Chapter 5 - River Fog
The rain turned to a low, creeping mist as the convoy crossed the Huey P. Long Bridge into Jefferson Parish. Below them, the Mississippi ran wide and oily, the lights of commercial tankers blurred into yellow smears by the river fog.
Wren sat in the rear of Cormac’s customized Suburban, her leg propped on a leather ottoman, a digital tablet resting against her knees. She had refused the pain medication Pelletier had left behind; she needed her mind clear, free of the opiate haze that turned numbers into watercolor.
Beside her, Cormac was loading magazines for a suppressed Heckler & Koch MP5 with steady, rhythmic snaps of his thumb. Every round seated with a clean, mechanical click.
“The valve is an eight-inch gate valve with an acme thread,” Wren said, tracing the piping diagram on her screen. “It hasn't been turned in twenty years. If Teague uses a cheater pipe on the handwheel, he risks shearing the valve stem.”
“Teague knows how to apply torque without breaking the iron,” Cormac replied without looking up from his magazine.
“It requires forty-five foot-pounds to break the rust seal,” she persisted, her voice tight. “Once it cracks, he needs to back it off two turns, let the air purge through the bleeder cock, then open it five full rotations. If he does it too fast, the pipe will hammer. The sound will carry through the concrete floor right under Julian’s feet.”
Cormac slid the loaded magazine into the submachine gun, tapped it home with the heel of his hand, and laid the weapon across his knees. He turned his head to look at her.
The interior of the vehicle was lit only by the green glow of tactical radio displays. In the gloom, the lines of his face were hard, austere, but his eyes held an intensity that made Wren’s breath catch in her throat.
“You haven't asked what happens to Julian,” he said.
Wren looked down at her tablet. “He shot me. He took Sable. I don't care what happens to him.”
“Good.”
“Does that make me a bad person?” she asked quietly.
“It makes you a survivor,” Cormac said. He reached over and took her hand. It was not a gesture of comfort; it was an act of possession, steady and absolute. His fingers were warm, rough against her skin. “Civilization tells people like you that there is an appeal process for cruelty. That if you wait long enough, an institution will balance the scale. But institutions are made of the same rotten aggregate as Delacroix’s bridges. They hold until the water rises, and then they fail.”
“And you don't fail?”
“I don't rely on aggregate,” Cormac said. “I rely on force.”
The Suburban slowed, its tires crunching over wet gravel as it turned into the access road behind the abandoned Algiers rail yard. Through the rain-streaked tinted windows, Wren saw the silhouette of Berth Nine—a sprawling, corrugated-steel monster rising out of the fog like a beached ironclad.
A single red light blinked atop the radio mast on its roof.
The vehicle came to a halt behind a row of rusted shipping containers. Teague appeared at the driver’s side window, his face smeared with black anti-reflective grease, a heavy wrench tucked into the webbing of his tactical vest.
Cormac lowered the glass two inches. “Is the line set?”
“We found the bypass box behind the timber revetment,” Teague whispered, his breath steaming in the cool river air. “Pipe is intact. Valve stem is rusted, but we hit it with penetrating oil. We’re on Miss Calloway’s mark.”
Cormac looked back at Wren.
She took a deep breath, her eyes locking onto the pressure schematic on her tablet. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, but her hands—the hands that had spent a decade verifying calculations that held thousands of tons of steel in the air—did not shake.
“Teague,” Wren said into the vehicle’s comms handset.
“Listening, ma'am.”
“Crack the rust seal. One eighth of a turn only. Listen for the hiss of equalizing air. Do not force it.”
Through the open window, the night was silent save for the distant thrum of a tugboat engine and the steady patter of fog condensing on sheet metal. Seconds dragged like hours.
Then, Teague’s voice crackled through the speaker: *“Seal broken. We have airflow. Bleeder valve is whistling.”*
“Hold it there,” Wren commanded, watching a digital timer on her screen. “Ten seconds. Let the differential normalize... Now. Five full turns, smooth and slow. Count them out.”
*“One... two... three... four... five. Valve fully deployed. Siphon is drawing.”*
Wren looked up at Cormac. “The silt is washing out now. In ninety seconds, the eastern slab drops six feet.”
Cormac picked up the MP5, checked the charging handle, and opened the door. The damp river air rushed into the cabin, cold and smelling of brine and creosote.
“Stay in this car,” he said, looking back at her over his shoulder.
“Cormac,” she said.
He stopped.
“Bring her back,” she whispered.
May you like
He didn't nod. He simply stepped out into the fog, clicked the heavy door shut behind him, and was swallowed by the dark.
***
