Chapter 8 - Rising Tides
The water rushed through the floor grates with a deafening roar, foaming white against the rusted steel cradles of the old Chris-Craft motorboat. Within seconds, the freezing tide had risen past their ankles, soaking the hem of Clara’s silver dress and pulling at Julian’s heavy boots.
"Clara, give me your hand!" Julian shouted over the rushing water, abandoning the bulkhead door as the rising level made it impossible to leverage against the outside pressure.
Clara didn't hesitate. She grabbed his outstretched hand, her fingers ice-cold as Julian pulled her up onto the wooden slats of the boat’s rear deck. The boat shifted uncomfortably in its cradle as the water level climbed higher, threatening to lift the aging hull off its wooden supports before the weight could balance.
"The bilge system is automated!" Clara yelled, pointing toward the metal lockbox on the stern that was now only inches away from being submerged. "If the water hits that box, it trips the terminal discharge circuit!"
Julian scrambled toward the bow, searching frantically for the manual winch release lever. The red glow of the keypad was now flickering intermittently as saltwater splashed against its plastic casing.
"Where is the manual drop?" Julian cursed, kicking aside a rotted coil of Manila rope that floated past his shins. His silver rings scraped against the fiberglass hull as he ripped away a rotting canvas tarp covering the bow locker.
Beneath the tarp sat a heavy iron lever bearing a faded red danger stencil. Without waiting to check the rigging, Julian threw his entire body weight onto the rusted handle.
With a deafening groan of bending steel and splintering wood, the front cradle gave way. The Chris-Craft lurched forward, sliding violently down the concrete slipway and splashing into the churning black water of the underground cove with an impact that knocked the wind out of both of them.
The shockwave sent a wall of freezing water over the gunwales, soaking them to the bone. The engine sputtered once as the bilge intake flooded, then died completely, leaving the boat bobbing helplessly in the dark water just ten feet away from the open bulkhead.
Through the open steel door, the storm raged outside, the towering cliffs blocking any view of the shore. But standing on the stone ledge just outside the bulkhead, framed against the lightning-lit sky, was a single figure in a dark trench coat.
It wasn't Marcus.
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It was a woman holding a heavy sniper rifle fitted with an infrared scope, her face completely obscured by the driving sleet.
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