Chapter 87 - The Midnight Race to the Navy Yard
A blinding blizzard had swept over the five boroughs by ten o'clock that night. The Brooklyn Navy Yard was an expanse of frozen gravel, rusting iron hulls, and towering dry docks silhouetted against the stormy New York harbor.
At the far eastern edge of the industrial park, tucked between two abandoned naval warehouses, stood the historic Chapel of Our Lady Star of the Sea. Its Gothic stained-glass windows were boarded with weathered plywood, and its copper bell tower stood silent against the howling wind.
Two black SUVs rolled quietly through the security checkpoint, Frank Brennan having coordinated entry with the night gatekeepers.
Dante and Elena stepped out into the freezing sleet, followed by Marco and Frank, who carried heavy crowbars and industrial flashlights. Dante held the red morocco journal tucked securely inside his wool coat, while Elena clutched the golden dolphin pen and Jorge’s anchor watch.
"No signs of recent tire tracks," Marco reported, sweeping his tactical flashlight across the untouched snow. "We beat them here."
"Don't get comfortable," Frank warned, his one eye scanning the dark silhouettes of the surrounding cranes. "Santiago’s people have money and city hall connections. If they tracked our flight from Texas, they aren't far behind."
They approached the chapel’s heavy oak doors. Frank jammed a crowbar into the rusted padlock, applying his immense dockworker strength until the iron shackle sheared with a loud, metallic crack.
The interior of the chapel was freezing, smelling of damp limestone, ancient wax, and rotting pine. Snowflakes drifted down through cracks in the vaulted ceiling, dusting the broken wooden pews.
At the front of the sanctuary, beneath a crumbling statue of the Virgin Mary, sat the carved stone baptismal font from Enzo’s sketch.
Elena rushed forward, shining her flashlight over the weathered granite basin. "There are no compartments here, Dante. It’s solid stone."
Dante knelt beside the pedestal. He ran his bare fingers along the base, feeling through decades of dust and grime until his fingertips grazed an intricate stone carving. He wiped the dirt away with his sleeve.
Carved into the granite was an anchor entwined with a leaping dolphin.
Directly between the two figures was a cylindrical opening no wider than a pencil.
"Elena," Dante said softly. "The dolphin pen."
Elena handed him the antique gold pen. Dante carefully unscrewed the cap, revealing the solid brass nib. He aligned the pen with the cylindrical slot in the stone carving and pressed it firmly inward.
A heavy mechanical clunk reverberated through the stone floor.
With a grinding groan of counterweights, the entire baptismal font slid six inches to the left, revealing a narrow, lead-lined compartment recessed into the concrete altar floor.
Inside sat an airtight titanium tube sealed with wax.
"We found it," June whispered, her breath catching in her throat. "The true covenant of 1954."
Before Dante’s fingers could touch the tube, the heavy plywood covering the north stained-glass windows exploded inward in a shower of splintered wood and colored glass.
Crack! Crack!
Two high-velocity rifle rounds struck the stone altar, sending showers of pulverized marble across Dante and Elena.
"Down!" Marco roared, tackling Elena to the stone floor behind the sanctuary steps while drawing his automatic weapon.
Through the broken windows stepped six men in black tactical snow gear, carrying suppressed submachine guns. Leading them through the chapel’s main entrance, his navy wool coat flapping in the icy draft, was Santiago Castellanos.
Beside him, holding a high-caliber pistol with trembling, venomous hands, was Victoria Sterling.
"What a touching family reunion," Santiago sneered, his voice cutting through the whistling blizzard. "You really are Enzo Moretti’s son, Dante. You do all the hard digging for me."
Victoria smiled, her eyes wild with greed. "Hand over the tube, Dante. You drop the cylinder on the altar and walk away, or we bury you, your wife, and your dockworker friends beneath this chapel and rule it an accidental arson."
Dante did not flinch. He remained crouched over Elena, his broad shoulders acting as an impenetrable wall between the guns and his wife.
His hand reached into the stone cavity, pulling the titanium cylinder free.
"You want this covenant, Santiago?" Dante asked, his voice dead, flat, and chillingly devoid of fear.
"Throw it to my feet!" Santiago ordered, cocking his weapon.
"Come and take it," Dante replied.
May you like
At that exact second, from the high shadows of the organ loft above, a loud, clear, juvenile voice echoed through the sacred hall:
"Daddy Jorge told me that wolves always look at the door!"
