Chapter 36 - The Scuttling of Berth Nine
Matteo piloted *The Sovereign Queen* with suicidal precision into the shallow, narrow channels behind the old industrial sandbanks of Berth Nine—Silas's historic fortress. The massive black destroyers, built for deep-water littoral combat, could not follow without running aground on the treacherous underwater shoals.
"They're deploying choppers and hovercraft!" Matteo yelled, running down the steps with an armful of emergency supply packs. "We can't hold the boat, boss!"
"We aren't holding it," Silas replied calmly. "Set the auto-pilot to run straight toward the Ambrose Channel with full fuel reserves. Arm the scuttling charges in the bilge."
"You’re destroying *The Sovereign Queen*?" Matteo’s jaw dropped. The vessel was worth ten million dollars—Silas's primary naval asset.
"A ship is wood and steel," Silas said, grabbing Clara and lifting her gently onto his shoulders, securing her in a tactical harness against his chest. "My family is flesh and blood. Blow the hull the moment we hit the low-water drainage tunnels."
We slipped through the aft hatch just as the ship slid beneath the rotting wooden pilings of an abandoned coal pier. The salt mist of the early morning hid our descent into the dark, murky subterranean drainage tunnels that ran beneath the New York waterfront—tunnels Silas had reinforced years ago during his rise to power.
Matteo hit the remote trigger.
Fifty yards behind us out in the bay, *The Sovereign Queen* erupted in a colossal fireball of orange and black smoke. The concussion rattled the tunnel walls, sending a shockwave across the water that shattered the approaching mercenary skiffs and blinded the infrared cameras of the hovering helicopters.
To the enemy, the explosion looked like an catastrophic fuel detonation. A suicide pact or a lucky hit.
In the pitch-black darkness of the underground aqueduct, Silas clicked on a low-lumen red tactical torch.
"Step carefully," Silas instructed softly, taking my hand in his tight, protective grip. "Beneath these docks lies the old Manhattan rail line. No satellite can see through sixty feet of bedrock and reinforced concrete."
"Where are we going?" I asked, my heart aching as I felt Clara's small hands clutching Silas's leather jacket.
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"To the Citadel," Silas replied grimly. "And then, I call in the debts of every mob boss from Boston to Chicago. Lord Thorne wants a war on American soil? I'm going to give him a graveyard."
***
