Chapter 30 - Shadows on the Water
"We have an active alert from the Coast Guard," Daniel said, bursting into the private consultation room of the precinct forty minutes later. "A sixty-foot luxury yacht registered to an offshore holding company just cleared customs clearance protocols at the Montauk Marina. Destination: international waters."
I stood up, the pain in my body entirely swallowed by the freezing clarity of truth.
"Who is on the manifest?"
"Officially? Raymond Sterling’s private corporate attorneys," Daniel said, racking the slide of a backup Glock 19 he had just checked out of the precinct armory. "Unofficially, the terminal at St. Jude's just initiated a massive biometric data transfer to an onboard server on that vessel. All thirty years of Vance genetic sequencing data. The entire Prometheus archive."
"And Chloe?"
"Chloe made a deal with the U.S. Marshals," Daniel replied grimly. "She traded her safehouse location for immunity. She told them the yacht isn't fleeing to Europe. It's meeting a private floating medical facility anchored outside the twelve-mile limit."
We took Daniel’s unmarked cruiser, tearing through the rain-slicked highways of Long Island with the red emergency light flashing on the dash. The sky was an ominous, churning black, the storm rolling in from the Atlantic whipping the coastal pines into violent frenzies.
By the time we reached the private marina in Montauk, the slips were nearly deserted. The smell of salt, dead fish, and diesel fuel hung heavy in the freezing gale.
At the end of Dock 4, the yacht's twin diesel engines were already idling with a low, bone-shaking rumble, their exhaust churning the dark water into oily gray foam. Two men in black tactical rain gear stood at the gangway, assault rifles concealed beneath long oilskin coats.
"We wait for the Coast Guard cutter," Daniel said, reaching for his radio. "It's three minutes out."
"We don't have three minutes," I said, pointing toward the upper bridge of the yacht.
Standing behind the tinted glass of the wheelhouse, illuminated by the green glow of the radar screen, was a figure holding an infant wrapped in a pink cashmere blanket.
It was Chloe.
May you like
She wasn't in federal custody. She had never been in federal custody. The marshals had been bought, the safehouse trade had been a diversion, and the child she was holding was breathing, alive, and already on board.
***
