Chapter 4 - THE SUBTERRANEAN ESCAPE
The air inside the concrete shaft was freezing cold and smelled of damp earth and diesel fumes.
We sprinted down six flights of stairs, the heavy thud of our shoes echoing off the narrow walls. Dennis held the baby pressed flat against his chest, shielding the newborn with his body while keeping his right hand locked tightly around mine. I stumbled twice on the steep concrete steps, my heart hammering in my ears, but Dennis caught me every time with effortless, terrifying strength.
“Where does this lead?” I panted, my lungs burning as we hit the lower basement level.
“It’s a private industrial maintenance tunnel connecting Roth Tower to the commercial docks at San Diego Bay,” Dennis replied, his voice barely strained despite carrying the baby and running down six flights of stairs. “It was built during the Cold War as an emergency evacuation route for executive staff.”
At the end of a long, dimly lit corridor, a heavy steel blast door stood barred by an electronic keypad. Dennis tapped in an eight-digit code, pressed his thumb against a biometric glass scanner, and the steel door hissed open, revealing a cavernous underground garage.
Parked inside the shadows was a non-descript, matte-black armored SUV with blacked-out windows and no license plates.
Sitting in the driver’s seat was a woman with short, silver hair, wearing tactical pants and a leather jacket. She stepped out the moment she saw us, holding a suppressed pistol at her side.
“Boss,” she said, her voice like grinding gravel. “The lobby is full of federal badges. Your brother’s former law partner is standing outside with a news crew.”
“I know, Val,” Dennis said, opening the rear door of the SUV. “Elsie, get in. Lay flat on the floor behind the second row.”
I scrambled inside the leather interior, taking the baby from Dennis’s arms. The newborn was miraculously still asleep, blissfully unaware that he was the focal point of a federal manhunt involving billions of dollars and international conspiracies.
Dennis climbed into the passenger seat beside Val. “Take us to the marina. The Titan is ready?”
“Engine’s idling,” Val said, throwing the SUV into reverse and accelerating down a pitch-black concrete ramp that sloped steeply downward. “Coast Guard hasn't issued a maritime hold yet, but Charles Vance’s legal team just filed an emergency motion in federal court to impound all Roth family vessels.”
“They won't reach the maritime judge for another thirty minutes,” Dennis said, pulling out a burner phone from his jacket pocket. He dialed a string of numbers. “Put me through to Interpol’s corporate crimes unit in London.”
I listened from the floor of the vehicle, my chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths as the SUV tore through the dark underground network.
“Inspector Dupont,” Dennis said into the phone, his voice dripping with ice. “This is Dennis Roth. I am issuing an emergency red-notice request regarding an American citizen currently residing in Greater London. Name: Astrid Beaumont. Charge: International conspiracy, corporate identity theft, and grand larceny involving the Roth Dynasty Trust.”
He paused, listening to the crackling voice on the other end.
“No,” Dennis continued, his gray eyes catching mine in the rearview mirror. “Do not apprehend her yet. Place her under twenty-four-hour electronic surveillance. I want every phone call, every email, and every bank transfer monitored. She is working with Charles Vance.”
He hung up the phone and tossed it onto the dashboard.
The SUV burst out of a dark tunnel mouth into the bright, blinding glare of the San Diego docks. The smell of salt water and diesel fuel flooded through the vehicle’s ventilation system.
Fifty yards ahead, docked at a private slip, sat the Titan—a hundred-and-eighty-foot, midnight-blue mega-yacht with sleek, aggressive lines that looked more like a naval warship than a pleasure vessel.
“We have company!” Val suddenly barked, hitting the brakes as two black sedans swerved out from behind a row of shipping containers, blocking the entrance to the slip.
Four men in suit jackets stepped out of the sedans, drawing handguns.
“It’s Charles Vance’s private security detail!” Val yelled, reaching under her seat and pulling out a short-barreled tactical rifle. “Stay down!”
Before the men could surround the SUV, Dennis opened his door and stepped out into the open air, completely unbothered by the drawn weapons pointing at his chest.
“Stand down!” the lead gunman shouted, stepping forward. “Dennis Roth, you are harboring a federal fugitive and an abducted child! Turn over the boy, or we will open fire!”
Dennis didn't draw a gun. He simply raised his hand, pointing a single finger at the shipping container directly above the gunman’s head.
A sudden, deafening red laser dot appeared on the lead gunman’s chest.
Then another. And another.
Six red laser dots painted the chests and foreheads of Charles Vance’s mercenaries.
From the deck of the Titan, four heavily armed private security operators dressed in full tactical gear raised their rifles, locking onto the mercenaries with cold, lethal precision.
“You are standing on private maritime land owned by Roth Logistics,” Dennis said, his voice echoing across the concrete pier like thunder. “If your weapons are not on the ground in three seconds, my operators will drop all four of you into the bay, and the maritime authority won't even find your bodies until high tide tomorrow.”
The lead gunman looked at the red dot hovering over his heart, swallowed hard, and slowly lowered his pistol to the pavement. The other three men quickly followed suit, raising their hands in total surrender.
“Val,” Dennis commanded smoothly, turning back to the SUV. “Secure their weapons, puncture their tires, and throw their phones into the water.”
He opened the rear door and reached down for my hand. “Elsie. Time to go to sea.”
I pulled myself up, holding the baby tight against my chest, and stepped out onto the breezy pier. The salt wind whipped my auburn hair across my face as I looked up at the massive ship looming before us.
As we walked up the gangway, I looked back at the San Diego skyline. In the distance, news helicopters were circling over Roth Tower like vultures, their searchlights cutting through the late afternoon haze.
My family had tried to bury me. They had tried to turn me into a national pariah to protect a golden daughter’s billion-dollar heist.
I looked at Dennis Roth standing beside me on the deck of the mega-yacht, his silver-gray eyes fixed on the open horizon of the Pacific Ocean.
May you like
“Where are we going?” I asked softly.
“International waters,” Dennis replied, his broad hand coming up to rest gently on my shoulder. “Where American search warrants don't mean a damn thing, and where we prepare for war.”
