Chapter 10 - The Drowning Truth
The concussion of the underwater blast threw Arthur backward onto the wooden planks of the dock, knocking the breath from his lungs. The heavy wool blanket slipped from his shoulders as he scrambled to his hands and knees, coughing violently in the smoke-filled air.
Before him, the old wooden boathouse was engulfed in a wall of orange flame, the roof timbers groaning and snapping as they collapsed inward into the dark water of the lake.
Arthur dragged himself to his feet, ignoring the sharp pain in his ribs, and rushed to the edge of the dock. Below, the churning water was stained with a shimmering slick of burning gasoline. Marcus surfaced ten feet away, thrashing wildly in the freezing water, gasping for air as his heavy tactical vest dragged him down like an anchor.
“Uncle Arthur! Help me!” Marcus screamed, his hands flailing desperately toward the dock as he swallowed a mouthful of oily water. “I can’t... the vest is too heavy!”
Arthur stared down at his nephew. For a fraction of a second, the image of his son Julian abandoning little Lily in the ballroom flashed through his mind—the same gutless selfishness, the same complete lack of human decency running through the Vance bloodline. But Arthur wasn't a monster. He wasn't Victor Thorne.
Arthur dropped his pistol, unclipped his heavy suit jacket letting it fall into the water, and ripped off his damp shirt. Without a second thought, he dove headfirst off the edge of the dock into the icy, burning lake.
The shock of the cold water hit him like a physical blow, numbing his limbs instantly. He surfaced, shook the water from his eyes, and swam hard toward Marcus, who was sinking beneath the surface for the second time.
Arthur lunged forward, grabbed Marcus by the reinforced collar of his tactical vest, and hauled him upward until the young man’s head broke the surface. Marcus coughed violently, clawing frantically at Arthur’s arms like a drowning cat.
“Hold onto my shoulder!” Arthur barked over the roar of the burning boathouse. “Don't fight me, Marcus, or we both drown!”
With every ounce of his remaining strength, fighting the numbing cold and his aching joints, Arthur side-stroked toward the shore, dragging his heavy nephew behind him. He slammed his boots onto the muddy embankment, heaved Marcus up onto the grass, and collapsed beside him, both of them gasping for breath in the freezing drizzle.
Marcus lay flat on his back, staring up at the gray sky, shivering violently as blue lips parted to draw in shallow, ragged breaths. He didn't look like a corporate mastermind anymore; he looked like a terrified, broken boy.
“Why...” Marcus whispered, his voice trembling so hard the words barely registered over the crackle of the fire. “Why did you save me? I tried to destroy you. I sold you out to Thorne.”
“Because you’re family, Marcus,” Arthur panted, rolling onto his side and staring down at his nephew with cold, unrelenting disappointment. “And unlike you and Julian, I actually know what that word means. Now... tell me where Victor Thorne took my granddaughter.”
Marcus closed his eyes, a single tear mixing with the soot on his cheek. He reached a shaking hand into the pocket of his soaked trousers, pulled out a small, waterproof flash drive, and pressed it into Arthur’s palm.
“The... the old hunting lodge on the north ridge,” Marcus stammered, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. “Victor isn't working alone, Uncle. He has a buyer... someone inside the federal banking commission who authorized the asset freeze. If you go there alone, it’s a trap.”
Before Arthur could ask who the buyer was, a pair of heavy-duty black SUVs tore through the estate’s security gates, their high-beam headlights slicing through the smoke and illuminating the muddy lawn. The doors flew open, and a squad of men in tactical black uniforms poured out, their assault rifles raised.
Leading the squad was a tall, imposing woman in a sharp federal marshal’s uniform, her badge gleaming in the firelight. She walked straight toward Arthur, ignoring Marcus entirely, and pressed a secure satellite phone directly into Arthur’s hand.
May you like
“Mr. Vance,” the marshal said sharply. “Hold the line. It’s Victor Thorne. He’s calling from the hunting lodge, and he wants to talk to you directly.”
---
