Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Bridge first. Two Coasties stack on the hatch, breach charge the latch with a soft pop of compressed gas. Door swings, they sweep in, wrestle the startled captain to the floor before he can so much as throttle down. Lights inside flare, and I hear Castillo’s voice—a surprised curse—then a scuffle. One of the Coasties growls, “Hands! Hands!” Followed by clacking cuffs.
Bridge secure. My turn.
Mid-ship companionway smells of varnish and stale air. I move fast, rifle tucked tight, NVG overlay painting doorframes and corners in eerie gradients. Down two steps, starboard passage. At the locked cabin I yank a bump key from my cuff pocket, tension wrench, a quick snap, and the tumblers give. I push in, leading with the muzzle.
Charlotte jerks upright on the bunk, shock flashing to recognition. “Asher.” Her voice tears through me. Melanie sits beside her, wide-eyed, blanket clutched like a shield. No bindings—Diego felt safe enough out at sea.
I swing the rifle to safe, sling it, cross the distance in two strides. The instant Charlotte is folded against me, the universe realigns. Her pulse hammers at her throat, and I feel every fragile beat. “You’re okay,” I murmur, though it’s mostly for me.
Her fingers fist in my sleeve. “I knew you’d come.”
Melanie struggles to her feet, tears streaking dried salt on her cheeks. I guide them both toward the door. “Stay behind me.” My voice is steady, but rage still surges beneath. Anyone tries to stop us now will meet something worse than bean-bags.
We emerge into the corridor as a DEA agent cuffs the last conscious guard. Castillo sits on his knees, wrists locked behind him, expression dripping arrogant despair. Charlotte tenses, and I steer her left, shielding her from the sight. There’s no satisfaction in his capture—only relief that he can’t touch her again.
Topside, the wind has sharpened to a knifepoint. The RHIB is already alongside, crewman braced to help the women descend. Charlotte hesitates on the rail, and I tuck my arm around her waist. “I’ve got you,” I promise. She nods, jaw clenched, and steps down, one rung at a time, Melanie close behind. Once aboard, blankets cocoon them against the spray.
The Coast Guard cutter looms ahead, deck lit like a beacon. As we accelerate, Charlotte presses closer, shivering from adrenaline let-down more than cold. I hold her tight, eyes never leaving the dark horizon. The danger isn’t over until we’re tied to a dock, but a weight has shifted—the hunter’s edge replaced by something quieter, fiercer: the certainty that I’d cross any ocean to reach her again.
We hit the cutter’s boarding ramp. Medics whisk Charlotte and Melanie toward the ship’s infirmary, but Charlotte’s grip snaps tight around my wrist. “Stay.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” I walk beside her through the steel passages, past blinking consoles and watch standers offering hushed congratulations. Inside the medical bay, fluorescent lights reveal everything the darkness hid—finger-width bruises, rope burns, exhaustion carved under her eyes. She sits on the exam table, shoulders slumping only when my hand settles on her back.
The corpsman runs vitals, asks gentle questions. No broken bones, no deep lacerations. It’s a miracle in itself. Melanie’s exam echoes similar results. Survival shock will set in later, and we’ll manage that when it comes.
An hour crawls past while paperwork is logged, prisoners transferred to the brig, and the yacht is taken under tow. I check on Charlotte every five minutes; each time her eyes track me with quiet certainty, grounding us both. At last the XO steps in, voice low. “Sector St. Pierce cleared for immediate return. You want to call your people?”
I nod, already pulling out my phone. Margaret Lane answers on the first ring—raw relief flooding every syllable when I tell her Charlotte is safe, alive, en route. A second call to Dean; his exhale scrapes static across the line. “Good work,” he says. “See you dockside.”
I tuck the phone away, return to the infirmary. Charlotte extends her hand, palm up. I fit my fingers through hers, the simple touch more powerful than any medal. We don’t speak—words feel too small. Instead we sit, side by side, while the cutter plows north, the throb of engines pushing dawn closer.
When first light bleeds across the porthole, Charlotte shifts, leaning her head against my shoulder. Her voice is a whisper but it hums straight into my bones. “Take me home.”
“Always,” I answer, gaze fixed on the horizon where gold seeps into indigo. We’re not at port yet, not by a long shot—there will be statements, trials, nightmares—but the worst seas are behind us. The rest we’ll sail together.
I close my eyes for the first time in forty hours, letting the rhythm of the waves sync with the steady beat of her pulse beneath my hand. For now, that’s enough.
41
Charlotte
Sunlight drifts through my living-room windows, soft and forgiving, painting the hardwood floor in gentle gold. The city hums outside, but inside my condo at last it feels… peaceful. My heart stutters as I take it all in: the plush throw pillows on the sectional, the shelf of rescued-dog photos I finally had hung, and the dining table set with brunch for eight. This is home again—my home—filled with the people who saved me.