other’s gear for the third time, nodded to each other, and started their descent. As Michael broke the surface, he flipped on his light, cleared his ears, and kicked down through the cool, fresh water. The Kensico Reservoir was the main feeding body to New York City, a man-made lake the result of flooding the town of Kensico back in 1915. Evidence of her former world could still be found haunting the bottom: ghostly trees, leafless arms reaching out to snag the unwary swimmer. Her silt-covered streets and brick buildings silently stood awaiting the return of their former inhabitants. A ghost town sitting in silent darkness. As Michael and Paul touched down at the bottom they set up a grid and methodically combed each section. As Michael swam due east, his light lit up the old brick police station, the bars on the windows covered in slime, fish swimming effortlessly through.
He continued on and the hulk of a car emerged from the darkness. Michael pulled his knife, tapped on his tank to signal Paul, and made his approach. The Buick sat at a forty-five-degree angle propped up on a large rock, the driver’s-side door hanging open, the deployed air bags eerily floating about like specters. Michael took a moment and crossed himself, praying for whoever was inside and never had a chance, praying that whoever rode to their death was not a child. He shined his light through the open door and the tension he was feeling was suddenly released. He checked and rechecked, looking on the rear seat, along the floor, at the trapped bubbles dancing along the ceiling, and finally emerged from the vehicle, thankful there were no occupants. He worked his way around to the passenger side and tried the door. It wouldn’t budge, pinned in by some rocks. He swam back around and noticed something protruding from under the seat. He reached under and pulled out a tan leather purse. He shined his light upon it, unzipped it, and was more than surprised to find it almost empty. It was the absence of the usual that emphasized the importance of the single object. There was no comb or brush, no makeup, no wallet, credit cards, or cash, not even a nail file. Nothing inside but a single business card. Thankfully the water had not managed to wash away its ink.
Michael floated above the lake bed, abruptly aware of the silence but for his now heavy Darth Vader–like breathing through his regulator. He didn’t recognize the name Stephen Kelley and took a closer look. As he shined his light upon it, a chill raced up his spine and grabbed hold of his mind. The air rushed from his lungs as if his tank had suddenly run dry. A panic overtook him; he forced himself not to hyperventilate. The address was clear under his light, under the ninety feet of water. The address was in Boston, an address that he had memorized not six hours earlier. The exact address written in Mary’s handwriting. 22 Franklin Street, Boston.
Chapter 6
I lya Raechen sat in the corner of his motel room contemplating complications. He picked through his box of sweet-and-sour pork, running the last eight hours through his head. He had spent three months searching the globe for Genevieve Zivera and finally picked up her trail. The intel he was provided alluded to Westchester County, New York, and Boston, Massachusetts. The locations were somehow linked but he had failed to find the connection. He had debated about how to pick her up: whether to perform a snatch-and-grab or just wait until she arrived at her destination, cuff her, and go.
His task weighed heavy on him. He needed to get home; he had promised his son he wouldn’t be gone more than a day. He had never broken a promise to him in all his years. And now, of all times, he couldn’t let him down. For his only son, Sergei, lay in bed, his condition deteriorating. He was all of six.
When Raechen received the call, he protested, but his former superiors would hear nothing of it. They appealed to his pride, his duty,
He continued on and the hulk of a car emerged from the darkness. Michael pulled his knife, tapped on his tank to signal Paul, and made his approach. The Buick sat at a forty-five-degree angle propped up on a large rock, the driver’s-side door hanging open, the deployed air bags eerily floating about like specters. Michael took a moment and crossed himself, praying for whoever was inside and never had a chance, praying that whoever rode to their death was not a child. He shined his light through the open door and the tension he was feeling was suddenly released. He checked and rechecked, looking on the rear seat, along the floor, at the trapped bubbles dancing along the ceiling, and finally emerged from the vehicle, thankful there were no occupants. He worked his way around to the passenger side and tried the door. It wouldn’t budge, pinned in by some rocks. He swam back around and noticed something protruding from under the seat. He reached under and pulled out a tan leather purse. He shined his light upon it, unzipped it, and was more than surprised to find it almost empty. It was the absence of the usual that emphasized the importance of the single object. There was no comb or brush, no makeup, no wallet, credit cards, or cash, not even a nail file. Nothing inside but a single business card. Thankfully the water had not managed to wash away its ink.
Michael floated above the lake bed, abruptly aware of the silence but for his now heavy Darth Vader–like breathing through his regulator. He didn’t recognize the name Stephen Kelley and took a closer look. As he shined his light upon it, a chill raced up his spine and grabbed hold of his mind. The air rushed from his lungs as if his tank had suddenly run dry. A panic overtook him; he forced himself not to hyperventilate. The address was clear under his light, under the ninety feet of water. The address was in Boston, an address that he had memorized not six hours earlier. The exact address written in Mary’s handwriting. 22 Franklin Street, Boston.
Chapter 6
I lya Raechen sat in the corner of his motel room contemplating complications. He picked through his box of sweet-and-sour pork, running the last eight hours through his head. He had spent three months searching the globe for Genevieve Zivera and finally picked up her trail. The intel he was provided alluded to Westchester County, New York, and Boston, Massachusetts. The locations were somehow linked but he had failed to find the connection. He had debated about how to pick her up: whether to perform a snatch-and-grab or just wait until she arrived at her destination, cuff her, and go.
His task weighed heavy on him. He needed to get home; he had promised his son he wouldn’t be gone more than a day. He had never broken a promise to him in all his years. And now, of all times, he couldn’t let him down. For his only son, Sergei, lay in bed, his condition deteriorating. He was all of six.
When Raechen received the call, he protested, but his former superiors would hear nothing of it. They appealed to his pride, his duty,
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