Chapter 28 - Blood in the Water
Heron Island was a jagged splinter of granite three miles off the rocky coast of Maine, cloaked in dense fog and surrounded by treacherous underwater shoals.
At 4:00 AM, a storm was battering the Atlantic coast. High-voltage perimeter lights illuminated the private concrete dock, where an eighty-foot expedition yacht was idling, its twin diesel engines humming through the roar of the surf.
Arthur Vance stood on the dock, bundled in an expensive cashmere overcoat, barking orders at four heavily armed private security guards who were loading waterproof crates onto the yacht's stern.
Aboard our interceptor boat, Ethan stood beside me in the wheelhouse. He was pale, leaning on a tactical crutch, wearing a ballistic vest over his sweater. I had begged him to stay in the bunker, but he had looked at me with an expression I knew all too well—the look of a father whose children had been stolen.
"There's only one path up from the dock to the boathouse," Ethan said, pointing at the radar map of the island. "It’s mined with tripwire flares and motion sensors. But there’s an old drainage sluice on the northern bluff. If we approach from the rocks, we bypass the main security checkpoint."
"Marcus and the strike team will take the dock and disable the yacht," I said, checking the magazine of my rifle. "You and I go for the boathouse."
Ethan reached out, taking my gloved hand. His grip was steady now, the tremor gone, replaced by a cold, lethal resolve. "Six months she made you mourn us, Claire. Let's bring our babies home."
We cut our boat's engines three hundred yards offshore, drifting in through the churning white foam under cover of the roaring surf.
The salt spray stung my face like needles as we dropped into the waist-deep, freezing water, scrambling over the jagged barnacle-covered rocks of the northern cove.
Down at the dock, the tactical team opened up.
A chorus of suppressed rifle fire cut through the wind. Flashbang grenades exploded across the yacht's deck with blinding flashes of white light. Shouts of panic and gunfire erupted as Arthur’s guards scrambled to take defensive positions.
May you like
"Now!" I whispered.
We sprinted up the icy stone path toward the isolated concrete boathouse nestled beneath the pine trees.
