Chapter 7 - The Interception at the Channel
Out on the water, the wind whipped Victoria’s platinum hair into a wild frenzy as she leaned over the steering wheel of the white speedboat.
Her knuckles were white against the rubberized grip of the helm, her crimson dress soaked around the hem from the sea spray crashing over the bow.
She threw a frantic glance over her shoulder, looking back at the sandy crescent of Vance Cay where the mega-yacht was moored.
She could see the miniature silhouette of Arthur standing on the beach, his arm wrapped around the daughter who should have been dead on the seabed.
"Damn him! Damn both of them!" Victoria screamed at the roaring wind, slamming her fist against the polished dashboard.
If Chloe had only drowned quietly, the forged documents would have taken effect before anyone could investigate the tragic 'accidental fall' of an intoxicated heiress.
With Chloe dead and Arthur incapacitated by grief, the Cayman registry would have recognized Victoria's signed conveyance without immediate challenge.
Now everything had unraveled in a matter of five minutes, and her only chance was to reach the international shipping lanes off the Florida coast.
A private seaplane was waiting at an offshore coordinates buoy five miles out, chartered under a false name to fly her directly to South America.
She pushed the dual throttles to their absolute forward stops, the high-performance engines whining as the speedometer climbed past forty-five knots.
The narrow mouth of the harbor was less than three hundred yards away, framed by two jagged limestone jetties designed to break the Atlantic storm surges.
Once she cleared that sixty-foot gap between the rocks, her boat had the speed to outrun anything the local harbor police could launch.
Suddenly, a massive low-frequency rumble echoed across the water from behind the eastern jetty wall, sending vibrations through her own fiberglass hull.
Victoria gasped, her foot slipping in her beige designer heels as she braced herself against the sudden visual shock in front of her.
Slicing out from the shadows of the rocks came the forty-two-foot midnight-black tactical interceptor belonging to Vance Island Security.
Powered by triple seven-hundred-horsepower supercharged racing engines, the black beast pushed a mountain of water before it as it pivoted sideways.
May you like
With terrifying precision, Chief Security Officer Marcus Cross swung the black hull directly across the narrow mouth of the channel, blocking the exit entirely.
The black boat sat broadside across the waterway like an impenetrable floating fortress, its blue strobe lights flashing silently against the evening sky.
