Chapter 8 - The Tide Rises
The cold air rushing up through the open trapdoor carried the sharp, briny smell of the ocean. Below, the dark, churning water slapped violently against the rotting wooden pilings of the abandoned pier beneath the warehouse.
The two guards hoisted the metal chair, positioning Mason right at the edge of the drop. The rising winter tide was already swelling high, foaming angrily just a few feet below his dangling boots.
“Last chance, lawyer,” one of the guards grunted, leaning in close. “Sign the papers, or take a swim.”
Mason strained against the heavy zip-ties biting into his wrists, his muscles screaming under the tension. He didn't answer with words. Instead, he stared fixedly at the dark, freezing water below, calculating the angles, the weight of the metal chair, and the distance to the structural pilings.
“I guess you prefer the hard way,” the guard muttered, giving the back of the chair a sharp, violent shove.
The world tilted violently.
With a sickening crash, Mason and the metal chair plunged backward through the open trapdoor straight down into the freezing black Atlantic water.
The shock of the icy water hit his lungs like a physical blow, instantly stealing his breath. The heavy metal chair dragged him down toward the murky depths like an anchor. Darkness closed in around him as the freezing brine filled his ears and nose.
Think, a voice in his head screamed through the panic. Think like a litigator. Find the loophole.
Trapped underwater, his hands bound tightly behind the chair back, Mason kicked his legs upward with every ounce of remaining strength, using the buoyant momentum of his heavy winter coat to offset the weight of the iron frame. He slammed his shoulder against one of the rotting wooden pilings beneath the pier, using the rough barnacles and splintered wood to saw frantically at the thick plastic zip-ties binding his wrists.
The plastic chafed raw skin, burning through flesh and fabric alike.
One more push.
With a sudden, violent wrench, the plastic snap broke.
Mason’s hands shot free. He kicked off the heavy chair, scrambled upward through the dark, churning water, and broke the surface just in time to gasp a massive lungful of freezing night air.
He clung desperately to a wooden piling, coughing violently, his body shivering uncontrollably from the near-fatal shock of the freezing tide. He dragged himself up onto a narrow ledge beneath the pier, shivering in the dark, but alive.
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He had survived the drop. But he knew Viktor Vance and his syndicate would assume he was at the bottom of the harbor.
And that was their fatal mistake.
