Chapter 7 - The Fortress on the Rock
Dead Man’s Ledge was a jagged outcrop of black granite three miles off the point of Montauk. Perched atop the cliffs sat a bleak, slate-roofed estate built in the 1920s as a quarantine station, surrounded by an eight-foot chain-link fence topped with razor wire.
As The Sea Hound cut through the crashing waves, Caleb navigated the treacherous rocks with the mastery of a man who knew every underwater reef by heart.
"There!" Vance pointed through the rain-streaked glass of the wheelhouse.
Two high-powered searchlights cut through the fog from the island’s concrete pier. A private security boat was docked there—a sleek, fast tactical cruiser belonging to Holloway Shipping.
"They beat us here," Caleb growled, throwing the throttle forward. "Victor must have realized we figured out the offshore routing."
"He’s trying to move her!" Beatrice realized with a jolt of panic. "He’s going to put her on a helicopter or a boat and disappear her forever!"
"Not while I’m breathing," Caleb said.
Instead of pulling up to the guarded pier, Caleb steered The Sea Hound around the eastern side of the island—a wall of sheer black cliff where no boat was ever supposed to land.
"Throw the auxiliary anchor!" Caleb shouted to his deckhand.
Using a rope ladder and mountain-climbing gear stored on the fishing boat, Caleb strapped Emma securely to his chest in a protective harness, while Vance helped hoist a modified chair to haul Beatrice up the rocky cliff face.
They climbed through the darkness, battered by wind and rain, fueled by pure adrenaline and desperate love.
When they reached the top of the cliff, they cut through the chain-link fence with heavy bolt cutters and slipped into the courtyard of the sanatorium.
Through the tall arched windows of the main building, they could see the chaos inside.
Victor and Oliver were there, flanked by four armed security guards, frantically trying to force a pale, slender woman wrapped in a gray coat down the hallway toward the rear helipad.
May you like
The woman’s hair was long and streaked with premature gray, her face thin and bruised, but her posture was unmistakable.
It was Marianne.
