Part 12: The Black Boat of the Sound
## Part 12: The Black Boat of the Sound
The black boat didn't slow down as it entered the wake of The Elizabeth.
It swerved sharply, its fiberglass hull bouncing against the heavy gray swells, throwing sheets of freezing foam over our lower deck rails.
Through the bridge binoculars, I could see three men in dark marine gear standing near the console.
They weren't carrying crowbars.
They were carrying automatic tactical rifles with maritime corrosion coatings.
"Liam," I said, my hand instinctively reaching for the chart table where the decoded map lay.
"They're trying to board."
"They won't board a Vance ship, Cora," Liam said, his voice a flat line.
He didn't order the captain to turn the wheel. He didn't tell the crew to drop the speed.
He tapped his wrist terminal twice.
The side panels of The Elizabeth’s main cargo superstructure didn't just slide back—they dropped down into the water with a heavy, hydraulic splash, revealing two pre-staged, armored response boats from the Vance private security force.
Marcus was in the lead boat.
He didn't raise a megaphone.
He raised a heavy, truck-mounted sound suppression cannon, pointing the massive black dish directly at the black boat's console.
WHINE.
A high-frequency pitch filled the air over the water, so sharp it made the glass windows of our bridge vibrate.
The three men on the black boat dropped their weapons, their hands flying to their ears as they collapsed onto the deck of their vessel, their mouths open in silent, agonizing screams.
The black boat veered wildly to the left, its rudder catching a floating timber before it spun ninety degrees and stalled in the heavy chop of the outer channel.
"Identify the hull, Marcus," Liam spoke into his microphone.
Marcus’s team boarded the stalled vessel within thirty seconds, their boots heavy against the black fiberglass.
He reached into the console and pulled out a water-resistant satellite phone, displaying the last dialed number to the bridge camera link.
The name on the screen wasn't Philip Ashford.
It was a corporate number registered to a legal firm in Zurich, Switzerland.
Hale & Associates.
The same firm that handled the private accounts for my father's old business partners before he vanished twenty years ago.
The past wasn't dead.
It was just changing currencies.
Liam looked at the terminal screen, his eyes gray and empty as he turned back to face me.
"Your father’s old circle is still alive, Cora," he said softly.
May you like
"They aren't trying to save the Ashfords."
"They're trying to clear the ledger before we reach Malta."
