Chapter 69 - The Ghost Surface
Silence descended, broken only by the rhythmic, mechanical hum of the pod’s emergency beacon and the howling of the gale-force wind outside the quartz porthole.
I lay in my harness for a long time, unable to move, unable to breathe, listening to the tiny, shallow breaths of my son. Slowly, agonizingly, I unclipped the restraints and crawled to the center cradle.
Leo was crying, but his eyes were clear. His skin was warm. He was alive.
"Miller," I whispered, my voice sounding like crushed gravel. "Miller, look at him. He’s alive."
The detective was slumped in the copilot seat, his hands resting limply in his lap. His face was gray, the bruising around his crushed throat blooming into horrific shades of black and violet. For a terrifying second, I thought he was gone.
Then, he opened one swollen eye and let out a weak, agonizing laugh that turned into a ragged cough.
"Damn it, Liz..." he murmured, staring out the quartz window at the gray expanse of ocean. "You really know how... to ruin a good retirement."
I pulled Leo into my arms, pressing my face into his damp hair, and began to weep. The nightmare had lasted months—the balcony, the hospital rooms where doctors whispered about my murdered fetus, the psychiatric holds, the hitmen, the poison in the pipes, the offshore citadel. My mother was dead. Victoria was dead. Eleanor was crushed beneath thousands of feet of saltwater.
The Vance empire was ashes.
An hour later, the rhythmic thump of heavy dual-rotor blades vibrated through the pod’s steel hull.
Looking out the viewport, I saw a massive military transport helicopter hovering fifty feet above the rolling waves. A rescue diver in a black tactical wetsuit dropped into the water, swimming toward our capsule with practiced, urgent strokes.
"Coast Guard?" Miller asked, squinting through the salt-crusted glass.
I looked closer at the helicopter. The fuselage was painted in matte olive drab, completely stripped of any national markings, military insignias, or Coast Guard emblems. Below the cockpit was a single, stenciled serial code in cold white font:
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*SOVEREIGN ASSET RECOVERY — UNIT 01.*
My blood ran cold.
