Chapter 116 - Boarding the Phantom Ship
"He didn't know," Clara stammered from the floor, crawling backward until her spine hit the watertight bulkhead. "Marcus, I swear to God, he didn't tell me what was in the case! He just said you were a selfish bastard who had everything while we had nothing! He said you were hoarding Navy pension money while I couldn't even pay my student loans!"
I stood up, towering over her, my combat fatigues dripping seawater onto the deck.
"I sent you three thousand dollars every single month, Clara," I said, my voice dead of any emotion. "I paid off your car. I paid Mom’s medical bills until the day she died. I gave you one hundred and ten thousand dollars of my combat pay while I was taking shrapnel in the Mediterranean. And you drank champagne on my patio while you plotted to forge my signature on a quitclaim deed."
"I was desperate!" she shrieked. "Look at this place! They're going to murder us! Doesn't blood mean anything to you?"
"Right now?" I looked down at the tactical carbine in my hands. "The only blood that matters to me is the men I serve with."
Before Clara could answer, the heavy blast door at the top of the maintenance ladder hissed. The pneumatic seals depressurized.
"Contact!" Reyes snapped, dropping behind a bank of electrical transformers.
The door swung inward, and three private military contractors in digital naval camouflage stepped through, their rifles raised.
I didn't give them time to acquire targets. I fired a controlled pair from the hip. The high-velocity darts punched through the lead contractor’s neck guard, dropping him instantly. Reyes took the second with a double-tap to the center mass.
The third contractor scrambled backward, attempting to slam the manual override lever, but I closed the distance in three explosive strides. I rammed my shoulder into the steel door, catching his arm in the jamb with a sickening crunch. The man screamed, his rifle clattering to the floor.
I dragged him through the opening by his tactical vest, slamming him against the diamond-plate deck, my combat knife pressed against the carotid artery beneath his jawline.
"Who commands this vessel?" I demanded in fluent Russian, recognizing the contractor’s insignia.
The man choked, eyes darting to the corridor behind him. "Admiral... Admiral Vance's old friend... Director Sterling... he's on the bridge!"
My chest went cold. Sterling.
The name echoed through the dark corridors of my memory. Julian Sterling—a disgraced former defense undersecretary who had vanished six years ago following a massive espionage investigation into stolen naval sub-surface patents.
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"Where is the ship heading?" I pushed the steel blade a millimeter deeper, a thin bead of crimson trickling down his neck.
"Tahoe..." the contractor gasped, his breath smelling of stale tobacco. "The secondary trigger... at the lake... it's already active. He's steering this ship to the Mendocino fault line to synchronize the detonation!"
