The engines were down to a low, muffled sound. the boat gliding quietly beneath the shadow of an abandoned rail bridge before turning into a forgotten concrete drainage slip. Above them, rusted steel framework and overgrown weeds blocked out the city lights.
"Tie it up," James commanded, his voice strained as he clutched his injured shoulder that was still bothering him as he stopped the boat and was trying to get off it.
Rolla moved first, his feet hitting the concrete floor of the dock as he looped the rope around an iron cleat.
Isabella stepped up behind him, her AK rifle slung tight across her shoulder as she dragged a dark water resistant canvas tarp over the center console, concealing the vessel completely.
Ryder stepped off next, hauling two heavy duffel bags in his right hand. Under his left arm, wrapped in a black trash liner, was Don Vito's steel lockbox.
