Chapter 7 - Navigation by the Water's Edge
The damp chill of the subterranean tunnels gradually gave way to the sharp, salt-laden breeze of the East River as we navigated the final drainage culvert leading toward the waterfront. We emerged from a low concrete discharge pipe onto a jagged riprap shoreline, the jagged silhouette of abandoned industrial piers stretching out into the dark, churning water before us. Low-key city lights from the outer boroughs cast a bruised purple glow across the surface of the river, illuminating small patches of floating debris and grease slicks that caught the amber sodium glare. The man in the black suit kept his left hand locked around the handle of the heavy briefcase, his strides measured and cautious as we scrambled over slippery granite boulders toward a rusted iron ladder bolted to the side of a rotting timber pier. "My contact said a tugboat would be waiting at Pier 42," I said, raising my voice slightly to cut through the low rumble of a distant freight train rumbling across an overhead bridge. "If he hasn't moved on after seeing the heat in Manhattan tonight." He paused on the wooden decking of the pier, his gaze sweeping the dark expanse of the harbor where several cargo vessels lay anchored at a distance. "And if he has?" he asked, his voice clipped as a sudden gust of wind whipped his dark hair across his forehead. "Then we steal a skiff and cross the river under our own power," I replied, stepping past him toward the end of the pier where a creaking wooden float rose and fell with the dark tide. Suddenly, the low, steady drone of a marine engine cut through the night air, followed by the twin sweep of a searchlight slicing across the water from the center of the channel. The harsh white beam swept past our position, missing us by mere yards as it illuminated the rotted wooden pilings and dark water. We dropped flat onto the splintered wood of the pier, pressing our bodies against the damp planks as the spotlight swept back and forth, hunting for any movement along the shore. "Coast Guard?" he whispered, his shoulder pressing hard against mine in the cramped space behind a rusted mooring cleat. "No," I breathed, tracking the sleek, unmarked silhouette of a twin-engine pursuit launch cutting through the choppy water toward our exact coordinates. "That's their private security detail. They tracked the briefcase's internal transponder through the sewer grates."
