Chapter 47 - Ghosts of the North Shore
"They turned the entire state apparatus against us," Declan said, staring at the radio. "They know Arthur is gone, and they're tying the whole massacre around your necks."
"How did they move this fast?" I asked, feeling the familiar suffocating terror creeping back into my chest. "Fort Vance collapsed less than two hours ago."
"Pre-packaged narratives," Daniel replied bitterly, banding a fresh roll of gauze around his bleeding ribs. "Campbell didn't just have mercenaries; he had federal prosecutors, media moguls, and state commissioners on retainer. The moment the fort's signal went dead, the automated smear campaign rolled out. By morning, your picture will be on every television in America."
"We can't stay here," I said, looking out into the foggy woods surrounding the shack. "If they track the *Sea Hawk* to this cove, we'll be boxed in."
"I have an old station wagon hidden under a camouflage tarp behind the woodshed," Declan said, limping to his feet. "No GPS, no electronic transponders, mechanical carburetor. It won't trigger traffic cameras. But I can't come with you."
Daniel looked at him sharply. "Declan, you’re bleeding out. You need medical attention."
"If three people and a newborn travel together, we’re a walking beacon," Declan said grimly, handing Daniel a set of car keys and an old revolver. "I’ll scuttle the *Sea Hawk* further out in the inlet, make it look like everyone drowned in the surf. It’ll buy you six, maybe eight hours before they realize you made landfall."
"Declan..." I stepped forward, taking his rough, scarred hand. "You saved my baby's life. Twice."
The hardened old smuggler managed a faint, tired smile. "Arthur bought my silence twenty years ago. Tonight, I bought back my soul. Go to Boston, Elizabeth. Finish what started on that balcony."
Twenty minutes later, Daniel and I were navigating a rusted 1994 Subaru wagon through the unpaved logging roads of Massachusetts' North Shore. Rain lashed the windshield, the wipers squeaking rhythmically in the pitch black. In the back seat, safely strapped in an improvised bassinet made of wool blankets, my baby slept peacefully.
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Beside me, Daniel’s face was illuminated by the dashboard's dim amber glow. "The Beacon Hill house has been sealed by the state police since your mother’s arrest," he said quietly. "It’ll be crawling with surveillance."
"Then we don't go in through the front door," I replied, my eyes fixed on the rain-swept highway ahead. "Arthur’s letter mentioned the Old Vault was built before the Civil War. That means it connects to the historic abolitionist tunnels beneath the hill. My mother thought she owned that house. But she never knew what was buried beneath her feet."
