Chapter 5 - Pursuit Across the AtlanticWithin two hours, my private Gulfstream G650 was cutting through the clouds at forty thousand feet, heading south toward Nassau.
I sat in the leather-paneled cabin, staring at the satellite tracking data on my tablet. Richard Vance’s yacht, The Siren’s Call, was maintaining a steady heading toward a private cay owned by a shell corporation linked directly to the Russian syndicate.
Vanessa wasn't just running away—she was offering herself as collateral.
She knew the debt was too large for her inheritance alone. She knew Richard had dragged her deeper into the syndicate's crosshairs by using her name as a guarantor on the secondary loans. She had gone to trade her freedom for the safety of the empire I was too blind to protect.
"We have clearance to land at Lynden Pindling International," Marcus announced, stepping into the cabin from the cockpit. "I’ve arranged for a local charter boat to meet us at the private slip in twenty minutes. Sir... the syndicate guys on that cay aren't businessmen. They're enforcers. If we walk in there without backup—"
"Then we don't come back," I interrupted, standing up and sliding a heavy black Sig Sauer pistol into my shoulder holster.
Marcus didn't blink. He had served in the Royal Marines before joining my father’s security detail. He simply nodded, checked his own weapon, and said, "Then let's go get our money back."
By mid-afternoon, the blistering Bahamian sun beat down on the deck of our chartered speedboat as it bounced across the turquoise waves. Ahead of us, a jagged limestone island rose out of the water, crowned by a sprawling, fortress-like modern villa surrounded by dense jungle.
Through my binoculars, I could see The Siren’s Call moored at the private concrete pier.
"Cut the engine," I instructed the local captain, tossing him a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills. "Wait fifty yards off the reef. If we aren't back by sunset, call the federal marshal office in Miami."
Marcus and I slipped over the side of the boat into the warm, shallow water, wading silently toward the rocky shoreline of the cay. The coral scraped against my boots as we hauled ourselves up onto the brush, blending into the thick tropical foliage.
We moved like ghosts through the trees, closing in on the rear patio of the glass-and-steel villa.
Inside, through sliding floor-to-ceiling doors, I saw her.
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Vanessa sat bound to a heavy leather chair, her wrists zip-tied behind her back, her cream dress stained with dust and salt. Standing over her was a massive man with a jagged scar running down his cheek and a heavy gold chain around his thick neck—Viktor Rostov, the primary enforcer for the syndicate.
And right beside him, counting a stack of cashier's checks with a nervous grin, was Richard Vance.
