Chapter 4 - The Anchor DropsSlip Four was the oldest section of the Port Haven docks—a decaying expanse of creosoted timber pilings and rusted iron winches where the deep-water channel met the jagged granite cliffs.
Arthur Vance’s forty-foot Hatteras yacht, The Northern Star, sat idling against the rubber tires of the pier, its diesel engines rumbling with a low, heavy vibration that rattled the loose gravel under the Maybach's tires.
As Roman stepped out of the car, the salt air hit him like a physical blow, sharp and stinging.
Eli stepped out behind him, his coat pulled back just enough to expose the Makarov tucked into his waistband.
"Stay in the car with them," Roman told Eli, nodding toward Evelyn and Mara, who was rubbing her eyes sleepily against her grandmother's shoulder.
"Boss," Eli started, his loyalty warring with tactical common sense.
"If I'm not back in fifteen minutes," Roman said, his voice dropping into a tone that brooked no argument, "you take them off the grid. Use the safehouse in Quebec. Don't look back."
Eli held his gaze for two seconds, then gave a single, sharp nod. "Understood."
Roman walked down the wet wooden ramp toward the slip. The rain had slowed to a heavy mist, gray and greasy under the amber glow of the mercury vapor lamps overhead.
The sliding glass door of the yacht’s main salon stood open. A warm, yellow light spilled out onto the wet deck, accompanied by the faint, smooth notes of a jazz saxophone playing from an interior speaker.
Roman didn't knock. He stepped across the threshold, his heavy boots echoing on the teak flooring.
Arthur Vance sat at the mahogany wet bar inside the salon, swirling a finger of amber whiskey in a heavy crystal tumbler. He wore an expensive navy blazer and a silk tie loosened at the collar. He looked older than he had at the city council meeting three weeks ago—sweat beaded on his forehead, and his hand shook slightly as he set the glass down.
"I wondered how long it would take you to figure out the math, Roman," Vance said, not turning around immediately. He kept his eyes fixed on the dark reflection of the window. "Though I expected you to go to the precinct first. Sentimentality always was your blind spot."
"Turn around, Arthur," Roman said.
Vance turned slowly. He managed a thin, brittle smile, though his eyes darted toward the interior companionway leading down to the engine room—where two heavy-set men with shoulder holsters were undoubtedly waiting.
"You built an empire on blood and ledgers, Roman," Vance said, spreading his hands. "You thought you owned this town because you bought the politicians and paved the roads. But you're just a dockworker with a good tailor. The syndicate needed a clean pipeline for the European shipments. Your name kept the feds off our backs. It was a good arrangement until you started wandering down to the fish market to buy clams like a retired fisherman."
"You touched my family," Roman said.
His voice wasn't loud. It didn't shake. It was the flat, dead sound of an executioner reading a docket.
Vance scoffed, taking a step toward the bar. "Your family? Clara Pruitt died nine years ago in a charity ward in Portland! Everyone knows—"
"She didn't die alone," Roman interrupted, stepping closer. "And she left a daughter. Eight years old. Loves gulls. Hates boats."
Vance’s smug composure cracked for a fraction of a second. His pupils dilated.
"So," Vance whispered, realization dawning like a cold sunrise. "That's why the cleanup team at Miller's Lane failed. You found out."
"They didn't just fail, Arthur," Roman said.
Before Vance could reach for the silver ice bucket where his snub-nosed revolver was hidden, Roman moved with terrifying, explosive speed. He cleared the distance between them in two long strides, grabbing Vance by the silk lapels of his blazer and hoisting him completely off the teak floor until the commissioner's heels kicked uselessly in the air.
"You sent men to a house where a child was sleeping," Roman hissed, his face inches from Vance's. "You used my terminal to traffic weapons under my flag. And worst of all... you made me believe I was alone in the dark for nine years."
"Roman—wait—the syndicate—they'll kill you too—the whole board—" Vance choked out, his face turning a mottled purple as his collar cut off his windpipe.
"Let them come," Roman whispered.
He didn't strike him. Instead, with a flick of his powerful wrists, Roman hurled Vance backward through the open sliding glass door.
Vance crashed onto the wet wooden deck of the pier, gasping for air, clutching his throat, and scrambling backward on his elbows like a crab on a flat rock.
Roman stepped out onto the deck after him, the rain slicking his dark hair across his forehead.
From the shadows of the dockside crane, Eli stepped forward, holding a thick, coiled length of heavy-duty nylon anchor line. He didn't say a word. He simply dropped the coil at Roman’s feet with a heavy, wet thud.
Roman looked down at the rope, then back at Vance, who was weeping openly now in the rain.
"Eli," Roman said without turning around.
"Boss?"
"Call the state police barracks. Tell them Commissioner Vance has a full confession regarding the Marseille weapons manifests, and that he's currently awaiting transport."
May you like
Roman crouched down, grabbing Vance by the collar once more and hauling him up to his knees so the commissioner was forced to look directly at the black, churning waters of the slip below.
"And Arthur?" Roman added, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly whisper. "If you ever mention Clara's name, or my daughter's name, or Miller's Lane again... I won't use a rope next time."
