Chapter 4 - The Haven of Steel and Fog
The rain turned heavy as Grant pulled the stolen, rusted 2008 Ford F-150 onto the gravel driveway of Vance Marine Repair near the docks of Sheboygan.
He had hot-wired the truck behind a truck stop diner forty miles back, using a technique his older brother had taught him twenty years ago. His hands were covered in grease, his navy suit jacket was soaked through, and his eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion and fury.
The boat yard was a graveyard of rusting hulls, high-stacked wooden crates, and industrial cranes shrouded in thick Lake Michigan fog.
Grant cut the engine, letting the truck coast silently into the shadow of a decaying warehouse. He grabbed his gun from the passenger seat, slipping it into his belt, and stepped out into the mud.
"Thomas!" Grant called out, his voice hoarse, swallowed instantly by the fog and the rhythmic sloshing of gray water against the wood pilings.
No answer.
Only the squeak of a rusting crane hook swinging in the wind.
Grant moved cautiously through the yard, his hand resting on the hilt of his weapon. He passed a thirty-foot fishing boat up on blocks.
Suddenly, a shadow detached itself from the side of an old shipping container.
Before Grant could raise his arms, a heavy iron pipe slammed into his ribs with the force of a battering ram.
Grant gasped, the air exploding from his lungs as he crashed sideways into the mud. The pistol slid from his fingers, disappearing into a puddle.
A heavy, grease-stained boot planted itself firmly against Grant’s throat, pressing down until his vision began to spot with dark stars.
Thomas stood over him. He was six-foot-four, wearing a oil-stained canvas coat, a thick beard flecked with gray, and eyes full of pure, unadulterated murder.
"Give me one reason," Thomas growled, his voice like grinding millstones, "why I shouldn't crush your windpipe right now, you bastard."
"Claire..." Grant choked out, grabbing Thomas’s ankle with slipping, muddy hands. "The... kids... are they... safe?"
Thomas’s eyes narrowed. He didn't lift his boot, but he didn't crush Grant’s larynx either. "You have the nerve to ask about them after what you brought to my dock?"
"I didn't... bring them... Vance did," Grant wheezed. "Thomas... please. I didn't hurt them. I swear on my mother’s grave... I didn't hurt them."
Thomas stared down at Grant for five long, agonizing seconds. Then, with a grunt of disgust, he lifted his boot and kicked Grant hard in the shoulder, rolling him onto his back.
"Get up," Thomas spat, picking up Grant’s fallen pistol from the mud and tucking it into his own belt. "Before I change my mind."
May you like
Grant pulled himself up, coughing violently, clutching his cracked ribs. "Where are they, Thomas?"
Thomas turned and walked toward a corrugated metal shed at the far end of the dock. "Inside. But if you make Emma cry, Grant, I don't care how many billions you have—I will sink you in forty fathoms of water."
