Page 27 of Betrayal of the Mafia Rebel
"We have to move." I stare down into her eyes. "This location is burned. They will send more."
"Where do we go?" Her voice is steady. The Bellanti defector is finding her footing. The tactical mind inside that beautiful, curvy body is waking up. "The streets are a kill zone. If they tracked me here, they have shooters covering the exits."
She's right. Going back up through the iron gate is a death sentence.
I turn my head toward the far end of the tunnel. The shadows are thickest there. The rusted iron wheel I clocked the first time Iwalked these tunnels sits flush against the damp brick. The flood pipe. Decommissioned in the 1970s. It leads directly to the river drainage system and dumps out half a mile down the riverwalk. It's flooded. It's freezing. It's the only way out.
"The drainage pipe." I point into the tunnel. "It connects to the river. We go under them."
Catalina looks at the rusted wheel. She looks at her leather bag on the table. She doesn't hesitate.
"Okay."
I release her neck. The absence of her skin against my palm aches. I cross the tunnel and retrieve her bag. I sling the strap across my chest. I grab my secondary flashlight from the table and walk toward the flood door.
The iron wheel is heavy. Rusted shut with decades of moisture and neglect. I grip the metal bars. The muscles in my arms bunch and strain.
I throw my weight into the turn.
The metal groans. A horrific, ear-piercing shriek of rusted iron breaking free. Flakes of orange rust shower down on my boots. I force the wheel counter-clockwise. The locking mechanism clanks.
The door swings inward.
A rush of freezing, stagnant air hits my face. The smell of ancient river water and raw sewage. The pipe is a six-foot-diameter concrete tube, half-submerged in black water. There is no light. No end in sight. Just a gaping maw leading into the belly of the city.
The bad timing on that Bellanti broadcast scrapes against the back of my skull. A sudden, jarring thought cutting through the adrenaline. That fake Bellanti broadcast claiming she was a Trojan horse plant. The data packet hit the Costa network hours before she even defected. It defies physics. It defies logic. Something didn't line up. A blind spot somewhere in the chain.
I shove the thought away. I bury it deep. It's a problem for another hour. Right now, getting her out is the only job.
I step into the freezing water. It rises past the tops of my tactical boots. The cold is a violent shock, biting into my calves.
I turn back to Catalina. She is standing at the edge of the pipe. Looking at the black water.
I extend my hand to her. Calloused palm, dirt and blood smeared across the knuckles.
"Take my hand. Don't let go."
She steps forward. She places her small, soft hand directly into mine. The contrast is devastating. Beauty and the beast. The mafia princess and the feral enforcer. Our fingers interlock. Her grip is tight.
She steps down into the water. She gasps as the freezing temperature hits her legs, but she doesn't complain. She wades forward, pulling tight against my side.
I click on the flashlight. A narrow beam of white light pierces the suffocating darkness of the pipe. The concrete walls are slick with algae and slime. The water level reaches my knees, which means it hits mid-thigh on her.
We move forward.
The journey is an agonizing crawl. The water resistance fights every step. The freezing temperature saps the heat from our bodies. The silence inside the pipe is deep, broken only by the sloshing of our movement and our harsh breathing.
Every instinct I possess is dialed to maximum alert. I scan the darkness ahead. My grip on the Sig is white-knuckled under the surface. I'm waiting for an ambush. For the water to hide a trap.
Catalina shakes hard against my side. Her teeth chatter. The cold is hollowing her out too fast.
"Keep moving," I tell her, my voice echoing off the curved concrete. "Just keep your eyes on my back. I've got you."
"I'm keeping up." She forces the words out through chattering teeth. The defiance is gone, replaced by raw grit. She refuses to be a burden. She refuses to break.
Something in my chest goes very still watching her hold the line. She isn't just surviving. She's walking into the dark with the enemy, trusting him to get her through it.
The pipe begins to slope upward. The water level drops. The freezing liquid recedes from her thighs to her knees, then to her ankles.
