Chapter 5 - THE GHOST OF BISCAYNE BAYI didn't run. Running was what a guilty man did.
Instead, I packed the Project Titan ledger, the backup drive, and three bundles of cash into a waterproof briefcase. I grabbed my father’s old trench coat, slipped out through the subterranean boat slip beneath the mansion, and untied my old wooden Chris-Craft motorboat.
The rain slammed against the water like handfuls of gravel as I steered north toward Biscayne Bay, cutting through the dark, churning waves without lights.
Rosa’s instructions had been specific: The safe house on Biscayne Bay. Address is on the back of the ledger.
I flipped the heavy leather book over in the dim glow of the dashboard compass. Scrawled in neat, elegant cursive was an address in an old, forgotten maritime district near Oleta River: 4408 Mangrove Lane.
Forty-five minutes later, I cut the engine, gliding silently against a rotting wooden dock behind a derelict boathouse. The building looked abandoned, its paint peeling away in gray strips, but a single yellow light burned inside a second-story window.
I stepped onto the dock, my boots splashing in the puddles, and drew my breath. I walked up the warped wooden steps and pushed the heavy door open.
Inside, the room was a high-tech command center.
Wall-to-wall monitors flickered with live surveillance feeds of Miami police precincts, federal courtrooms, Harold Bennett’s penthouse, and—most shockingly—the interrogation room at the downtown police headquarters where Rosa was currently sitting.
A woman stood by the main console, her back to me. She wore a sleek black tactical turtleneck, her gray-streaked hair unpinned, falling in dark waves past her shoulders. She turned around.
It was Rosa. But not the timid, faded-dress housekeeper who cleaned my marble floors.
Her eyes were sharp, cold, and possessed an undeniable authority.
"You're late, Edward," Rosa said calmly, pouring two cups of black coffee from a percolator.
I stared at her, utterly speechless. "Who... who the hell are you?"
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Rosa took a slow sip of her coffee and slid the second cup across the metal desk toward me.
"My name is Rosalind Vance," she said quietly. "And Harold Bennett just signed his own death warrant."
