Chapter 39 - The Offer from Geneva
The snow was falling heavily as we prepared the convoy. Campbell insisted on fitting me with an ultra-thin Kevlar vest beneath my coat, along with a hidden audio transmitter embedded in the collar of my sweater.
"Our sniper units will be positioned on the grain silos overlooking Dock 14," Campbell instructed, his hands steady as he checked his sidearm. "We’ll have three tactical boats idling three hundred yards offshore with thermal imaging. The second you confirm Lily’s safehouse is clear, we move in and take the syndicate operatives down."
My phone buzzed again. It was a secure text from the commander of the Boston tactical team:
*Farmhouse perimeter swept. Hostiles neutralized without incident. Lily is secure and unharmed in armored transport. Awaiting your signal.*
A massive weight lifted from my chest, but the fire inside me only burned brighter. Lily was safe. Now, the burden of the past had to be eradicated forever.
"She's safe, Campbell," I whispered. "Now let's finish this."
We drove toward the Portland waterfront in silence. The harbor was desolate, cloaked in driving snow and bitter Atlantic wind. Dock 14 jutted out into the black, churning water like a skeletal finger, surrounded by rusted cargo containers and abandoned cranes.
A single luxury yacht was moored at the end of the pier, its engine humming with a deep, vibrating thrum. On the wooden dock stood two men in dark trench coats, their hands buried in their pockets, flanking a silver-haired man holding an umbrella.
I stepped out of the SUV alone, clutching the leather briefcase containing the cipher book and the brass key. The freezing wind whipped my hair across my face as my boots crunched through the fresh powder on the wooden planks.
"Mrs. Vance," the silver-haired man said as I approached within ten paces. He bowed slightly with cold European politeness. "I am Herr Richter. You are remarkably punctual."
"Where is the confirmation that your men have stood down?" I demanded, keeping the briefcase tight against my ribs.
Richter smiled thinly, his breath clouding in the freezing air. "My men at the farmhouse have already been intercepted by your federal friends, Mrs. Vance. Do you truly think I did not expect Campbell's countermove?"
My blood ran cold.
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"What do you mean?" I asked, gripping the handle of the briefcase until my knuckles turned white.
"The men at the farmhouse were decoys," Richter said smoothly, raising a small satellite remote in his gloved hand. "The real prize is not in Massachusetts. And it is not on this dock."
