Chapter 11 - The Black Water of Calumet
The southern industrial fringe of Chicago at three in the morning was an empire of rust and frozen sulfur.
Wind tore across the jagged breakwaters of Calumet Harbor, churning the dark waters into foam that froze upon contact with the concrete piers.
Dominic Vale stood on the wet deck of a high-speed private pilot cutter cutting through the chop at twenty-five knots.
The twin diesel engines thrummed through the soles of his boots.
Behind him, Vincent Hale adjusted the strap of his tactical vest while reviewing maritime radar on an encrypted slate.
“The Laurentian Queen is anchored two miles outside the harbor mouth,” Vincent shouted over the roar of wind and spray.
“Panamanian registry, but owned by Laurent’s shell company out of Quebec.”
“She dropped anchor under the guise of an engine diagnostic check.”
“Coast Guard has been notified, but their cutter from Milwaukee won’t arrive for another forty minutes.”
Dominic adjusted the collar of his tactical jacket.
“Forty minutes is twenty minutes too late.”
“Once she hits international waters across the maritime boundary line, our legal jurisdiction becomes a diplomatic nightmare.”
“We board her before she lifts anchor.”
The silhouette of the bulk freighter loomed through the freezing mist like a floating mountain of black steel.
Seven hundred feet long, her rust-streaked hull rose sheer from the icy chop.
Only a few work lights glowed along the superstructure and the crane gantries.
A heavy pilot ladder of knotted hemp and timber rungs hung down her starboard flank.
The pilot cutter slowed its throttles, matching speed with the drifting behemoth.
The cold spray stung Dominic’s eyes, but his gaze was locked on the iron deck high above.
Miller, the former recon marine, hooked a titanium grappling grapple onto the freighter’s gunwale and secured the pneumatic tension line.
“Line is secure, boss!” Miller yelled.
“I go first,” Dominic said.
Vincent stepped in his way, his face shadowed under his hood.
“Boss, that’s sixty feet of vertical rope ladder in a sub-zero squall.”
“Your left knee was reconstructed eleven weeks ago.”
“One slip on iced hemp and you drop into water that stops your heart in ninety seconds.”
Dominic met Vincent’s gaze with absolute resolve.
“Arthur Voss tried to butcher a mother and a child in my home tonight, Vincent.”
“I’m not watching from a wheelhouse.”
Dominic grabbed the rungs.
The freezing wood was coated with a thin sheen of ice.
He began his ascent.
Every pull demanded iron focus.
His left knee took the upward drive, the rebuilt ligaments screaming against the strain, the cold air burning deep in his chest.
Yet the agony was clean.
There was no reversed silver plate grinding into the fibular head.
There was only the honest ache of living bone and sinew answering an iron will.
Step after step, rung after rung, Dominic climbed out of the black churn of the lake.
Thirty feet.
Forty feet.
Fifty feet.
His glove gripped the icy steel rail of the main deck.
He vaulted his body over the bulwark with a fluid, explosive motion and landed flat on both feet in the shadow of a container crane.
Vincent and Miller hauled themselves up seconds later, weapons drawn and held at the ready.
The deck was deserted.
Snow drifted across heavy steel hatch covers.
From the direction of the bridge deck came the muffled throb of auxiliary generators preparing the vessel to weigh anchor.
Suddenly, a side bulkhead door swung open thirty paces down the port catwalk.
A crewman in heavy foul-weather gear stepped out, lighting a cigarette behind cupped hands.
The flame illuminated his face.
Before the match burned down, Miller closed the distance like a ghost.
A gloved hand clamped over the man’s mouth; a sharp knee to the solar plexus took his breath away, driving him silent onto the steel grating.
Vincent stepped forward, pressing the cold barrel of his sidearm against the crewman’s temple.
“Where is Voss?” Vincent whispered.
The man gasped, his eyes darting frantically between the three armed intruders.
“Captain’s salon,” the crewman choked out in broken English.
“Third deck under the bridge.”
“He’s with Monsieur Laurent’s men.”
“How many guns?” Dominic asked.
“Four... maybe five.”
“They’re waiting for the captain to clear the radar plot.”
Dominic tapped Miller on the shoulder.
“Secure him to the crane ladder.”
“Vincent, take the outer fire escape to cut off the bridge wing.”
“I’m taking the interior companionway.”
Vincent nodded once, peeling off toward the steel stairs leading up the exterior superstructure.
Dominic moved with silent, lethal economy through the watertight hatch into the ship’s interior.
The air inside smelled of diesel fuel, stale tobacco, and burnt grease.
The narrow corridor was lit by caged yellow bulbs that flickered with every surge of the auxiliary generator.
Dominic kept his MP5 raised, moving step by step up the iron stairway.
His left leg held firm, each footprint silent on the corrugated rubber tread.
He reached the landing of the third deck.
Through the louvers of a heavy teak door at the end of the passageway, the sound of raised voices drifted through the hum of the ship’s vents.
Dominic approached the door, pressing his back against the steel bulkhead.
He listened.
“You guaranteed the estate was an empty fortress, Arthur!” a deep, gravelly voice snarled with a heavy French-Canadian inflection.
“My three best operators aren't responding to radio checks.”
“The police frequency in Chicago is screaming about shots fired on the North Shore!”
Then came Arthur Voss’s voice—thin, frantic, and cracked with desperation.
“The house was supposed to be clear!”
“Dominic was supposed to be sedated or in a hospital bed!”
“The maid and the kid were the only witnesses who saw me with the brace!”
“Once they were wiped, the prosecutors had nothing but circumstantial logs!”
“You fools!” the Canadian voice bellowed.
“You told Jean-Paul Laurent that the Vale empire was ripe for harvest.”
“Instead, you bring the federal task force down on our maritime licenses!”
“The moment this boat clears the St. Lawrence, you’re getting off in Halifax with nothing.”
“You don’t get a single dollar from the trust accounts.”
“You can’t do that, Henri!” Arthur begged, his voice trembling.
“I built the logistics network that made Laurent’s shipments possible!”
“You owe me twenty million!”
Dominic did not wait for the conversation to finish.
He took half a step back.
He drove his right heel directly against the brass lockset beside the door handle.
May you like
Crash.
The heavy teak door burst open into the salon.
