CHAPTER 28
Callum
A commercial airport is a controlled environment. A private airfield is a fortress built on discretion. But when a three-ton armored SUV breaches the primary gates and a private jet is ripped open on the tarmac, discretion vanishes.
The wail of the airfield’s emergency sirens cuts through the heavy English rain, a high, mechanical scream that sets my teeth on edge.
I keep my grip tight on Gemma’s hand, pulling her through the deep shadows between the massive, corrugated steel hangars. The flashing blue lights of the airport security vehicles are clustered around the ruined jet, casting long, frantic shadows across the wet asphalt.
"How far?" Gemma asks, her voice tight and breathless over the sound of the rain.
"Two hundred yards," I reply, not breaking stride.
She is limping slightly, her left hand pressed hard against the thick fabric of her winter coat.
The jump from the plane didn't tear her stitches—I absorbed the kinetic impact—but the rapid movement is straining the healing tissue.
I slow my pace by a fraction of a second, adjusting to her physical limits without making it obvious.
We reach the perimeter fence on the eastern edge of the airfield.
It is a ten-foot chain-link fence topped with barbed wire, but Ben’s logistics are flawless. Exactly where he promised, a section of the wire mesh has been cleanly cut and peeled back, creating a gap just large enough for a person to slip through.
I push Gemma through the opening first, keeping my submachine gun raised, scanning the dark tree line beyond the fence.
"Clear," I murmur, sliding through the gap behind her.
We step out of the airfield property and onto a narrow, unpaved service road hidden in the trees. Parked in the shadows, completely invisible from the main highway, is a dark gray Audi estate car.
The engine is running.
I open the rear passenger door. Gemma climbs in, collapsing heavily against the leather seat, her chest heaving. I shut the door, walk around the front of the vehicle, and slide into the passenger seat.
Ben is behind the wheel.
He doesn't look like the relaxed, sarcastic logistics broker who brought us breakfast in the motel.
His face is pale, the bruise on his temple looking stark and angry in the dim light of the dashboard.
He is typing furiously on his ruggedized laptop, which is mounted to a custom stand over the center console.
"You blew up a plane," Ben says, not looking away from the screen. "I told you to acquire a secondary vehicle, and you drove it into a Gulfstream."
"It was effective," I state, dropping the MP5 into the footwell.
"It was a tactical nightmare." Ben hits the accelerator, pulling the Audi down the dirt road without turning on the headlights.
He navigates entirely by the faint moonlight filtering through the rain.
"The local police are swarming the airfield.
The Armed Response Vehicles are five minutes out.
We need to be on the M3 before they set up roadblocks. "
"Drive," I tell him.
I turn in my seat, looking back at Gemma.
She is leaning her head against the cold glass of the window, her eyes closed. The adrenaline is crashing out of her system again. Her hands are trembling slightly where they rest in her lap.
"Are you bleeding?" I ask, my voice dropping to a low, quiet register.
She opens her eyes, looking at me through the shadows of the backseat. "No. The stitches held. I’m just... tired."
"Sleep," I say.
"I can't sleep, Callum. Pippa is on a boat." She sits up slightly, wincing. "Arthur said she was already moving into the North Sea. If he’s dead, his men on that ship won't have orders. They might just kill her to tie up loose ends."
"Arthur was arrogant," I say, turning back to face the windshield. "He didn't put her on a random cargo ship. He put her on a syndicate smuggling vessel. They don't execute hostages without confirmation from the top. They will hold her until they reach their destination."
"Where is the destination?" she asks.
I look at Ben.
"Working on it," Ben says, his fingers flying across the keys as he steers the Audi onto the paved highway, finally flipping on the headlights.
"I tapped into the maritime tracking database. There are roughly four hundred commercial vessels currently between the Thames approach, the Channel, and the North Sea. I’m filtering them by registered ownership. "
"Filter by shell companies associated with Elias Vance," I instruct.
"Already doing it." Ben frowns, staring at the scrolling data on his screen. "Okay. I have three matches. Two are massive container ships heading for Rotterdam. One is a smaller, privately registered freighter called the Iron Tide . It left the Port of London six hours ago."
"Where is it heading?"
"It doesn't have a registered destination," Ben says, his voice tightening. "It’s running dark. The AIS transponder is pinging a false location near the French coast, but the satellite thermal imaging shows the actual heat signature moving north. Toward the North Sea."
I press my tongue against the back of my teeth.
The North Sea is massive, violent, and incredibly difficult to navigate. If they get the ship into international waters, boarding it becomes a logistical impossibility.
"Can you pinpoint their current coordinates?" I ask.
"Yeah. They’re roughly thirty nautical miles off the coast of Norfolk." Ben glances at me. "Callum, you can't drive to a boat. We don't have a helicopter, and even if we did, dropping onto a moving freighter in the middle of a storm is suicide."
"I am not dropping onto it," I say. "We are going to intercept it."
"With what? A rowboat?"
"With a fast interceptor craft." I reach into my tactical vest, pulling out the satellite phone. "Drive to Great Yarmouth. There is a private marina there. I know a smuggler who owes me a favor."
Ben sighs, shaking his head. "You have a lot of favors, Callum."
"I leave a lot of people alive who expected to die," I reply smoothly.
I dial a number on the sat phone. It rings four times before a gruff, sleep-heavy voice answers.
"Who is this?" the man demands.
"It’s Reed," I say.
There is a long pause on the line. I can hear the sound of wind and water in the background.
"I heard you were dead," the smuggler says cautiously.
"I am not. I need the Valkyrie ."
"The interceptor? Reed, it’s a bloody hurricane out there tonight. The North Sea is churning ten-foot swells. I’m not taking my boat out in that."
"I am not asking you to drive it," I say, my tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. "I am buying it. Have it fueled and waiting at the slip in two hours. I will wire the funds to your offshore account."
"How much?" the man asks, the greed instantly overriding his caution.
"Two hundred thousand."
"Done," the man says, and hangs up.
I drop the phone back into my pocket.
"Two hundred thousand dollars for a boat?" Gemma asks from the backseat, her voice laced with disbelief.
"It is a military-grade rigid inflatable boat," I explain, looking back at her. "Dual outboard engines. Radar-absorbent hull. It can outrun a coast guard cutter in heavy seas. We need speed if we are going to catch the freighter before it reaches international waters."
She stares at me, her dark eyes wide. "You’re going to drive a speedboat into the North Sea in the middle of a storm."
"Yes."
"And how exactly do you plan on getting on the freighter once you catch it?"
"I will board it."
"Callum, that’s insane." She leans forward, resting her hands on the back of my seat. "There are probably twenty armed men on that ship. You can't just climb up the side like a pirate."
"I have boarded hostile vessels before, Gemma."
"Not alone! Not in a storm!" Her voice rises, the panic she has been suppressing finally bleeding through. "You are going to get yourself killed."
I look at her hands gripping the leather of my seat. Her knuckles are white.
"I am not going to die," I say quietly.
"You can't promise that!"
"I already did."
I reach back, my hand covering hers. Her skin is freezing cold again. The adrenaline crash is hitting her hard, and the reality of the violence ahead is terrifying her.
"You are staying with Ben," I tell her, my thumb brushing over her knuckles. "You will monitor the maritime frequencies. You will guide me to the ship using the radar."
She looks at my hand, then up at my face. "I want to go with you."
"No." The word is absolute. "The sea state is too rough. The physical impact of the boat hitting the waves will tear your stitches open in five minutes. You are staying on land."
She opens her mouth to argue, but she knows I am right. The logic is undeniable. She bites her lower lip, nodding slowly.
"Okay," she whispers. "But if you don't come back..."
"I will."
I squeeze her hand once, firmly, before letting go and turning back to the front.
The drive to Great Yarmouth takes two agonizing hours. The rain never stops. It turns into a heavy, driving sleet as we approach the coast, the wind howling against the windows of the Audi.
Ben pulls into the dark, empty parking lot of a private marina.
The smell of salt, diesel fuel, and rotting seaweed is overwhelming. The water in the harbor is rough, chopping violently against the wooden docks.
Moored at the end of the furthest slip is the Valkyrie .
It is a massive, black rigid inflatable boat, sleek and predatory in the dim light of the harbor lamps. The twin outboard engines look large enough to power a small plane.
A man in a heavy yellow rain slicker is standing on the dock, holding the mooring lines.
I step out of the car. The wind instantly cuts through my tactical vest, chilling me to the bone. I walk down the wooden dock, the boards slick with rain.
"The fuel tanks are full," the smuggler says, tossing the thick ropes onto the deck of the boat. He doesn't look at me. He looks at the heavy MP5 slung across my chest. "The radar is calibrated. The keys are in the ignition."
"The money is in your account," I say, stepping onto the edge of the boat.
The man nods, turning and walking quickly back toward the parking lot without another word.
I climb into the center console of the boat. The controls are complex, designed for high-speed interception, but the layout is familiar. I flip the primary battery switches, engaging the fuel pumps.
I look back at the dock.
Gemma is standing at the edge of the wooden planks.
She has stepped out of the car. The heavy winter coat is pulled tight around her, her dark hair plastered to her face by the freezing rain. She looks incredibly small against the backdrop of the dark, violent ocean.
I step back off the boat, walking over to her.
"Get back in the car," I say, my voice barely audible over the wind. "You’re going to freeze."
She doesn't move. She reaches out, her hands gripping the front of my tactical vest.
"Bring her back," Gemma says, her voice shaking with cold and fear. "Please, Callum. Bring her back."
"I will," I promise.
I don't kiss her. The rain is too heavy, the moment too sharp and brutal for softness. I simply press my forehead against hers for one long, grounding second.
"Monitor the radar," I tell her, pulling back. "I need coordinates."
"I’ll guide you in," she says, stepping back.
I turn around, climbing back onto the Valkyrie . I press the ignition buttons. The twin engines roar to life, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through the fiberglass hull.
I don't look back at the dock.
I push the throttles forward. The boat surges away from the slip, tearing through the harbor water, heading out into the absolute blackness of the North Sea.
The waves are massive, rolling walls of dark water that crash against the hull with terrifying force. The boat launches over the crest of the first swell, slamming down into the trough with a bone-jarring impact.
I grip the steering wheel, my eyes locked on the glowing green screen of the radar.
I am a ghost again.
And I am hunting.