Chapter 3 - The Ghost of MarseilleThe black Mercedes-Maybach glided through the rain-slicked gates of the North Pier industrial park like a shark entering a bait pen.
Inside the leather-lined cabin, the silence was absolute except for the rhythmic swish-swish of the wipers clearing away the heavy Maine drizzle. In the back seat, Mara had fallen asleep with her head pillowed against Evelyn’s lap, her small fingers still clutching a half-eaten bag of salted pretzels Roman had bought at a gas station outside Camden.
Eli sat in the front passenger seat, tapping methodically on a ruggedized tablet.
"Vance isn't at his office," Eli said without turning around. "My guys checked his estate on Cliff Road. His gate is locked, but his private cruiser is still docked at the slip. He hasn't left the peninsula."
Roman stared out the tinted window at the towering cranes of his shipping terminal. The vast corrugated steel warehouses stretched out along the black water like giant tombstones. For nine years, he had believed he ran this coast. He believed every crate that crossed these piers was accounted for, every bribe paid, every loyal soldier vetted.
Now, sitting three feet away from his secret flesh and blood, he realized he had been sleeping in a glass house.
"The Marseille containers," Roman said, his voice cold and steady. "What was actually inside them?"
Eli paused, his thumb hovering over the tablet screen. He glanced in the rearview mirror at Roman’s face, illuminated only by the faint blue glow of the dashboard instrumentation.
"Not auto parts," Eli said quietly. "Not machinery, like the manifest claimed. We pulled the seal numbers from the port authority database before Vance locked us out. The weight ratios didn't match standard cargo. Boss... it was ordnance. Military-grade sub-assemblies and encrypted communication rigs routed through a shell company in Panama."
Roman’s jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his cheek.
"Vance is moving product for the syndicate out of Boston," Roman deduced, connecting the dots that should have been obvious months ago. "They've been using my terminal as a blind drop because federal inspectors never audit Bellamy Logistics."
"And they figured out that if they got you out of the picture—or pinned a federal weapons-smuggling rap on you—they’d inherit the entire Atlantic shipping lane," Eli added. He turned around fully in his seat. "Boss, they didn't just send two cleanup guys to Miller's Lane by accident. Vance knew you visited Evelyn's stall today. Someone tipped him off the second you stepped out of this car at the fish market."
Roman looked down at his lap. His hand brushed against the yellowed piece of paper Clara had written nine years ago.
If he ever looks at the water long enough to wonder, give him the anchor.
May you like
He hadn't just looked at the water. He had built his entire dark empire over it, blind to the things sinking beneath the surface.
"Wake them up," Roman ordered, nodding toward the back seat. "We're not going to Cliff Road. We're going to Slip Four."
