Chapter 2: Dead Reckoning
The satellite phone hummed in my hand, displaying a biometric lock screen that required Montgomery’s thumbprint. I pressed his limp thumb against the glass. The device unlocked with a faint click, revealing a clean interface devoid of standard messaging apps, utilizing instead a decentralized cryptographic client. I tapped into the primary contact list. Only three names appeared: Alpha, Broker, and Courier.
I knew the layout of the luxury yacht, the Nautilus IV, better than the captain did. Every bulkhead, every blind spot in the closed-circuit camera grid had been committed to memory weeks ago. I dragged Montgomery’s dead weight toward the walk-in mahogany closet, locking him securely inside before he could regain his bearings. He would wake up confused, angry, and trapped, which was the ideal psychological state for extraction.
Stepping back out into the suite, I adjusted the straps of my green silk dress and picked up the metal bat. My reflection in the smoked-glass bar cabinet showed a woman completely composed, her dark hair falling in soft waves over one bare shoulder. There was no adrenaline crash, no shaking hands. Just the cold, mechanical clarity that had kept me alive through two tours in regions of the world maps preferred to ignore.
I exited the suite into the dimly lit corridor. The mahogany paneling absorbed the sound of my green heels clicking softly against the floorboards. Up ahead, the stairwell led down to the communications room and the ship's primary server racks. Montgomery had thought himself untouchable out here, believing that maritime lawlessness equated to absolute impunity. He forgot that men who buy power rarely know how to wield it when the foundation cracks.
A security guard rounded the corner near the aft lounge, his hand resting casually on the holster of his sidearm. He stopped dead in his tracks upon seeing me, his eyes widening slightly as he processed the metal bat in my hand and the absence of Montgomery.
"Mrs. Montgomery," the guard said, his voice tightening with sudden suspicion. "Is everything—"
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I didn't let him finish the sentence. Distance is a variable you manage before it manages you. I closed the gap between us with a low, driving step, pivoting on my heel to deliver a swift, concussive strike to his shoulder joint. He gasped, dropping instantly as his nervous system overloaded. As he hit the carpet, I caught him by the collar, easing him down silently to prevent any noise from echoing through the steel bulkheads.
I stripped his access badge from his belt loop, swiped it against the electronic lock of the server room door, and stepped inside. The blue light of the mainframe flickered in the dark.
