The sparks died against the wet concrete, leaving the scent of vaporized copper and ozone hanging thick in the dark. The emergency siren shrieked through the subterranean vents, a rhythmic, earsplitting pulse that signaled the auxiliary trip had registered at harbor dispatch. I had less than five minutes before private security cruisers boxed the service gate.
My hands did not shake. I dropped the utility wrench into my coat pocket, reached into the housing of the dead tape drive, and tripped the manual release latch on the secondary spindle. Without electrical tension across the magnetic head, the carriage eased forward with a soft mechanical sigh. I pulled the master cartridge clear. The heavy plastic casing was cool, its integrity seal unbroken, containing thirty-six continuous hours of raw telemetry from South Canal Tank 4. Beneath it, I lifted the two duplicate audit spools and jammed all three into the waterproof canvas pouch Frank had provided.
I killed the penlight and moved by memory.
The basement corridor was already filling with the bitter fog of the blown breaker panel. I retraced my steps through the flooded intake passage, water sloshing against my work boots, until my palms met the heavy exterior bulkhead. Outside, the rain was coming down in sheets, fracturing the harsh glare of the perimeter floodlights. Down the gravel access road, two pairs of halogen headlights were already swinging through the outer security gate, their high beams cutting through the downpour.
I stayed low against the rusted foundation of the coal trestle, keeping the concrete footings between myself and the patrol vehicles. The mud along the culvert sucked at my heels, tearing the hem of my thrift-store trousers, but within two minutes I reached the weed-choked embankment where the Lincoln waited in the shadows.
The rear door clicked open before my fingers touched the handle. I threw myself onto the leather seat, pulling the door shut behind me.
"You got them?" Frank asked, his eyes catching mine in the rearview mirror as he dropped the transmission into drive.
"All three spools," I breathed, wiping a streak of black hydraulic oil from my forehead. "The master override, the relief valve logs, and the remote terminal session. He tried to wipe the sector from his private suite at the Bellevue Tower four minutes before I dropped the master breaker."
Frank pressed the accelerator, easing the Lincoln onto the blacktop without headlights until we cleared the rail crossing. "Then we don't go to the registrar's private house," he said, turning the wheel hard toward the city center. "Miller isn't home anyway. Richard invited him to the gala as an honored guest. Along with Harbor Commissioner Thorne, the presiding judge of the maritime probate court, and the entire underwriting syndicate from Puget Sound Commercial Bank."
I looked down at the soaked canvas bag on my lap. "Heโs signing the final harbor conveyance tonight."
"At midnight," Frank said, flicking the high beams on as we hit the elevated expressway. "Richard set up an exhibition signing on the grand stage of the Bellevue ballroom. He hired three press photographers to document him 'rescuing' the industrial waterfront from the ashes of your bankruptcy. In forty minutes, he puts pen to parchment on the state lease transfer. Once Commissioner Thorne countersigns and Miller stamps the municipal seal, the title vests into Vance Logistics. Reversing an executed state conveyance takes six years of maritime litigation. If you want him, you have to break the deed before the ink touches the bond paper."
The Lincoln climbed the downtown ramp, leaving the industrial flats behind. Outside the tinted glass, the neon towers of the financial district rose into the low cloud cover. The juxtaposition was sickening: twenty minutes ago I was crawling through sulfur-stained culverts beneath the burned wreckage where three of my dock hands had died; now we were gliding up the heated granite apron of the Bellevue Tower.
Frank bypassed the front valet concourse, where a dozen luxury limousines were stacked bumper to bumper beneath the glass canopy, and steered the car down the subterranean service ramp to the building's private loading dock. He killed the engine beside the freight elevator.
"They won't let you through the lobby looking like an oil spill," Frank said, stepping out and opening my door. He reached into his driver's trunk and pulled out a clipboard holding a thick stack of blue-backed corporate filings. "Richard had me carry his duplicate corporate seal and the original operating agreement in the car trunk. He forgot one detail about the company he thought he stole: the initial capital restructuring was funded through an open debenture registered under your grandfather's maritime trust. Vance Logistics doesn't own the terminal ground lease. The trust owns the debt covenants that hold the lease. And according to this charter, the holder of the physical debenture retains sole signatory power over all fixed-asset transfers until the underlying bonds are paid in full."
I looked at the legal papers, then at Frank. "Richard never retired the family bonds."