Chapter 16 - The Blackwood Creek Trap
The rain finally unleashed itself from the heavens, pounding against the windshield of Daniel’s SUV like thousands of tiny pebbles. The wipers struggled against the deluge as he whipped the vehicle off the paved road and onto the mud-slicked track leading toward Blackwood Creek.
His headlights carved through the black curtain of the storm, illuminating overgrown weeping willows and rotting wooden fences. The boathouse appeared in the distance—a dilapidated, two-story wooden structure hanging precariously over the swollen, churned waters of the creek.
Parked near the entrance of the dilapidated shed was Lauren’s beat-up silver sedan. The driver-side door hung wide open, the interior light casting a dim, sickly glow over an empty front seat splattered with mud.
Daniel killed his headlights, cut the engine, and pulled his firearm from his holster. The silence of the forest was swallowed entirely by the roar of the rain and the rushing torrent of the creek.
He stepped out into the mud, the cold water instantly soaking through his boots. He approached the open car first. The keys were still in the ignition, swinging gently. On the passenger seat lay a shattered pair of sunglasses and a torn piece of Lauren’s purple cardigan.
There had been a struggle.
Daniel moved toward the boathouse, keeping his back against the damp wooden exterior. The scent of stagnant water, gasoline, and wet decay hung thick in the air. He slipped through the broken entryway, his boots making no sound against the mossy planks.
"Lauren?" he whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Only the rhythmic sloshing of water beneath the floorboards answered him.
He moved further into the darkness, navigating around rusted boat engines and hanging coils of rope. The boathouse opened into a wide slip where his father’s old wooden launch had once been docked. Now, only black water churned in the slip.
Then, he heard a muffled sob.
High above, on the narrow wooden catwalk used to access the overhead hoists, a figure was tied to an iron pillar. It was Lauren. Her face was bruised, her hands bound behind her back with thick zip ties, a strip of heavy duct tape plastered across her mouth.
"Lauren!" Daniel hissed, stepping toward the wooden staircase leading to the catwalk.
"I wouldn't take another step if I were you, Mr. Whitmore," a voice echoed from the shadows beneath the catwalk.
Daniel spun, gun raised, sweeping the dark corners.
A man stepped out from behind a rusted fuel tank. He was medium height, lean, wearing a dark waterproof tactical jacket. In his right hand, he held a sleek, silenced pistol aimed directly at Daniel’s head. In his left hand, he held a weathered leather-bound ledger—the original book.
"Who are you?" Daniel demanded, keeping his sights centered on the man’s chest. "Margaret's contractor?"
The man offered a thin, professional smile. "Margaret doesn't have the money to hire me, Daniel. Your mother thought she was hiring a local private investigator to retrieve a stolen diary." The man gestured with the ledger. "Julian didn't tell you the whole truth, did he?"
"Julian wants the money my father stole," Daniel said, his eyes flicking between the gunman and his bound sister.
"Julian *is* the money," the gunman replied calmly. "Julian is the syndicate's clean-up crew. And your father didn't steal forty million dollars, Daniel. He laundered it for an Eastern European cartel through the Whitmore shipping lines. And your little sister here... she just wrote down every name, account, and wire transfer on a digital drive sewn into the binding of this book."
Above them, Lauren let out a muffled scream, violently shaking her head, pointing her eyes toward the water slip below.
Daniel looked down.
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Floating in the dark water of the boat slip was an open metal drum with an electric detonator strapped to its rim, wired directly into three commercial gasoline canisters.
"Julian doesn't want the ledger," Daniel whispered, the horrifying truth dawning on him. "He wants the entire family erased."
