Chapter 25 - EYE OF THE STORM
The spray of the freezing Atlantic waves battered against the zodiac raft as Vincent cut the outboard engine two hundred yards off the rocky headland of Shelter Island. The night was alive with the howling wind and the rhythmic crash of black water against jagged granite.
Through high-powered night-vision binoculars, the fortress appeared utterly still, but the heat signatures told a different story.
“Twelve men on the parapet,” Vincent whispered to Elena, checking his tactical headset. “Two sniper teams covering the harbor approach. Clara, do you copy?”
Back in the shack, wearing a communications headset with baby Hope resting safely in a bassinet beside me, I watched the encrypted satellite feed synced to Daniel’s old bypass codes.
“I copy, Vincent,” I replied softly. “The tide is at dead low for the next thirty-four minutes. If you reach the grate within four minutes, you have a half-hour window before the seawater seals the drainage tunnel.”
“Understood,” Vincent said. He turned to Elena. “Check your rebreather.”
Elena adjusted the mouthpiece of her tactical dive gear, her eyes blazing with determination. Without another word, both of them slipped over the side of the raft, disappearing into the dark, churning water.
I held my breath, monitoring the twin GPS beacons blinking on my screen.
For two agonizing minutes, the beacons crawled through the icy surf toward the base of the cliffs. Then, the audio line crackled.
“We’re at the drainage opening,” Vincent breathed, his voice muffled by the sound of rushing water. “Grate is rusted through. Elena is cutting the remaining bars with the torch now.”
On my monitor, however, a sudden crimson alert flashed across the perimeter radar.
“Vincent! Look out!” I whispered harshly. “Julian’s patrol boat just swung around the northern cove! Their searchlight is sweeping the cliff face!”
A blinding arc of white halogen light cut across the rocks just feet above their heads. Vincent and Elena submerged completely, pressing their bodies against the barnacle-crusted stone beneath the tide line.
Through the open microphone, I could hear nothing but the muffled thunder of waves and the distant hum of the patrol boat’s diesel engine passing directly overhead. Ten seconds felt like ten lifetimes.
Finally, the boat droned past, heading toward the main pier.
“We’re inside the pipe,” Elena gasped, coughing slightly as they broke the surface inside the concrete drainage shaft. “Clara, route us to the boiler room.”
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“Follow the pipe forty yards upward,” I instructed, my fingers flying over the blueprints. “Turn left at the primary valve junction. There will be an iron ladder leading up to the sub-level maintenance hatch. But hurry—the tide has already begun to turn.”
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