My Arrogant Cousin Tried to Evict Me and Steal Our War Fleet — I Froze His Accounts in Four Minutes, But the Legal War That Followed Cost Me My Son
The Potomac railway bridge loomed ahead, a dark, skeletal outline against the occasional flash of lightning. Thomas could feel the shuddering beneath his feet even before he stepped onto the wooden walkway. The river below had become a churning, muddy torrent, carrying debris from the upstream floodwaters.
He pushed forward, the wind a solid wall against him, the rain blinding. The dispatch tube was still clutched in his hand, its leather slick with water. He had to keep going. Colonel Henderson. The War Department. His mother.
A blinding, earth-shattering flash illuminated the entire river, followed by a thunderclap that vibrated through his very bones. The air crackled with raw power.
Then, a deafening crack echoed over the roar of the tempest.
Thomas froze, his eyes wide. A massive bolt of lightning, thick and jagged, had struck the central timber support of the bridge. Splinters flew, and the wood groaned, a sound like a dying beast.
The walkway beneath his feet buckled. A wall of debris—twisted metal, splintered wood, branches ripped from trees—swept over the road from upstream, churning white foam.
He barely had time to cry out before the entire section of the wooden walkway he was on gave way with a sickening lurch. The world tilted violently.
He pitched forward, arms flailing, into the roaring black water below. The cold hit him like a physical blow, stealing his breath. The current immediately seized him, pulling him under, disorienting him in the tumultuous depths.
He struggled, fighting against the crushing force of the river, trying to orient himself, to find the surface. His heavy coat dragged him down.
The leather dispatch tube, secured to his belt with a clasp, was ripped away by the sheer force of the current. He felt it go, a sickening lurch of emptiness, but the river had him, tumbling him, slamming him against unseen obstacles.
He gasped for air, breaking the surface for a moment before being pulled under again. The last thing he saw, through blurred eyes, was the dark, swirling current.
Two miles south, near the old dockside watch post of the War Department naval pier, the storm-tossed waters delivered their strange bounty. The sealed leather dispatch tube, still intact, bobbed gently among the detritus, nudging against the barnacle-encrusted pilings of the pier. It had survived the raging river, a silent, solitary testament to a desperate mission.
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