Chapter 5 - THE PHANTOM FREQUENCY
The Carolina skiff cut through the tea-colored water of the North New River Canal at wide-open throttle, throwing up a rooster tail of white spray that soaked the reeds lining the embankment. Brody had his hand clamped white-knuckle tight on the tiller arm, dodging half-submerged cypress knees and floating mats of water hyacinth with instinctive skill. Behind them, roaring around the bend half a mile back, was a twin-engine tactical patrol boat that Mercer had commandeered from the marina slips, its steel hull cleaving through the chop with twice their horsepower.
"He's closing the gap!" Logan yelled from the bow, clinging to the gunwales as the skiff slammed over the wake. "We’ve got maybe three minutes before they get within firing range!"
Cody had the ruggedized laptop open on his knees, shielding the screen from the spray with his canvas jacket. Maya was curled tightly against his ribs, her tiny hands clutching his damp shirt. The thumb drive was plugged in, its blue LED pulsing with rapid intensity as the decryption software chewed through Arthur Vance’s security layers.
"Come on, come on," Cody gritted out, tapping the keyboard.
A sudden chime signaled success, and a cascade of encrypted documents, audio recordings, and satellite coordinates populated the monitor.
"What is it, Cody?" Brody shouted over the screaming outboard.
"It’s not counter-espionage," Cody said, reading the horrific truth in utter shock. "Arthur was the chief hydrologist for the South Florida Water Management District. Mercer isn't a federal cop—he's the head of private security for Omnia Resources, a multi-billion-dollar chemical syndicate. They've been illegally dumping carcinogenic perfluorinated solvents straight into the Biscayne Aquifer beneath Cooper City to save billions on disposal fees! Arthur found the telemetry data. They staged the flat tire and dosed him with organophosphates so he couldn't testify before the grand jury in Tallahassee tomorrow morning!"
"Look at this!" Cody pointed to an automated protocol tab on the bottom of the screen labeled: BROADCAST OVERRIDE - AP WIRE & EMERGENCY DISPATCH.
"Arthur built a fail-safe," Cody said, adrenaline surging through his blood. "The drive has an automated transmission program. If we can reach a designated high-frequency cellular relay tower, it will broadcast every lab report, financial ledger, and video confession directly to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Department of Justice, and every major news network in the country simultaneously!"
"Where's the nearest tower?" Brody yelled, banking the boat hard around a sharp bend in the sawgrass.
"Sawgrass Mills communications relay—five miles down the canal, right by the levee!" Cody yelled back. "Brody, take us to the levee!"
Suddenly, a deafening crack echoed across the water. A heavy rifle bullet tore clean through the skiff’s fiberglass transom, shattering the cowling of the Yamaha outboard. The engine screamed in mechanical agony, spitting hot oil and thick black smoke before seizing with a sickening metallic clunk.
The boat lost all momentum, drifting helplessly into the impenetrable wall of towering sawgrass.
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Behind them, the twin-engine gunboat rounded the bend, cutting its throttles to an idle as it glided toward their stranded vessel like a great white shark approaching wounded prey. Mercer stood at the bow, his rifle lowered, a megaphone in his hand.
"End of the line, boys!" Mercer’s voice echoed across the swamp, chilling and absolute. "Hand over the girl and the drive, and maybe you live long enough to see a trial. Defy me, and the gators will be chewing on your bones before sunset."
