Chapter 10
Chapter 10:
The wind howling off the East River was brutal.
The abandoned Brooklyn Navy Yard lay in near-total darkness, illuminated only by pale moonlight cutting through the silhouettes of rusted cranes. June pulled her trench coat tighter. A dull ache throbbed from her incision — a grim reminder of her body’s limits. She pressed one hand subtly against her side while the other remained buried in her pocket, fingers locked around a canister of pepper spray. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
A hundred yards behind her, hidden in the shadows, Vera sat in the Porsche with the engine running, ready to move.
A hunched figure stepped out from behind a rusted shipping container.
Arthur. He looked a decade older than he should, his clothes ragged, his eyes darting in every direction with barely contained terror.
“Did you bring it?” he rasped, shivering violently.
June pulled a heavy black duffel bag from her shoulder and dropped it at his feet. “One hundred thousand in untraceable cash. Now give me the truth p>
Arthur unzipped the bag. His eyes widened at the stacked bills. He swallowed hard.
“I told you about the brakes,” he said, his voice unsteady. “But there’s more. I recorded them.” He reached into his worn coat and produced a small, heavily rusted digital voice recorder.
“I hid in the garage,” Arthur whispered, holding it out to her. “I recorded your uncle Richard talking to the man who paid him to do it p>
𝖲𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗲 уо𝘶r 𝗳𝗮𝗏о𝘳𝘪𝘁е𝘴 𝗳𝗿𝗈m
June took the recorder. The metal was ice-cold against her fingers. “Who was it p>
Arthur grabbed the bag and stepped back. “I have to go. If they find me, I’m dead p>
Without warning, three black SUVs snapped on their high beams, flooding the entire dock in blinding white light. Tires screamed against the cracked asphalt as the vehicles accelerated straight toward them.
Arthur screamed. “You brought them p>
“No!” June shouted over the roar of the engines.
The SUVs slammed to a stop. Doors flew open, and a dozen men in dark clothing poured out carrying metal pipes.
Arthur turned and sprinted for the water, but a man cut him off, swinging a pipe hard into the backs of his knees. Arthur went down with a sickening crack.
June stood frozen, pain flaring in her abdomen from the shock of the moment.
Tires screamed behind her. Vera wrenched the Porsche into reverse and slid it between June and the advancing men.
“Get in!” Vera screamed, throwing the passenger door open.
A man lunged at June. She drove the pepper spray directly into his eyes, ducked beneath his swinging arm, and threw herself into the car, crying out as the movement jarred her wound.
Vera floored the accelerator. The Porsche fishtailed, tires smoking, and shot out of the docks just as a heavy pipe connected with the rear windshield, exploding the glass inward.
June looked back through the shattered frame, chest heaving. Arthur was being dragged into one of the SUVs.
Back in the penthouse, the silence was suffocating.
June sat on the edge of the sofa, her hands trembling so badly she could barely hold the rusted recorder. Vera paced the room, visibly shaken.
“Those were hitmen, June. Real hitmen p>
June pressed play.
Static hissed from the small speaker. Then the voice of her uncle, Richard Erickson, filled the room.
“As long as my brother and his wife die in that crash, the Erickson patents and the estate default to me p>
A second voice followed — deep, authoritative, slightly muffled, as though filtered through distance or fabric. “Make it clean, Richard. Our partners will handle the police reports and the media. We get the patents, you get the cash p>
June’s blood turned to ice.
The voice was not clear. It was not definitive proof. But she recognized the quality of it — the cold, unhurried weight of it. It carried the unmistakable sound of Compton family power.
Her phone chimed on the coffee table. A text from Brogan Clements: Welcome party for you tomorrow night at The Box. Cole Compton is on the guest list. Wear something sharp.
June stared at the message. Then she looked down at the recorder in her hand.
The fear was gone. The grief was gone.
She typed her reply: I’ll be there.