Chapter 4 - THE PHANTOM ON THE WATER
The storm had fully hit Biscayne Bay by 2:00 AM. Torrential rain lashed against the windshield of our high-speed tactical interceptor vessel—a matte-black, radar-evading military boat that Rosa had pulled from a hidden boathouse beneath the fish factory.
The ocean was wild, with ten-foot swells tossing the boat into the air before slamming it back down against the dark water. I strapped myself into the passenger seat, my body bruised, my gray suit soaked, but my focus deadlocked on the radar screen.
The flashing red blip of The Sovereign was five miles ahead, navigating through the treacherous waters of the Florida Straits toward the Bahamas.
"They think they're home free," I shouted over the roar of the twin supercharged engines. "If they reach international waters, we can't touch them legally!"
"We aren't here to handle this legally, Edward," Rosa replied calmly, her hands steady on the wheel despite the violently rocking boat. "The legal system is what allowed them to strip your life away with signed papers and offshore filings. Tonight, we enforce a different kind of judgment."
"What's the plan?" I asked, looking at the tactical gear she had given me. A waterproof coat, a radio headset, and a heavy tactical flashlight.
"Harold Bennett is currently holding a victory celebration on the main deck of The Sovereign," Rosa said, pointing to a thermal satellite feed playing on the dashboard monitor. "He believes you died in the fire. He has invited his key co-conspirators, including Marcus Vance and two corrupt officials from the Miami Zoning Board who approved the fraudulent land seizures."
"And Vanessa?"
"Vanessa is on board," Rosa said, her voice dripping with disdain. "She's celebrating her eighty million dollar payout. According to the encrypted communications I intercepted twenty minutes ago, they plan to dock in Nassau by sunrise, wire the funds to non-extradition accounts in Dubai, and dissolve Calloway Developments permanently."
"How do we board a 150-foot yacht in the middle of a gale?" I asked.
Rosa smiled—a sharp, wolfish expression that looked terrifyingly out of place on the face of the woman who used to fold my laundry.
"We don't dock, Edward," she said, reaching over to flip a series of toggles on the control panel. "We hijack their communications and drop their anchors."
She handed me a headset. "Put this on. It's time to speak to your old friend."
I slipped the headset over my ears. Rosa flipped a switch labeled FREQUENCY OVERRIDE.
On board The Sovereign, five miles out at sea, the party was in full swing. Crystal glasses clinked under the warm deck lights. Champagne flowed.
Suddenly, the luxury yacht's high-end sound system stopped playing jazz music. A sharp, high-pitched feedback squeal echoed through the speakers, causing the guests to cover their ears.
I leaned into the microphone. My voice echoed across the open sea, cold, deep, and dripping with venom.
"Hello, Harold."
The audio feed from the yacht went dead quiet. On our thermal monitor, we saw several figures on the upper deck freeze instantly.
"Edward?" Harold’s voice crackled back through the speaker system, high-pitched and laced with sudden, naked panic. "That... that's impossible. Edward is dead! He burned in the mansion!"
"You always were a terrible liar, Harold," I said, watching our boat close the distance on the radar screen—three miles, two miles, one mile. "The note under your front door was a nice touch. 'Family emergency.' You really know how to make a man feel special."
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"Where are you?!" Harold screamed into his radio receiver. "Security! Get the security team on deck NOW! Scan the water!"
"I'm right behind you, Harold," I said softly into the mic. "And I've brought the ledger."
