The pier groans like a dying animal. Dust boils up from the split deck as Dallas, Elena, and Clara cling to the last slab of concrete, the rail strip dropping away behind them.

A Harbor Unit patrol boat noses in under the spotlight, spray hissing off its hull. Jackson keeps one hand on the helm and the other thrown out toward them, but his jaw is tight, reading the yard like a crime scene already sealed.

Another Harbor Unit skiff slides into the glare behind him. At its bow stands a broad-shouldered officer in a wet black raincoat, pistol low, eyes hard. He is not here to rescue anyone.

The concrete shudders again, a fissure racing toward their boots while the patrol lights wash everything in blue-white panic.

Dallas catches Elena’s hand and drives off the broken edge with her, the boat rising under them like a lifeline. Jackson shifts at the helm to make room, coat snapping in the spray.

Clara slips after them, and Murderbone launches at the last beat of the deck, claws scraping the gunwale before Dallas hauls him in by the harness.

The patrol boat punches forward, the collapsing pier falling away behind a curtain of dust and spray. The officer’s skiff slews alongside, close enough to reach, but Jackson keeps the bow angled for open water.

For a second, the yard goes eerily quiet except for the motor and the slap of water on hull. Then the low red pulse from the hatch flashes once through the dust behind them, like a warning the pier is still not done with.