Chapter 5 - THE BOARDING AT CHOPPER Ledge
Before Harold’s security team could react, Rosa slammed the interceptor's throttles forward. Our black hull cut through the waves like a torpedo, pulling alongside the shadow of The Sovereign's massive stern.
"Hold on!" Rosa yelled.
She fired a pneumatic grappling hook from the bow of our boat. The titanium prong sailed thirty feet through the air and caught firmly onto the lower railing of the yacht's helipad deck.
Without waiting for my permission, Rosa attached a motorized ascender to the line, hooked her harness, and zipped up the side of the hull into the dark storm. Seconds later, the rope dropped back down for me.
I grabbed the harness. Ten years ago, I was an athlete. Five years ago, I was a desk-bound billionaire. Tonight, I was a ghost climbing up from the ocean floor.
I hooked the rig and squeezed the trigger. The motor whined, yanking me up through the freezing rain until my hands grabbed the mahogany railing of the helipad.
I vaulted over the edge, landing heavily on the teak deck.
Two armed security guards in black polo shirts rushed around the corner of the deck, their handguns raised.
THWACK! THWACK!
Rosa emerged from the shadows like a panther. Before either guard could squeeze a trigger, she delivered a brutal palm strike to the first man's throat, grabbed his falling weapon, spun around, and cracked the second guard across the temple with the heavy steel frame of the gun. Both men crumpled to the deck, unconscious.
"Clear," she whispered, handing me one of the guards' sidearms.
"I've never fired a gun in my life, Rosa," I said, staring at the cold steel weapon in my hand.
"Then don't shoot unless someone tries to kill you," she said coldly. "Come. They’re in the main salon."
We moved silently along the covered walkway toward the grand glass doors of the ship's interior salon. Inside, the scene was pure chaos.
Guests in formal attire were screaming, scrambling toward the lower cabins in panic. Marcus Vance—my former chief financial officer, a portly man in a tailored tuxedo—was frantically trying to stuff stacks of bearer bonds into an aluminum briefcase.
And in the center of the room stood Harold Bennett and my ex-wife, Vanessa.
Vanessa was holding a glass of champagne, her face pale as snow, her eyes wide with unadulterated terror as she stared through the glass door at me.
I pushed the heavy sliding glass door open and stepped into the air-conditioned luxury of the salon. Rain dripped from my hair onto the plush white carpet.
"Edward..." Vanessa gasped, her voice trembling so badly her glass rattled against her manicured nails. "You... you're alive?"
"You look disappointed, my love," I said, stepping into the room. Rosa stood behind me, her weapon pointed low, covering the exits. "Did you think the fire would burn hot enough to erase six years of treason?"
Harold Bennett backed away, his hands raised in front of his chest. "Edward, wait! Listen to me! It wasn't my idea! It was Vance! Marcus Vance set up the accounts! He forced us into it!"
"You bastard!" Marcus Vance shrieked from across the room, dropping his briefcase. "You pitched the entire liquidation plan to the cartel three years ago, Harold! You told them Edward was too soft to notice!"
"Shut up! Shut up!" Harold screamed, pulling a small silver revolver from his jacket pocket and pointing it directly at my chest.
"Harold, put the gun down," I said calmly, taking another step forward. I felt no fear. The man standing in front of me had stolen my life, my honor, and my family name. Fear was a luxury for men who still had something to lose.
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"Don't come any closer, Edward!" Harold shouted, his hands shaking violently. "I'll shoot you! I swear to God I'll put a bullet through your heart right here!"
"You can't kill me, Harold," I said, my voice dropping to a icy, terrifying whisper. "I died three hours ago in Coconut Grove. You read it on the news yourself."
