Chapter 3 - The Tide Turns
The harbor was shrouded in a sudden, thick Atlantic fog by the time they reached the lower deck of the warehouse behind the fish market. The air tasted of salt, diesel fuel, and imminent violence.
Roman held Mara’s small hand in his left. Her grip was surprisingly tight, her small fingers locked around his heavy palm. Evelyn walked steadily beside them, carrying a small canvas bag containing nine years of records, birth certificates, and Clara’s remaining belongings.
"Are we going on a boat?" Mara asked, her voice hushed but not frightened. "Is this a secret mission?"
"It’s a change of venue," Roman said, looking over his shoulder toward the dark silhouette of the fish market.
Engines rumbled in the distance—heavy, V8 engines idling on the gravel road leading down to the pier. Headlights cut through the grey gloom, illuminating the swirling mist like beams of pale amber.
"They brought heavy gear, Roman," Eli said, emerging from the dark with two silenced carbines in his hands. He passed one to Roman, who checked the chamber with a smooth, practiced motion that Mara watched with sharp eyes.
"You have a gun," Mara noted, pointing a clean finger at the black steel. "My school teacher says guns are for cowards."
Roman paused, looking down at his daughter. "Your teacher is mostly right, kiddo. But sometimes bad men don't listen to polite words."
"Like the clams?"
"Worse than the clams."
He turned to Eli. "Take the launch. Get Evelyn and Mara out past the breakwater to the island house. I’ll stay behind and shut the door."
"No," Evelyn interrupted sharply. She stepped into the yellow light of an overhead bulb, her face grim. "If you stay here alone, Roman, they’ll kill you, and Mara will spend the rest of her life wondering why her father died in a fish house. We go together, or we don't go."
Roman looked at Evelyn, seeing Clara’s iron stubbornness reflected in the old woman’s eyes. He didn't argue.
They boarded the Clara Marine, a seventy-foot dark-hulled motor yacht that Roman had kept docked in Port Haven for five years without ever truly understanding why he was drawn to this specific harbor. Now, the dark irony of it hit him like cold spray: he had been anchoring next to his daughter for half a decade without ever knowing she was there.
Eli cast off the lines. The twin diesel engines hummed to life, a deep, throating vibration that shook the deckboards.
As the vessel backed out into the murky water, three dark sport-utility vehicles smashed through the wooden gates of the market perimeter. Men in heavy tactical gear spilled out onto the pier, their weapons drawn.
"Bellamy!" a voice boomed over a bullhorn—a voice Roman recognized instantly. It was Silas Vance, the son of the corrupt hospital administrator who had lied to him nine years ago. "You can't run from the debt! The Bellamy line ends today!"
Gunfire erupted across the water, the sharp clack-clack-clack of automatic rifles splintering the wooden pilings of the pier.
Eli slammed the throttle forward. The Clara Marine surged into the deep channel, her hull cutting through the chop as bullets pinged harmlessly off the reinforced armor glass of the wheelhouse.
In the salon below, Roman pushed Mara and Evelyn onto the carpeted floor beneath the thick teak table.
"Stay down," he commanded.
Mara looked up at him through her smudged glasses. She wasn't crying, but her small shoulders were rigid. "Are you going to fix this?"
May you like
Roman reached into his pocket, pulled out a clean silk handkerchief, and gently wiped the smudges from her lens before placing the glasses back on her face.
"I’m going to fix it," he said. "Every bit of it."
