Chapter 4: Shadows on the Deck
The sea air hit me like a wall of ice as I stepped out onto the open aft deck. The wind whipped my dark hair across my face, carrying the sharp, briny scent of diesel exhaust and open water. Above, the moon was obscured by a thick, bruised bank of clouds rolling in from the north. The yacht cut through the swells with a steady, arrogant grace, its wake churning white foam into the black void behind us.
I needed to reach the emergency radio beacon on the bridge to transmit the downloaded data packet directly to naval command before Montgomery’s remaining crew realized the extent of the breach. But the deck was exposed, a long stretch of teakwood flanked by glass railings and minimalist outdoor seating.
Footsteps echoed sharply from the steel staircase leading down from the upper observation deck. Two more guards, alerted by the commotion below, were sweeping the perimeter with tactical flashlights. Their white beams cut through the gloom, sweeping methodically across the deck chairs and bulkheads.
I pressed myself flat against the shadow of a structural pillar, holding my breath. My silk slip dress whispered against the wood as I shifted my weight, keeping the metal bat raised and ready. The beams swept past my shoulder by a matter of inches, illuminating the cold glint of the champagne glass still sitting on a nearby table.
"Check the port side," one of the guards muttered, his boots clanking heavily against the decking. "The boss’s wife is loose, and he’s not answering his private line."
They moved past my hiding spot, their backs turned toward me. I exhaled slowly, letting the oxygen circulate back into my muscles. This was the rhythm of it—patience, observation, execution. I stepped out from the shadows behind them, moving with absolute silence despite the hard surface beneath my feet.
Before the lead guard could turn around, I brought the heavy base of the bat down sharply against the back of his tactical helmet. He dropped without a sound. The second guard whipped around, raising his firearm, but I swept his legs out from under him with a low, fluid rotation of the bat. He hit the teakwood hard, his weapon skittering across the deck and over the glass railing into the dark, churning sea below.
He stared up at me, his eyes wide with disbelief and a sudden, primal terror.
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"Who the hell are you?" he rasped, clutching his bruised ribs.
"Mrs. Montgomery," I replied softly, stepping over him as I made my way toward the forward bridge. "And your shift is officially over."
