Chapter 11 - The Edge of the Cliff
The salty sea breeze slammed against the windshield of Detective Miller’s Ford Explorer as they crested the rugged hill overlooking the Pacific coastline. Below them, jagged rocks battered against the churning gray waves. Nestled at the very bottom of the cliff sat the dilapidated remains of an old wooden boathouse, its roof partially collapsed from years of neglect and winter storms.
Parked carelessly right beside the rotting structure was the hijacked police cruiser, its driver-side door swinging wide open in the wind. Its emergency light bar flashed a frantic, silent red and blue against the gray stone walls.
Detective Miller slammed on the brakes, sliding the SUV to a halt fifty yards away from the cruiser. He unholstered his firearm, keeping his eyes locked on the boathouse entrance.
"Stay in the vehicle, Mr. Vance," Miller instructed, his hand on the door handle. "She's desperate, and a cornered animal will do anything to survive."
"No," Arthur replied calmly, pressing the manual release lever to slide his wheelchair out of the back door of the SUV. He hit the ramp mechanism Clara had installed, rolling smoothly onto the gravel shoulder. "She thinks I'm a helpless invalid trapped in a chair. Let her keep thinking that until it's too late."
Detective Miller sighed, realizing he couldn't talk Arthur out of it. He took a tactical position to the left of the wheelchair, advancing slowly down the rocky footpath toward the boathouse. The sound of crashing waves drowned out their footsteps, masking their approach as they neared the rotting wooden door.
Inside the boathouse, a sharp, metallic voice echoed through the cracks in the walls.
"You think you've won, Arthur?!" Eleanor screamed hysterically from the interior darkness. Her voice sounded crazed, unhinged by the closing net of the law. "You're too late! The offshore accounts are already transferring to the Cayman Islands! By morning, I'll be sipping champagne in the Mediterranean while you rot in your stupid wheelchair!"
Detective Miller signaled with his hand, counting down silently with his fingers: Three... Two... One...
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With a swift kick of his boot, the detective smashed the rotting wooden door inward, sending splinters flying in all directions. He stepped into the dim interior with his weapon raised, shouting, "Police! Don't move!"
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