Chapter 5 - THE HUDSON RUN
The tunnel smelled of wet moss, old timber, and stagnant river water.
We ran in absolute darkness, guided only by the crimson sweep of Roman’s tactical flashlight. Luna was between us, her gait recovering as the adrenaline cleared the anesthetic from her system. She moved with purpose now, her nose low, guiding us around fallen brickwork and rusted iron supports.
Behind us, the sound of heavy boots echoing down the stone stairs signaled that Volkov’s men had breached the clinic.
"Left!" Roman barked, shoving me into a narrow crevice as a stream of automatic fire tore through the darkness, sending sharp stone splinters flying into the air.
Roman turned, stepped into the open, and fired four controlled shots down the tunnel. Two screams echoed through the damp air, followed by the heavy thud of bodies hitting the wet stone floor.
"Keep going!" he shouted, shoving me toward the light at the end of the tunnel.
We burst out onto a concealed wooden dock built under the overhanging cliff face of the Hudson River. The fog was thick—a white, suffocating blanket that reduced visibility to ten feet. Below us, the dark, icy waters of the river churned against the wooden pilings.
Tied to the dock was a thirty-foot black-hulled tactical boat with twin outboard engines.
"In!" Roman ordered, untying the heavy hemp lines with one hand while keeping his pistol trained on the tunnel entrance.
I leaped into the boat, hauling Luna aboard behind me. The Shepherd immediately went to the bow, her ears flattened against the wind, monitoring the fog.
Roman dropped into the driver’s seat, ripped open the plastic cover beneath the throttle, and flipped three toggle switches. The twin 300-horsepower engines roared to life with a deep, guttural throb that shook the entire hull.
Before he could throw the throttle forward, a figure emerged from the fog on the dock.
Lev Volkov.
He wore his charcoal suit, now splattered with mud and rain, his face twisted into a grotesque smile as he leveled an assault rifle directly at Roman’s head.
"End of the line, Kyodori!" Volkov screamed above the roar of the engines. "Give me the girl and the dog, and I’ll let you drown like the dog you are!"
Luna let out a roar that echoed across the entire river—a sound so full of pure, unadulterated fury that even Volkov hesitated for a fraction of a second.
In that split second, I grabbed the heavy emergency flare gun mounted beside the passenger seat, aimed it directly at Volkov’s chest, and pulled the trigger.
A blinding, white-hot ball of magnesium fire exploded from the barrel, striking Volkov’s shoulder and bursting into a fountain of red sparks. Volkov screamed, dropping his rifle and staggering backward off the slippery wooden dock into the freezing, dark waters of the Hudson.
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Roman didn't wait to see him surface. He slammed the throttle all the way forward.
The boat launched out into the dark, churning river like a missile, tearing through the white fog into the open water, leaving the burning estate behind us in the dark.
