CHAPTER 7

The knock came again, harder this time. Wood rattled in its frame.

"Police. Open up."

Stanley moved before thought took hold. He crossed to the window—a single pane of grimy glass overlooking the alley below. A patrol car sat at the far end, lights off, engine running. Two figures stood near the door. Uniforms. One held a radio to his mouth.

"There's a back way," Crane whispered, already at the far wall. He pulled a filing cabinet aside, revealing a low door set into the brick. "Old bootlegger tunnel. Leads to the next block."

Stanley limped toward him, the baton still in his hand. "How far?"

"Quarter mile. Comes up in a basement."

The pounding resumed. "Last warning. Open the door or we break it down."

Crane shoved the door open. Darkness beyond. He grabbed a flashlight from the desk and gestured for Stanley to go first.

Stanley ducked through, the tunnel low and narrow, walls slick with moisture. The smell was damp earth and rust. Crane followed, pulling the filing cabinet back into place. The sound of the lock clicking shut was muffled by the weight of the room beyond.

They moved in silence, the flashlight beam cutting a narrow path through the dark. Stanley's ankle screamed with every step, but he pushed through it. Behind them, the sound of the door splintering open echoed through the tunnel, faint and distant.

"They'll find the entrance," Stanley said.

"Eventually. But not before we're out."

They walked for what felt like an hour but was probably minutes. The tunnel curved, then opened into a wider space. Concrete floor. Wooden shelves. The smell of wine and dust.

Crane clicked off the flashlight. "Basement of a restaurant. The owner's a friend. We can go up through the kitchen."

Stanley leaned against a shelf, catching his breath. His hands were shaking. Adrenaline, he told himself. Just adrenaline.

"They'll have the block cordoned off," he said.

"Probably. But we're not going by car. There's a marina three miles north. We walk."

"Three miles." Stanley looked down at his ankle. It had swollen to the size of a baseball.

"I know. But we don't have a choice."

Stanley nodded. He straightened, tested his weight on the ankle. Pain lanced up his leg, but it held.

"Let's go."

They climbed a set of narrow stairs, emerging into a darkened kitchen. Stainless steel counters. The smell of old grease. Crane moved to a door, cracked it open, peered out.

"Clear."

They slipped into an alley, the restaurant's back door closing behind them. The street was quiet, dawn still an hour away. A single streetlight cast a pool of yellow light on the wet asphalt.

Crane led them north, keeping to shadows, moving fast. Stanley followed, each step a negotiation with the pain. They passed boarded-up storefronts, empty lots, a row of townhouses with dark windows. The city was holding its breath, waiting for morning.

They reached the marina as the first hint of gray appeared on the horizon. Boats bobbed in their slips, masts clinking against metal rigging. The air smelled of salt and diesel.

Crane stopped at a small shed near the dock. He knocked twice, paused, knocked three more times. No answer.

He tried the door. Locked.

"He should be here," Crane said, his voice tight. "He's always here."

Stanley looked around. The marina was still. Too still. A single gull perched on a piling, watching them.

"Crane." Stanley's voice was low. "We need to leave."

Crane turned. "The boat—"

"Is gone. Look."

Stanley pointed to the slip where a boat should have been. The lines hung loose, trailing in the water. The berth was empty.

Crane stared at it, his face unreadable. Then he nodded, a slow, deliberate movement.

"He sold us out."

"Or he's dead."

They stood in the gray light, the water lapping against the docks. The plan had been thin. Now it was nothing.

A car door slammed somewhere behind them. Then another.

Stanley didn't turn around. He didn't need to.

"Crane. We have to go."

"Where?"

Stanley thought of the list. The schedule. The coordinates. Vance's meeting was tonight. Offshore. They had no boat, no backup, no time.

He looked at the empty berth, then at the water beyond. The bay stretched out, gray and flat, the distant shore a dark line on the horizon.

"We find another way," Stanley said. "There's always another way."

But even as he said it, he knew. The marina was a dead end. And the men behind them were getting closer.

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