Chapter 8 - The Midnight Auction
The black twin-engine helicopter roared through the low coastal clouds at two
hundred knots.
Below us, the glittering lights of Long Island narrowed into the pitch-black
void of the Atlantic Ocean.
The wind rattled the side doors of the aircraft.
Dominic, Vincent, and three elite operators sat in absolute silence under the
dim red interior jump-lights.
I looked at the live telemetry feed on my tablet.
“His convoy just passed Southampton,” I reported over the headset.
“He’ll hit Montauk Harbor in twelve minutes.”
“Where is the yacht moored?” Dominic asked through the comms.
“Slip 4,” I answered.
“Private marina. Julian owns the security company that guards the docks.”
“Then there are no civilians,” Vincent grunted.
“None,” I confirmed.
Dominic checked his weapon one last time.
“Rules of engagement are simple,” Dominic said to his men.
“Julian Vance stays breathing until Elena has the master encryption keys to the
federal bribes.”
“After that?” Vincent asked.
Dominic looked at me.
“After that, Elena decides what happens to him.”
The weight of those words settled heavily in my chest.
Dominic wasn't just giving me justice.
He was handing me the power of life and death over the man who destroyed my
childhood.
“Three minutes to drop!” the pilot shouted over the radio.
The helicopter descended rapidly, skimming fifty feet above the dark, churning
waves of the ocean.
Rain pelted the windshield like buckshot.
Ahead, the lights of Montauk Harbor materialized out of the fog.
A massive white mega-yacht sat at the end of the long wooden pier.
Its twin diesel engines were already churning white foam into the dark water.
Julian Vance’s three black Suburbans pulled into the marina parking lot right as
we crested the tree line.
“They see us!” Vincent yelled.
Muzzle flashes strobed from the parking lot below.
Rounds punched clean through the helicopter’s aluminum floorboards.
“Go! Go! Go!” Dominic roared.
The pilot banked hard, bringing the chopper to a violent hover fifteen feet
above the yacht’s aft helipad.
The side door slid open.
The icy gale-force sea wind hit us like a sledgehammer.
Dominic was the first man down the fast-rope.
Despite his bullet wound, he hit the deck with flawless balance and immediately
opened fire.
Vincent dropped second.
May you like
I grabbed the thick braided rope with my gloved hands and slid down into the
storm.
