Chapter 34 - The Wiretap on River Road
We sprinted through the torrential downpour, the cold mud sucking at our boots as bullets chewed into the wooden planks around our feet. Miller took a bullet graze to the shoulder, grunting in pain as David caught him by his tactical vest, propelling him forward through the reinforced hatch of the vintage steel-hulled tugboat docked in the shadows.
I slammed the heavy iron hatch behind us, dropping the locking bar into place just as a burst of automatic fire pinged against the exterior hull with the ferocity of hail against tin.
Inside, the vessel was pitch-black, smelling of diesel, old canvas, and machine grease.
"The auxiliary starter," I breathed, feeling along the steel bulkhead in the darkness until my fingers found the familiar cast-iron lever my father had shown me when I was twelve years old. "Dad always kept the reserve battery isolated from the main grid."
I threw the switch.
A low, resonant hum vibrated through the steel deck beneath our boots as emergency amber lights flickered to life. The massive twin-diesel engines coughed once, spewed a cloud of dark exhaust through the submerged vents, and roared into life with a deep, bone-rattling rumble.
David was already at the helm, throwing the throttles forward. The heavy steel tug shuddered, snapping the rotted mooring lines like twine, and surged into the swollen, churning currents of the Cumberland River just as an explosive charge detonated on the dock behind us, sending a fireball roaring into the night sky.
Safe in the middle of the river's deep channel, Miller slumped against the chart table, panting heavily as he applied a field dressing to his bleeding shoulder. "That was... far too close. How did they know our route?"
David stared through the rain-streaked pilot glass, his expression dark as stone. He reached into his tactical vest, pulled out his primary radio, and inspected the encrypted frequency display.
"It wasn't a leak from the convoy," David said quietly. He walked over to the communications array mounted on the tug's bulkhead. "They didn't track our cars. They were tracking the frequency we used when we called the dispatch center from the hangar."
"Meaning?" I asked, wiping rainwater from my eyes.
"Meaning Sterling isn't just listening to Vance Maritime channels," David explained, pulling a pocket scanner from his kit and sweeping the room. "He has an active wiretap embedded directly inside the Nashville federal field office. Every warrant Miller signed, every coordinate we reviewed... Sterling saw it in real time."
Miller’s face turned white. "That's impossible. Only three people had access to the sealed indictment file: myself, Assistant Director Hayes, and District Judge Caldwell."
"Then one of them belongs to Charles Sterling," I said, cold certainty washing over me. "That’s why my brother was so confident. That’s why Arthur smiled when the feds put handcuffs on him at the altar. He wasn't waiting for a high-priced lawyer to bail him out. He was waiting for Sterling’s man inside the Department of Justice to invalidate the evidence on procedural grounds."
As if to confirm my words, the tug's maritime VHF radio crackled on Channel 16.
"Attention vessel *Cumberland Sovereign*," a smooth voice boomed over the emergency channel. It was Assistant Director Hayes. "You are operating an unauthorized craft in restricted waters. Stand down your engines and prepare to be boarded by State Maritime Patrol."
Miller snatched the mic, his voice trembling with outrage. "Hayes! What the hell are you doing? We were ambushed by Sterling's mercenaries on River Road!"
"Agent Miller," Hayes replied with chilling bureaucratic detachment, "your operational authority was revoked twenty minutes ago by order of the federal magistrate. You are currently harboring Sarah Vance, a person of interest in the illegal transfer of maritime assets. Surrender the vessel immediately, or you will be treated as hostile."
David looked at me, his hand resting on the heavy mechanical throttle. Downriver, flashing blue and red lights began to emerge through the rain—three high-speed patrol cutters cutting across the water, boxing us in against the industrial locks.
May you like
"David," I said, stepping beside him, staring down the armada sent to silence us. "Don't stop. If they take us into custody under Hayes, we won't live long enough to see a courtroom."
***
