Chapter 14: Flight to Block Island
The twin-engine Mercer helicopter cut through the heavy, charcoal-grey clouds, its blades slicing the ocean wind with a steady, rhythmic roar.
Below them, the Atlantic surged in violent, white-capped waves, crashing against the jagged cliffs of Block Island like an ancient army beating against stone walls.
Margaret sat in the leather cabin seat, her eyes fixed on the tablet screen displaying the flashing GPS ping. Beside her, Jonathan checked the ammunition clips of two heavy automatic pistols, his face carved from unyielding stone.
“The pilot says visibility is dropping fast due to the coastal storm,” Jonathan shouted over the roar of the engine. “We have a fifteen-minute window to land on the abandoned helipad near the old lighthouse before the winds make it impossible to take off again.”
“We won't need to take off until we have answers,” Margaret replied, her voice calm, devoid of any trace of the fear that had once defined her marriage.
The helicopter banked sharply to the left, descending through the thick sea fog until the jagged silhouette of the ruined stone lighthouse materialized against the churning grey water. Surrounding the crumbling tower was a rusted chain-link fence and a small, concrete bunker built into the side of the cliff—a structure that did not appear on any modern public maps.
The aircraft touched down hard on the cracked asphalt helipad, the landing gear spraying gravel in all directions. Before the rotors had even begun to slow down, Jonathan’s chief of security pushed open the cabin door, stepping out into the howling wind with an assault rifle raised, scanning the perimeter.
“Clear!” the guard signaled back through the open hatch, his voice muffled by the gale.
Margaret and Jonathan unbuckled their seatbelts and stepped out onto the damp, salt-stung ground. The air smelled intensely of ozone, rotting seaweed, and old, wet stone.
They moved quickly toward the heavy steel door of the underground concrete bunker, which stood slightly ajar. A faint, flickering yellow light spilled out from the darkness within, cutting through the swirling mist.
Jonathan raised his weapon, gesturing for Margaret to stay behind him. But Margaret stepped right past her grandfather, pushing the heavy iron door wide open with a steady hand.
“Hello?” Margaret’s voice echoed down the concrete corridor. “Is anyone there?”
From the dark depths of the bunker, a slow, heavy sound of footsteps approached. Clack. Clack. Clack. Like a cane hitting stone.
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And then, a raspy, breathless voice emerged from the shadows, carrying a cadence that made Margaret’s entire body freeze in shock.
“You took your time, Margaret... just like your mother.”
