Chapter 4 - THE HUNT IN THE HOLD
The beam of the flashlight swept across the rusted overhead conduits, missing Nora’s shoulder by inches.
“Move,” Nora whispered, shoving Evelyn toward the downward spiral of the service stairwell.
They descended into the lower belly of the ship, the engine rumble vibrating through their bones. The temperature soared from the icy ocean chill to an oppressive, stifling ninety degrees. Pipes hissed; raw diesel stung their nostrils.
“Dr. Bennett, go back to the clinic,” Evelyn hissed, catching the physician's sleeve. “If Vance sees you with us, he’ll kill you on the spot. If you’re in your quarters, you can claim I ran away while you were preparing medication.”
“I’m not leaving you,” Bennett countered.
“You have to,” Evelyn urged. “If this goes wrong, you’re the only person aboard who can sign an autopsy report that disputes Flynn’s accidental drowning narrative. Go. Now.”
Dr. Bennett hesitated, then nodded grimly. She slipped through a watertight door leading toward the crew quarters and vanished.
Evelyn and Nora crept along the narrow catwalk suspended over the bilge tanks. Below them, thousands of gallons of seawater sloshed in the ballast, steadying the vessel against the ferocious Atlantic swells.
Above, the ship’s intercom clicked with a sharp pop of static.
Flynn’s voice drifted through the overhead speakers, sweet, honeyed, and dripping with sickening composure.
“Evelyn, darling? The crew says you’ve wandered out of our room. It’s dangerous out there on the decks, sweet girl. The waves are washing over the gunwales. Please come back to the salon. Your father wouldn’t want you catching a chill.”
The implicit threat hung in the hot air like toxic fumes. Your father.
“He knows you’re awake,” Nora breathed, her back flat against the steel hull. “The drug reversal. He must have checked the bed, seen the empty space, and realized you weren't comatose.”
“The owner’s office is on the main deck, right beneath the bridge,” Evelyn said. “How do we get up there without Vance seeing us?”
“The catering dumbwaiter,” Nora said. “It connects the cold galley directly to the private dining salon adjacent to the office. It was built for six-course service during private corporate meetings. It holds two hundred pounds.”
“Let’s go.”
They reached the cold galley—a pristine, stainless-steel kitchen plunged into total darkness. Nora reached into a recessed alcove, manually sliding open the brushed-steel door of the utility dumbwaiter. The car inside was small, operated by an industrial pulley system counterbalanced with iron weights.
“I’ll send you up,” Nora said, handing Evelyn the utility flashlight and an eight-inch heavy steel carving knife she snatched from the magnetic rack above the preparation table. “Once you’re in the office, punch the emergency lock from the inside. Get the beacon key. Broadcast the distress call. As soon as Key West acknowledges the transponder, Captain Miller’s maritime obligations override any orders Flynn tries to give him.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve worked for the Sterlings for twenty-two years, Evelyn,” Nora said with a bitter, razor-sharp smile. “Aidan Mercer won't lay a finger on me until he’s asked me what your father told me before we sailed.”
Evelyn squeezed into the cramped dumbwaiter car, pulling her knees to her chest. Nora closed the exterior hatch. A metallic whine resonated through the cable as the manual hoist engaged.
The car rose through the internal chassis of the yacht. Five seconds. Ten seconds.
The car shuddered to a halt.
Evelyn cracked the dumbwaiter door.
The private dining room was dim, illuminated only by the rhythmic sweeping flashes of lightning through the panoramic windows. Across the hardwood parquet floor stood the double doors leading into Richard Sterling’s private yacht office.
Evelyn crawled out of the dumbwaiter, the steel chef's knife balanced tightly in her right hand.
She crept toward the office door. It was unlocked.
She slipped inside. The room smelled of old leather and tobacco. Behind the expansive glass-topped desk was the titanium wall safe concealed behind a replica of a Winslow Homer seascape.
Evelyn swung the painting aside. The digital keypad glowed blue.
She pressed her thumb against the biometric scanner.
BEEP. IDENTITY VERIFIED: STERLING, E.
The heavy locking bolts retracted with a solid clunk. Evelyn pulled the door open.
Inside lay three stacks of emergency cash, two satellite burner phones, and a velvet-lined case containing a heavy brass key stamped with the insignia of the United States Coast Guard Maritime Safety Office.
She snatched the key.
Suddenly, the overhead lights flared with blinding brilliance.
“I wondered when you’d remember the safe,” a voice drawled from the leather armchair in the corner.
May you like
Aidan Mercer sat there, a tumbler of Scotch balanced on his knee, a suppressed .22 caliber pistol resting casually in his palm. Behind him stood Fiona, Flynn’s mother, her pearl necklace gleaming under the chandelier, her face twisted into a sneer of pure, vindictive satisfaction.
“Twenty-two years,” Aidan whispered, rising slowly from the chair. “Twenty-two years I watched your father dine at the Union League Club while my brother lay at the bottom of the ocean. Did you really think you were going to marry for love, little girl?”
