Chapter 31 - The Blood Money of Montreal
Within twenty minutes, the dining room of the Port Haven pavilion looked like a field hospital and a command post combined.
Deputies cordoned off the broken windows with yellow crime-scene tape. Dr. Higgins, the retired town physician, was bandaging David's cracked ribs at a corner booth while Grace sat opposite them, an ice pack pressed against her bruised cheekbone.
On the long wooden counter, beside the matte-black pistol and my broken spatula, Sheriff Thomas laid out the evidence: three encrypted satellite phones taken from the captured gunmen, two forged Canadian diplomatic passports, and a high-capacity encrypted flash drive.
"State police are mobilizing across three counties," Thomas said, pacing behind the counter with a steaming mug of black coffee I had brewed on the surviving camp burner. "They found Eleanor Vance’s car abandoned near the ferry slip in North Point. She got onto a private fishing launch before the Coast Guard could lock down the channel."
"She won't get far without this," Grace said, pointing to the flash drive. Her voice was steady, purged of every ounce of hesitation. "That drive contains the authentication keys for the Montreal clearinghouse. Eleanor kept the physical keys in her safe, but Julian held the passwords. When Benny seized Julian’s assets, the municipal computer combined the ledger with the town’s automated escrow system. It locked Eleanor out. That’s why she sent Volkov’s men. She didn't want the money back to spend it—she needed to return it to Volkov before he put a bullet in her head."
I leaned over the counter, my knuckles white against the dark oak. "Fifty million dollars. That money isn't town property. It’s dirty, blood-soaked cartel cash."
"Legally?" David spoke up, wincing as Dr. Higgins pulled the bandage tight around his torso. "Legally, son, that money is currently in the custody of the Port Haven Municipal Board. Julian Vance registered those offshore accounts under a sham municipal development bond twenty years ago. He used the town’s tax-exempt status to shield the interest from federal audits. On paper, Port Haven owns those bonds."
"Which means," Sheriff Thomas said slowly, realization dawning on his weathered face, "the moment the banks open at eight o'clock tomorrow morning, the town of Port Haven will technically be the wealthiest municipality in the entire state—and the primary target of the most violent syndicate on the eastern seaboard."
"Volkov won't wait for eight o'clock," David said, his eyes dark with dread. "He operates out of a private compound forty miles north of the border. If his strike team failed to retrieve the drive quietly tonight, he will bring thirty men with military-grade hardware to level this harbor before sunrise."
I looked around the room. The shattered glass. The flour-coated tiles. The broken sign outside in the dirt.
Nine years of sweat. Nine years of swallowing Julian’s insults. Nine years of watching Grace turn into a stranger, only to watch her risk her life tonight to ram a two-ton truck into an assassin's vehicle to save me.
"We don't wait for them to come here," I said.
Everyone at the counter stopped and looked at me.
May you like
"Benny," Grace said softly. "What are you talking about?"
"Volkov wants his fifty million," I said, my voice dropping into that cold, absolute calm that comes over a cook during an impossible dinner rush. "And Eleanor is running for her life. We don't hide behind sandbags and wait for them to burn this town to the ground. We make the exchange on our terms."
