrial runoff from the rail slip into the Mississippi since the Hoover administration.
The water inside reached our ankles, ice-cold and smelling of sulfur and rotting river silt.
Every step sent a jagged lance of agony through my fourth and fifth ribs, forcing me to lean against the slick, curved concrete wall to catch my breath.
Ross moved ahead of me, his massive frame hunched beneath the low ceiling, moving with an eerie, silent grace that defied his size.
He held a tactical light clamped beneath the barrel of his pistol, its beam filtered through a deep red lens that preserved night vision and prevented glare from reflecting down the pipe.
Above our heads, a rhythmic, bone-jarring vibration shook the concrete casing.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
The hydraulic concrete breaker was pounding into the reinforced floor of the subterranean slip.
Every strike vibrated through my boots, through my skeletal frame, rattling the very marrow in my teeth.
""They're halfway through the cap,"" Ross whispered, pausing at a rusted iron inspection ladder that led vertically into the ceiling.
""If they hit the structural rebar beneath the levee footings, the hydraulic seal will blow.""
I climbed the ladder behind him, my knuckles white against the slimy iron rungs, pushing through the burning pain in my side.
Ross reached the top, using his shoulder to gently test the weight of the circular iron maintenance hatch.
He pushed it upward an inch.
The deafening roar of industrial machinery and heavy diesel exhaust washed over us like a tidal wave.
We were looking into the subterranean rail bay beneath Chouteau Island.
It was a cavernous, vaulted chamber carved into the river limestone, three hundred feet long and eighty feet wide, illuminated by four glaring halogen work lights mounted on yellow tripod stands.
In the center of the bay sat the nine legendary rail tankers.
They were cylindrical iron behemoths, black with forty years of accumulated coal dust and rust, their wheels sunken six inches into the cracked concrete apron.
A thirty-ton Caterpillar excavator sat idling near the rear wall, its hydraulic jackhammer attachment pounding into a six-foot trench that had been excavated along the base of the center tanker.
Thirty feet away, standing near a portable folding table covered with blueprints and paper manifests, stood Nathaniel Ferry.
He was wearing a brand-new yellow hardhat over his disheveled hair, gesturing frantically with a half-empty bottle of Scotch.
Beside him stood Anton Varga.
The head of the Cook County syndicate was fifty years old, built like a fire hydrant, with a shaved head, a scarred neck, and cold, dead eyes behind gold-rimmed aviator spectacles.
He wore a long charcoal cashmere coat that dragged in the grease on the floor, flanked by eight men armed with short-barreled submachine guns.
Tied to a heavy iron rail stanchion near the excavator was Dr. Clara Evans.
Her face was bruised, her glasses broken on the concrete, her floral silk blouse torn at the collar as she wept quietly into her chest.
""Faster, you idiots!"" Nate screamed above the roar of the breaker.
""The levee can take the strain!""
""The core is solid bedrock!""
""Shut up, Nathaniel,"" Anton Varga said, his voice quiet, flat, yet carrying over the mechanical thunder like a death sentence.
Varga tapped his gold watch.
""It is three-thirty in the morning.""
""The Missouri state troopers are already running extra patrols on the north bridges.""
""If that concrete isn't clear in ten minutes, I am going to have my boys use explosive cutting cord on the tankers.""
""You can't do that, Anton!"" Nate protested, waving his hands wildly.
""The concussion could crack the river wall!""
""Then we drown,"" Varga said without blinking.
""Better to drown with sixty million in gold than to go back to Cook County with empty hands and your brother's lawyers breathing down our necks.""
Varga turned toward the tied woman, drawing a small, nickel-plated revolver from his coat pocket.
""Sign the probate affidavit, doctor,"" Varga ordered, holding the gun to Clara's temple.
""Sign it so my attorneys can file the injunction in the morning, or I leave your husband a widower before breakfast.""
""She can't sign an affidavit that has no legal standing, Anton,"" a deep, thunderous voice echoed across the cavernous bay.
The jackhammer abruptly died as the operator panicked, cutting the engine.
The sudden silence in the vault was suffocating, broken only by the hiss of hydraulic lines and the distant, ominous gurgle of the Mississippi behind the levee wall.
Ross Ferry stepped out from the shadow of the rear rail car.
He was alone.
He walked into the bright halogen wash with his hands resting calmly in the pockets of his canvas jacket, his eyes locked onto the Chicago mob boss.
Nate nearly dropped his bottle of Scotch, stumbling backward against the folding table.
""Ross!"" Nate shrieked, his voice cracking.
""How the hell did you get in here?""
""You left the drainage hatch unbolted, Nathaniel,"" Ross said, his voice flat, conversational, and terrifyingly calm.
""You always forget the details.""
""That’s why father left the company to me, and gave you a trust fund you couldn't touch without mother's permission.""
Anton Varga did not panic.
He slowly lowered the revolver from Clara's temple, turning to face Ross with a cold, appreciative grin.
""Ross Ferry,"" Varga said, nodding once.
""The legitimate king of the riverfront.""
""I was wondering when you would come down to the mud.""
""Did you bring the brass key?""
""I brought something better, Anton,"" Ross said, pulling a folded sheet of onionskin paper from his breast pocket.
""I brought Arthur’s original manifest.""
""The one that proves this entire slip belongs to the St. Louis Port Authority under an unrecorded municipal covenant from 1984.""
Varga laughed, a harsh, grating sound that bounced off the damp limestone walls.
""Do you think I care about a municipal covenant, Ross?""
""I have eight men with automatic weapons and a thirty-ton excavator.""
""You have an old piece of paper and a dead father.""
""He doesn't just have a piece of paper, Varga,"" I shouted from the darkness of the overhead crane catwalk.
Every weapon in the room snapped upward toward the gantry.
I stood forty feet above the floor, leaning against the safety rail, holding a heavy red emergency lever marked RIVER DIVERSION BYPASS.
""If you fire one round in this room,"" I yelled down, my voice echoing like thunder, ""I pull this hydraulic bypass.""
""It vents three thousand gallons of river water per second straight through the intake culvert beneath your feet.""
""You will have five feet of water on this floor before your men can reach the ladder.""
""And the heavy equipment will drag you straight to the bottom.""
Varga’s eyes narrowed into slits as he looked up at me.
""Who the hell is that?""
""That is Beth Sloan,"" Ross answered, taking another slow, deliberate step toward the syndicate boss.
""The woman your people tried to drag through a car window on Kingshighway.""
May you like
""The woman who rebuilt my mother’s body with her bare hands.""
""And the only person in this room who knows exactly which lever will drown you all.""
