Chapter 8 - The Siege of Bridgeport
The sound of shattering glass and tearing sheet metal sounded like an industrial derailment inside the enclosed warehouse.
Arthur threw his entire weight across my torso, slamming me hard against the freezing concrete behind a heavy steel workbench.
A hail of copper-jacketed rounds chewed through the oak tables where Frank had stood seconds before, spraying sawdust and splinters into the air.
Julian Vance let out an ear-piercing shriek of terror as bullets pinged off the cast-iron column to which he was bound.
"Arthur! Don't leave me here!" Julian screamed, his voice cracking into high-pitched hysteria.
"They're shooting at everything!"
Arthur didn't even look back at him.
He rolled onto his stomach, drawing his heavy automatic and sighting through the drifting white clouds of insulation falling from the roof.
High above us, perched on the catwalks running along the structural girders, two men in black tactical gear were laying down suppressive fire.
"Leo!" Arthur roared over the deafening clatter of the carbines.
From the far corner of the loading dock, the old Sicilian driver answered with three measured shots from a heavy twelve-gauge shotgun.
The blast tore through the lower catwalk, knocking one of the shooters off the iron railing; he fell sixty feet, crashing onto a pile of wooden pallets.
"Norah, crawl to the drainage trench beneath the wash line," Arthur ordered, his lips brushing against my ear as he reloaded his weapon.
"The culvert leads directly to the boiler room out back."
"I am not leaving those books behind," I shouted back, pointing toward the canvas tool bag lying eight feet away in the open kill zone.
"My father died for those pages, Arthur!"
"If Silas gets them, Elena is dead before we even reach the docks!"
Arthur looked from the bag to my face, seeing the stubborn, unyielding fury that my father had passed into my blood.
He didn't argue.
"Cover me," he said simply.
He didn't mean with words.
He reached into his waistband and pressed a spare nine-millimeter magazine into my cold palm, assuming I knew how to load the small revolver.
Arthur broke from the shadow of the steel workbench, moving with terrifying speed despite his reopened wound and burning fever.
He dove across the sawdust-covered floor, scooping up the canvas bag with his left hand while firing three rapid shots toward the remaining sniper.
The round found its mark; the shooter slumped over the safety rail, his rifle dropping through the darkness to shatter on the concrete below.
Arthur slid behind a stainless-steel refrigeration unit, breathing heavily as blood soaked through his dark sweater.
Suddenly, the massive corrugated sliding doors of the main truck bay were blasted off their rollers with a thunderous explosion.
A modified flatbed tow truck smashed through the twisted metal, its steel-plated front bumper roaring through the debris like a battering ram.
Four men in heavy winter parkas leapt from the truck bed, armed with short-barreled submachine guns that immediately lit up the room.
"Check the pillars!" a harsh voice shouted through the gun smoke.
"Silas wants Vance dead and the girl’s body identified!"
Julian’s screams reached a fever pitch as the intruders turned their weapons toward his column, intending to silence the loose end forever.
I didn't think about my safety; I didn't think about the cold linoleum of my basement room or the quiet life I had lost.
I raised the small revolver with both hands, bracing my forearms against the edge of the steel workbench.
I remembered my father teaching me how to aim a grease gun at the pressure valves on Eighteenth Street: Smooth, steady, squeeze from the shoulder.
I pulled the heavy double-action trigger.
The small gun kicked violently in my grip, the deafening report echoing off the meat hooks.
The lead gunman, who was raising his submachine gun toward Julian’s head, jerked violently as my round struck his shoulder.
He stumbled sideways, his burst of automatic fire chewing harmlessly into the ceiling rafters.
Arthur capitalized on the distraction instantly.
He leaned around the refrigeration unit and fired three double-taps with chilling precision.
The wounded man and two of his companions dropped into the bloody sawdust before they could register where the shot had come from.
The fourth attacker scrambled backward toward the idling tow truck, scrambling to throw the vehicle into reverse.
Leo emerged from the shadows of the tool crib like an ancient wraith, leveling his shotgun directly through the open driver’s window.
A single blast ended the truck’s engine and the driver’s life simultaneously, sending steam hissing into the freezing rafters.
The warehouse plunged back into an agonizing, ringing silence, broken only by the hiss of punctured coolant lines and Julian Vance’s pathetic weeping.
Arthur stood up slowly from behind the steel unit, his face gray with shock and blood loss, but his eyes burning with an unholy light.
He walked over to where I knelt behind the workbench, reaching down with his right hand to help me up.
His hand was steady as an oak root.
"You shot him," he said quietly, his gaze resting on the smoking barrel of my small revolver.
"He was going to kill Julian," I whispered, my voice trembling as the adrenaline crashed through my limbs.
"And Julian is the only one who knows the layout of Silas King's pier."
Arthur pulled me against his side, his arm wrapping around my waist with fierce, protective strength.
"You are your father's daughter, Norah Hayes."
He turned toward the column where Julian hung limp against his ropes, his trousers soaked in terror, his face a mask of ruined arrogance.
Arthur drew his combat knife and sliced the nylon cords binding Julian’s wrists, letting the traitor collapse into a heap at his boots.
"Get up, Julian," Arthur commanded, kicking him lightly in the ribs.
Julian scrambled to his knees, clutching Arthur’s polished leather shoes with shaking, filthy hands.
"Arthur... you saved me... you didn't let them kill me..."
"I didn't save you, Julian," Arthur replied, his voice colder than the ice on Lake Michigan.
"Norah saved you because your worthless life is the price of admission to Silas King’s dock."
"Now you are going to call Silas on the truck’s radio."
"You are going to tell him that Arthur Costello is dead on the floor of the Bridgeport packing plant."
"And you are going to tell him you are bringing the ledgers to Pier forty-four yourself."
Julian looked up at Arthur, then at the smoking ruins of the hit team around us, the realization dawning on him that there was no retreat.
"He won't believe me, Arthur," Julian whimpered.
"He will believe you," I said, stepping forward until the shadow of my coat fell across Julian’s face.
"Because you are going to show him the blood on Arthur's coat."
"And if you make a single mistake in your tone, Mr. Vance," I added, cocking the hammer of the small revolver,
"I won't aim for your shoulder this time."
Julian looked at me with genuine terror, realizing that the quiet maid from the basement had vanished forever into the smoke.
He nodded frantically, his teeth chattering against the bitter cold.
"I'll do it," Julian whispered.
"I'll tell him whatever you want."
Arthur looked at me, a dark, solemn respect shining in his eyes that made my heart race despite the carnage around us.
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"Leo, strip the truck for spare magazines and fuel," Arthur ordered without looking away from me.
"We move on Pier forty-four in twenty minutes."
