Chapter 23 - Cold Steel and Starlight
The twin gunships hovered barely twenty feet above the churning black waves, kicking up a blinding curtain of sea foam that completely blinded the mercenary vessels.
"Go! Go! Go!"
Claire Ellison was the first down the fast-rope, her combat boots slamming onto the yacht’s blood-streaked aft helipad with bone-jarring precision. Behind her, six Navy SEALs from the Naval Special Warfare Development Group descended like wraiths in full night-vision gear, their suppressed carbines raised and scanning.
Claire moved with deadly economy. She swept her rifle across the port rail, firing three controlled, suppressed shots that punched through the windscreen of an approaching mercenary interceptor. The enemy boat veered sharply, spiraling out of control before erupting into a fireball as its fuel tank ignited.
"Suppress the outer ring!" Claire barked into her throat mic. "Secure the perimeter, non-lethal on secondary targets if possible. Primary objective is the command salon!"
She kicked open the shattered teak double doors of the main salon, weapon raised to her shoulder. The room was shrouded in acrid smoke and the stench of blood.
In the center of the devastation, rising from behind the overturned mahogany table with the ferocity of a wounded apex predator, stood Dante Moretti. His shotgun was leveled squarely at her forehead.
Claire did not flinch. She kept her rifle trained precisely on the center of his chest.
For three agonizing seconds, neither moved. The air between them crackled with an intensity that eclipsed the gunfire outside.
Dante stared through the haze. He took in the tactical combat helmet, the night-vision mount, the Kevlar chest rig, and finally, the fierce, piercing sapphire eyes that had haunted his every waking thought since the day she disappeared from his Pine Street estate.
His shotgun lowered an inch. His voice was ragged, raw with disbelief. "Claire...?"
"Lower the weapon, Dante," Claire said, her voice completely steady, carrying the absolute weight of command. "Or my team puts two rounds through your kneecaps before you pull that trigger."
Dante let out a bitter, disbelieving laugh, though his hands trembled slightly. "The quiet waitress who poured my tea... leading a strike team of black-budget ghosts. Who the hell are you?"
Before Claire could answer, a small, distinct sound broke through the carnage.
May you like
A soft, muffled gurgle from beneath the deck hatch.
***
