Chapter 24 - THE SAFE DEPOSIT BOX BENEATH THE HARBOR
Before Elena could turn, the sirens from the street sixty floors below were joined by a deep, resonant explosion that vibrated through the steel core of the building.
The glass of the southern window wall shuddered violently. A pillar of black, oily smoke was rising from the commercial docks three miles away—the historic pier where the Sterling shipping warehouses stood.
“What did you do?” Naomi gasped, rushing to the panoramic glass, her face pale.
Victoria rose gracefully, brushing an invisible speck of lint from her sleeve. “The maritime logs you claim to possess are worthless without the physical transaction manifests. And those manifests were stored where they belonged—in the seabed vault beneath Pier 44. It seems an unfortunate gas leak just solved our legal dispute, Miss Vance.”
Elena didn't waste a breath arguing. She grabbed the leather folder, locked eyes with Naomi, and sprinted for the private executive elevator.
“Elena, wait!” Marcus shouted, but the elevator doors were already sliding shut.
As the car descended rapidly, the elevator’s digital screen flickered with urgent breaking news: *MASSIVE EXPLOSION AT SOUTH BOSTON WHARF. AUTHORITIES REPORT SUSPECTED ARSON AT STERLING MARITIME VAULT.*
“She’s burning the original bills of lading,” Elena said, her voice shaking with rage as she stripped off her formal heels and pulled a pair of flat boots from her tote bag. “If the original manifests from the *Northern Star* burn, the Department of Justice can't establish the chain of custody. Victoria walks free on reasonable doubt!”
“The pier vault is flooded by high tide every twelve hours,” Naomi said, typing furiously on her tablet. “My father told me about Arthur Sterling’s private subterranean locker. It isn't in the main warehouse that just exploded. It’s built into the old granite seawall beneath the waterline! But if the structural foundation collapses from that blast, the sea will swallow it permanently!”
Fifteen minutes later, their black SUV screeched onto the perimeter of Pier 44. The air was suffocating, filled with thick, black plumes of burning creosote and diesel. Fireboats shot arcs of foamy water against the collapsed roof of Warehouse 7, while police barricades struggled to hold back crowd of dockworkers and reporters.
Slipping past the perimeter through an abandoned rail spur, Elena and Naomi descended an iron maintenance staircase coated in green slime and sea salt. The roar of the fire above was muffled by the crushing surge of the Atlantic tide sloshing against the ancient granite blocks below.
The water was already waist-deep in the maintenance tunnel. It was freezing, black, and smelled of rot and rusted iron.
Elena waded through the surge, her flashlight beam cutting through the murky mist. “Arthur’s seal! Look for the carved anchor with the broken chain!”
“There!” Naomi yelled, pointing her beam at a massive iron door half-submerged in the rushing tide.
The door was secured with an antique dual-cylinder mechanical lock. Elena pulled a tarnished brass key from her pocket—the key Daniel had slipped into her hand during their escape from the penthouse two days prior. Her fingers were numb, barely able to align the notches.
Behind them, a metallic click echoed down the flooded corridor.
Elena froze. The beam of a second flashlight cut through the dark, illuminating a figure standing on the iron catwalk above the water.
“Drop the key, Elena,” a voice echoed off the dripping stone.
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Elena turned slowly, the freezing water lapping at her ribs. Standing on the catwalk, silhouetted against the firelight above, holding a semi-automatic handgun, was Daniel’s sister-in-law, Rebecca.
***
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