The Biker At The Gate And The Ghost Of Daniel Vance
CHAPTER 5: THE SUBMERGED SLUICE
A driving, icy rain began to fall as they scrambled out of the grain terminal, turning the black coal dust of the rail corridor into a slick, treacherous paste. The freezing water plastered Clara’s dark hair to her scalp and turned the muddy embankments into slick slides of clay and crushed shale. Marcus and the other biker took the northern access road, deliberately blaring their throttles and drawing the sirens of three responding county cruisers away toward the state highway. Their roaring exhausts provided a rolling diversion that masked the frantic footfalls of the trio slipping down the riverbank.
Joseph, Clara, and Toby abandoned the last motorcycle in the dense underbrush beneath the stone arches of the historic Boston Bridge. They moved on foot along the abandoned towpath, following the swollen curve of the Monongahela toward Pier 4—the massive concrete water intake structure that had once supplied the cooling systems of the old Mercer Metallurgical foundry. Every step was heavy with exhaustion, their boots sinking deep into the sodden silt of the riverbank.
The river was running wild and brown, engorged by the storm. Massive logs and chunks of torn industrial debris spun through the violent current, smashing with hollow booms against the heavy stone breakwaters. The sheer hydraulic power of the flood sounded like an unceasing locomotive freight run.
Taking shelter beneath the rusted corrugated overhang of an abandoned pump house, Joseph used the serrated blade of his combat knife to slice through the vulcanized silicone seal on the titanium cylinder. He worked with calm, mechanical precision, ignoring the blood dripping from his grazed knuckle where Finch’s tactical guard had clipped him during the melee.
“What did he leave us?” Toby asked, his voice shivering from the freezing rain soaking through his gray work shirt. He pressed his back against the damp brick wall, watching the dark river trail with the iron pry-bar clutched tight in his hand.
Joseph unscrewed the heavy, threaded end-cap with a sharp metallic rasp. Inside, packed securely in high-density closed-cell foam, lay an antique micro-cassette tape, a heavy-duty industrial flash drive sealed in an airtight foil bag, and a handwritten letter folded inside a clear waterproof map sleeve.
Joseph unfolded the letter, shining his flashlight beam onto the damp paper. Clara pressed against his shoulder, her eyes tracing her late husband’s neat, disciplined handwriting, each stroke evoking memories of late nights under the glow of drafting lamps.
“Clara, Toby, Joe,” the letter began. “If you are reading this together, it means my worst fears came to pass and Harlan Mercer decided that homicide was more profitable than paying fair royalties. I know Joe took the fall for the forged export documents. I know Mercer used his influence with the district attorney to ensure Joe had no bail. But I did not leave you defenseless.
“The flash drive holds the complete mathematical algorithmic source code for the harmonic titanium press. It cannot be registered by Mercer because the cryptographic hash is hardcoded to Joe’s military service serial number and Toby’s birth certificate. But the tape is what will save your lives from his assassins. On the night of October 12, Mercer came to the annex himself with two armed enforcers. He didn’t know I had spliced the shop intercom into the master magnetic reel-to-reel recorder in the subterranean intake bunker beneath Pier 4.
“The physical analog master tape is still locked inside the watertight electrical bulkhead of Sluice Gate 3. Retrieve it before Mercer’s contractors search the riverbank. Without that analog master reel, Mercer’s high-priced lawyers will claim this micro-cassette is a fabricated digital forgery. The analog tape has the physical magnetic time-code that cannot be disputed in a federal court.”
Clara let out a ragged, trembling sob, pressing her wet hand over her mouth. “He left the truth buried right under the foundry intake. In the one place Mercer never thought to look.”
“Sluice Gate 3 is underwater,” Toby said, staring out through the sheet of rain toward the raging river. Fifty yards offshore, the stone superstructure of Pier 4 rose from the churning foam like a dark monolith. The iron access ladder leading down to the lower inspection portal disappeared completely beneath the brown, swirling floodwaters, surrounded by dangerous hydraulic eddies.
“I’m going in,” Joseph said, stripping off his heavy canvas vest and leather boots with grim, methodical precision. His massive scarred shoulders bunched under the cold rain.
“You can’t swim that torrent, Joe!” Clara shouted over the roar of the downpour. “The river is at flood stage! The intake suction will pull you straight against the trash racks and drown you in the dark!”
“Daniel spent fifteen years rotting in an unmarked grave while I cursed his name in a prison cell,” Joseph said, his voice hard as iron ore. “I owe him this dive. Toby, take this knife. If anyone wearing a badge or a three-piece suit comes down that trail, you take your mother and run straight for the state police barracks in Greensburg. Don’t look back.”
Before Clara could grab his arm, Joseph leaped from the concrete apron into the freezing, turbulent river.
Toby watched with his heart in his throat as the massive man fought the raging current, his powerful arms pulling him through the brown water toward the stone pier. Joseph hauled his heavy frame onto the iron ladder, water pouring from his scarred scalp. He reached the rusted steel hatch of Sluice Gate 3 and drove his heel against the latch three times with brutal force. The corroded iron gave way with a shriek, and Joseph vanished inside the subterranean concrete chamber.
One minute passed. Two minutes. The river rose another two inches, cold floodwater lapping over the toes of Toby’s sneakers as the rain redoubled its fury. Clara whispered silent prayers into the gale, her fingers digging into Toby’s shoulder.
Suddenly, two pairs of ultra-bright LED headlights cut through the trees at the top of the embankment. Two black Cadillac Escalades rolled silently to a stop fifty yards above the pump house, their roof-mounted halogen light bars igniting the riverbank in blinding, daylight brilliance.
