I bounded across the swaying catwalk onto the tugboat’s main deck. The smell here was different—diesel exhaust, stale tobacco, and expensive cologne.
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The heavy steel hatch leading to the upper wheelhouse was dogs-down, locked from the inside.
I didn't bother with breaching tools. I brought my carbine muzzle up, fired four rounds into the heavy brass latch mechanism, and drove my right combat boot into the seam with all my weight.
The door flew inward, crashing against the interior bulkhead.
I cleared the threshold low, weapon up, scanning the room in a smooth three-point sweep.
The wheelhouse was lined with polished mahogany trim, glowing radar screens, and brass instrumentation. In the captain’s chair sat an older man, tall and impeccably groomed, wearing an expensive camel-hair coat over an open-collared slate-blue dress shirt. His silver hair was neatly parted, his jaw square, his eyes cold, pale blue—the exact same eyes as Vance Concincaid.
He didn't reach for a weapon. He didn't raise his hands.
He sat back in the leather chair, calmly swirling three fingers of amber scotch in a crystal tumbler, looking at me with the weary amusement of a man who viewed the entire world as an administrative spreadsheet.
Beside him on the console sat an open satellite phone, its display showing a call actively routed to the executive offices of the New York City Department of Investigation.
"Inspector Thorne," Julian Vance said, his voice smooth, resonant, and entirely unbothered by the gunfire that had just echoed across his deck. "You broke my hydraulic manifold. That crane cost seven hundred thousand dollars."
"On your feet, Julian," I said, keeping my rifle leveled at his chest. "Hands where I can see them."
Julian smiled faintly, taking a slow sip from his glass. "You have considerable tactical competence, Elias. Vance said you were stubborn, but I didn't realize you were so remarkably reckless. Kicking in doors, fast-roping onto private commercial vessels in broad daylight... it’s very dramatic. But remarkably naive."
"You ordered an armed assault on my daughter's transport," I said, my voice dropping into that quiet, deadly register that had made his brother freeze on 67th Street.
"Declan Cross was instructed to secure the child as collateral to ensure an orderly transfer of jurisdictions," Julian said, as if discussing the repossession of a leased sedan. "A temporary measure. Nobody was going to kill your daughter. We aren't animals, Thorne. We are businessmen."
"You're a racketeer," I said, stepping closer, my boots squeaking against the wet linoleum. "You and your brother used the Nineteenth Precinct as an armed enforcement arm to run an extortion racket on three dozen city blocks, using the proceeds to finance an off-the-books smuggling corridor through the Brooklyn piers."
"And who do you think authorized that corridor, Inspector?" Julian asked, setting his glass down on the radar console with a deliberate, soft click.