Chapter 6 - The Lighthouse at the End of the Road
The lighthouse stood on a stretch of coastline where the city lights disappeared behind black cliffs.
Rain hammered the windshield as our cars climbed the narrow road. The sea below looked like a vast sheet of ink, broken by the white teeth of waves striking the rocks.
Clara sat beside me in the back seat, wrapped in my coat.
"Did Daddy bring you here when you were little?" she asked.
"Sometimes."
"Did you fight?"
I looked at her.
"Your father and I?"
She nodded.
"Brothers fight."
"Yes."
"Did you ever say sorry?"
The question was so simple that I almost failed to answer it.
"Not enough."
She looked through the window.
"Then you should say it when you see him."
I watched the lighthouse emerge from the rain.
"I'll consider it."
"That's what adults say when they don't want to do something."
Marco coughed to hide a laugh.
I shot him a look.
He became very interested in the road.
The lighthouse gate was open.
That was our first warning.
The second was the abandoned vehicle parked beside the entrance. Its doors hung open, and mud covered the seats.
The third was the blood on the front steps.
I left Clara inside the car with Marco while two men checked the grounds. Five minutes later, one returned and signaled that the building was clear.
I brought Clara inside.
The lighthouse smelled of damp stone and rust. A narrow spiral staircase wound upward toward the lantern room. At the base sat a wooden table covered with old photographs, medical supplies, and a small portable radio.
Someone had been living here.
On the table lay a children's book.
Clara ran toward it.
"Daddy!"
She picked it up and hugged it to her chest.
"He read this to me."
I examined the cover. A photograph had been slipped between its pages.
Michael stood beside Elena in front of the lighthouse. He looked exhausted, with a gray beard and deep shadows beneath his eyes.
Elena was smiling, but one hand rested protectively on her stomach.
On the back, Michael had written a date.
Nine years earlier.
Three days before his supposed death.
A noise came from above.
I raised my gun and motioned for Clara to remain behind me.
We climbed the stairs.
At the top, the lantern room overlooked the entire coast. Rain tapped against the glass, and a small emergency lamp illuminated a figure standing beside the railing.
A woman.
Her hands were bound.
She wore a dark coat, and her hair fell across her face.
Clara stopped breathing.
"Mama?"
The woman lifted her head.
It was Elena.
But before Clara could reach her, a laser dot appeared on Elena's chest.
"Don't move," a voice ordered from the shadows.
I recognized Victor Sloane's voice immediately.
He emerged from behind a steel support, wearing a charcoal suit and holding a pistol.
Two armed men stood beside him.
"Dominic," he said pleasantly. "You've become predictable in your old age."
"I'm twenty-nine."
"Then perhaps you've become predictable remarkably early."
He gestured toward Clara.
"Bring the child over here."
"No."
Sloane sighed.
"I had hoped we'd avoid unpleasantness."
"You sent men to shoot at a seven-year-old girl. I think we passed unpleasantness hours ago."
His expression hardened.
"That girl possesses something that belongs to me."
"She's a child."
"She is evidence."
Elena suddenly lifted her chin.
"Don't listen to him, Dominic."
Sloane pressed his gun harder against her side.
"One more word and I'll make her daughter an orphan."
Clara stood behind my leg, trembling.
Then she slowly stepped forward.
"Mr. Sloane?"
He looked amused.
"Yes, little one?"
"Are you the man who killed Grandpa?"
The room became silent.
Sloane's expression changed so quickly that I knew the question had struck something real.
"Your grandfather was a complicated man."
"That's not an answer."
"Children should learn when to stop asking questions."
Clara looked directly at him.
"My daddy says people say that when the truth is dangerous."
Sloane raised his gun toward her.
I moved.
The lantern room exploded into motion.
I tackled the nearest gunman as Marco burst through the lower door. Elena threw herself sideways, knocking Sloane's arm off target.
A shot struck the glass.
Another tore through the wooden railing.
Clara crawled beneath the table while Marco fired toward the staircase.
I slammed Sloane against the wall and twisted his gun away from him.
He struck my face with his forehead, then drove a knee into my stomach.
I barely held on.
"You have no idea what you're protecting!" he snarled.
I punched him.
"Then explain it."
He spat blood onto the floor.
"Michael was never supposed to survive the explosion."
My entire body went still.
Sloane smiled through his split lip.
"Your brother should have died nine years ago. But he escaped. He stole the records, took the woman, and created that little girl."
He looked toward Clara.
"And now the last piece of the puzzle has walked directly into your arms."
I tightened my grip on his collar.
"What records?"
Sloane's smile disappeared.
Before he could answer, the lights went out.
A siren sounded outside.
Then a loudspeaker crackled through the darkness.
"FEDERAL AGENTS! EVERYONE INSIDE, DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"
Marco swore.
Elena began crying.
Because she recognized the voice.
"Mercer," she whispered.
And from the darkness above us, another voice spoke.
Michael's voice.
"Dominic, don't let them take Clara."
A gunshot rang out.
May you like
Something heavy struck the staircase.
And my brother fell into the lantern room.
