Chapter Twenty
Phoenix
Helios had followed me off the bridge and down a flight to the side deck. “What in the fuck is she doing?”
“Singing.” It didn’t escape my notice that he hadn’t stopped her when she’d shoved in front of him at the helm station and cut the engines.
“I can see that, asshole. What the hell kind of hippy shit is that?”
“‘Summer Breeze.’”
“What?”
“The song. ‘Summer Breeze’ by Seals & Croft.” From long before she was born.
“How the fuck do you know that?”
“How do you not?”
“Because I don’t play that shoegazer bullshit. I listen to rock.”
“You don’t listen to any music unless you’re solo on your Ducati. And Seals & Croft is rock.” Soft rock, folk rock. Old. Classic. Who the hell was this woman?
“I don’t care what you call it.” Helios tipped his head toward her. “That shit isn’t rock. And who the fuck sings to dolphins?”
She did. “Mammals respond to music. Dolphins respond to high pitches.”
The former Delta operator turned to stare me down. “Jesus fucking Christ. Did you leave your balls at that estate in France? We’re seriously having this conversation?”
Focused on the trespasser lying on her stomach on the Paragon’s swim platform, I ignored Helios.
He shook his head. “You’ve been on this fucking boat too goddamn long.” Pivoting, he aimed for the bridge. “Tell your girlfriend that dolphin playtime is over. I’m getting us underway again. Full fucking throttle.”
“Don’t burn out my engines.”
“They can handle twenty hours until we get to the Canary Islands for a refuel. If shit goes south, then that’s the price you pay for giving your crew a week off.
I’m not spending a second longer than I have to on this floating fucking arsenal.
” Helios hit the stairs. “Warn your girlfriend to get her ass off the swim platform, then secure that damn beach club. While I’m driving this water tank, I want the least amount of drag possible. ”
Refusing to engage in a discussion about hydrodynamic performance or how the woman wasn’t my anything, I stared at said ass. “Give her five minutes.”
“Fuck no.”
“Five minutes,” I repeated, watching her reach for the nose of one of the dolphins.
“And then what?” Helios demanded.
I glanced toward the aft deck stairs and reminded him of what he’d signed on for. “Then we’ve got three and a half days at sea.”
“You think you’re telling me something I don’t already know?”
“I’m reminding you.” Everything was about to change—our operations, protocols, anonymity.
This crossing wasn’t about getting the Paragon out of the Mediterranean or my annual shore run to Cap d’Antibes.
This was a tactical maneuver.
Stepping onto the docks in Spain, not upgrading my firmware yet, creating the opportunity for a hack of my location, the indirect route the Paragon was taking—all of it orchestrated. All of it part of my plan.
The former Delta operator scrutinized me for a beat. Then Helios shook his head. “I don’t need a fucking reminder.” He disappeared onto the upper deck as an incoming call came through on my cell.
Glancing at the screen out of habit, I swiped to answer, then held the device to my ear.
Not unexpectedly, Cypher started in. “I shouldn’t have to find out about a sniper and hostage from Helios, and we’ve got an active breach. Hack’s happening now. Make that ship go dark, Nix.”
“We or me?” The Paragon I expected, this burner I didn’t care about, and I wasn’t shutting down the electronics on the ship yet.
“The Paragon. Tracked. Exactly as I warned you.” Cypher cursed under his breath.
“I’m working to stop it, but you’ve got to upgrade these servers.
We’re past the capabilities of the system you set up.
We need updated firmware tech that’s integrated directly into the hardware.
I can’t keep piecemealing this shit. And S-RoT is just a fraction of what we need. ”
Staring at the blonde, I sidelined Cypher’s lecture on Silicone Root of Trust. “I know what we need.”
“Then—”
“Let the hack happen.”
Cypher went silent.
I read him in on the immediate issue. “We both know who it is.” There was only one person who could and would breach my firewalls.
“November,” Cypher stated. “This is why you stood on the docks in Marina Port Vell. Related to the sniper or hostage?”
“Unclear but unlikely.” The timeline didn’t add up. Refuel was early this morning, and the little trespasser had been on the estate for eight weeks. The sniper was the wild card.
Skipping the why of it for now, Cypher zeroed in on logistics.
“The cell number Helios asked me to track was a burner purchased over five years ago in Buenos Aires. No calls, no geo data to pull. I found your facial rec search on the female hostage, ran it again, and initiated a full background. No new intel yet.”
“Copy. The sniper?”
“Fucking skilled. Appeared on camera shortly after you hit the lower terrace, but only in obstructed angles. No facial grab, nothing identifiable except his sniper system. Infilled and exfilled on the backside of the property. No vehicle, no team. ID a dead end so far.”
“Keep looking into it.”
“Roger. What am I doing with this hack now that they’ve breached?”
“Nothing yet.” Not until I stepped into my past. “Ship’s secure. In another hour, we’ll be too far offshore for a helo to reach us. If November goes after the Paragon’s coordinates, allow it.”
“Ill-advised, but copy.” Cypher typed. “Any other intel you want dropped? Heading, speed, refuels?”
With an Atlantic crossing, there were limited options for refuels.
Once we passed through the Straight of Gibraltar, November could track our directional heading and make an educated guess.
“If November tries to hack my onboard systems, let him see our fuel reserves. Anything other than fuel or geo location, shut it down.” They could do the work from there.
Anything more, and Alpha would be suspicious.
“Done. You want to redirect from the scheduled fuel stop at Las Palmas or have a fuel bunker come to you?”
“Negative on the latter. Keep to the Canary Islands, but set us up for Tenerife instead. Helios will have us at cruising speed in a couple minutes.” Glancing at my watch, I adjusted for the alt location. “ETA into Tenerife at eleven hundred thirty tomorrow.”
“Roger that. I’ll get priority status for refuel by then. Do you want the crew to meet you there?”
Still staring at the woman who’d thrown a wrench into the most important operation I’d ever planned, my gaze cut from her bikini-clad ass to her mess of wind-blown hair.
I should’ve given Cypher an affirmative.
The risks of a three-crew crossing with solitary eight-hour shifts at the helm while heading into rough seas was not ideal. A minimum of two more crew was the safe call.
Except I was past mitigating risks.
Watching a woman unreservedly smile as she played with dolphins, I was now thinking about miles.
Fourteen hundred nautical miles to the Canary Islands. Thirty-three hundred nautical miles from there to Miami.
Two legs.
Long hours.
One trespasser.
Forty-seven hundred nautical miles before everything changed.
I answered Cypher. “No crew.”
“Nix.”
“Sitrep in Tenerife.” Hanging up, I pocketed my cell as I hit the stairs to the lower deck.