Part 16: The Shift in the Channel
## Part 16: The Shift in the Channel
Julian Rossi didn't lunge for the silver shuttle.
He sat back in his leather chair, a slow, terrible smile spreading across his wrinkled face as he looked past my shoulder toward the open water of the Intracoastal.
"The federal marshals have no jurisdiction over international salvage rights, Cora," he whispered.
"And more importantly, they don't control the ignition on this vessel."
He pressed a single button beneath the console line.
The twin diesel engines of The White Orchid didn't just roar—they exploded into life with a force that threw me backward against the leather sofa.
The mooring lines at the stern didn't snap naturally; they were severed by two automatic cutting charges embedded in the cleats.
BOOM.
The boat shot backward out of the slip at thirty knots, the white hull throwing a massive wall of black water against the pier as the luxury yachts on either side banged against their pilings.
The silver Mercedes near the main gate didn't wait for the guards.
It crashed through the wooden barrier, its headlights cutting through the darkness as it sped down the parallel highway to keep pace with our acceleration.
"You're coming with me to Malta, Cora," my father shouted over the roar of the exhaust.
"The New York buyers are waiting at the inlet! Once we clear the three-mile limit, your friend Liam Vance can't touch us without starting a multi-jurisdictional war!"
I stood up from the sofa, my fingers gripping the steel rail of the companionway.
The lights of Palm Beach were blurring into a long silver streak behind us.
"Liam doesn't need a jurisdiction, Julian," I said, my voice level, carrying no fear.
"Because he isn't waiting on the dock."
Through the glass windshield of the cabin, a massive shadow emerged from the dark waters of the inlet channel.
It wasn't a police cruiser.
It was The Emerald Empress, the Vance family’s private, three-hundred-foot commercial salvage tender, its steel bow cutting through the water like a floating fortress.
The massive black hull blocked the entire mouth of the inlet, its halogen spotlights snapping on simultaneously, blinding us with a wall of white light that turned the night into noon.
Marcus stood at the bow rail, a heavy marine interception line launcher resting on his shoulder.
May you like
"Thomas Rossi!" the megaphone boomed over the roar of the waves.
"Kill the engines now, or we will breach your hull from the waterline!"
