Chapter 57
Rotor blades swirled overhead as we flew out over the water in Tango One.
Teal waves crashed against the shore below, and the island grew small behind us as we headed out to sea.
Isabella had worked her magic. The Dominion was registered under multiple shell companies in the Cayman Islands, making identification of the practical owner difficult. The ship’s AIS had been active when it left port, then the vessel went dark as it headed east.
Isabella had given me the last known coordinates.
I had no doubt the scumbag was trying to get beyond state waters and preferably reach international seas.
The county had jurisdiction up to 3 miles offshore on the Atlantic side.
Beyond that, the feds could handle it up to 12 miles, and could board a US flagged boat anywhere in the world.
But this boat was flagged out of the Cayman Islands.
I wanted to catch this guy before he crossed over.
Decked out with tactical gear, M4s, extra magazines, flash bang grenades, smoke canisters, and all the other goodies, JD and I were ready to dispense a little justice.
Erickson and Faulkner joined us in the cargo area of the helicopter.
We raced across the water as the amber sun angled toward the horizon behind us.
The Coast Guard and other federal agencies had been notified. Newport wouldn't get far, but I wanted first dibs. I didn't care whose investigation it was.
It didn't take long to spot a speck on the horizon, carving through the blue water.
As we drew near, the Dominion came into view—a sleek 175-foot superyacht with windswept lines, a navy hull, Arctic trim, and all the trappings of luxury. A sleek black helicopter sat perched on the foredeck.
Tango One closed in, and the pilot, Mike, circled the vessel for a reconnaissance pass.
That drew the attention of several armed thugs on board.
I shouted over the loudspeaker, "Dominion, this is the Coconut County Sheriff's Department. Heave to and prepare to be boarded!”
I repeated the command a few times, but they had no intention of slowing down.
That's when a guy emerged from the salon onto the starboard side deck with an RPG-7. He shouldered the rocket launcher and took aim.
My eyes widened at the sight. That kind of thing will make your ass pucker.
With the squeeze of the trigger, the rocket blasted from the launcher, hissing with fury. The death dart screamed through the air, racing toward Tango One.
We all braced for impact.
Mike pulled hard on the controls, banking the craft away, trying to avoid certain disaster.
The rocket ripped through the air, eager to fulfill its purpose.
By some miracle, it streaked right past us, spitting a trail of smoke as it continued racing through the heavens.
The goon on the deck took the opportunity to reload.
The pilot angled Tango One around to the port side.
By that time, I had the cargo door open and my rifle shouldered.
The goon ran through the salon to the port side door, shouldered the rocket launcher, and took aim at us again.
I opened fire before he could squeeze the trigger. The rifle hammered my shoulder, and brass casings danced on the flight deck. I sprayed a hailstorm of molten copper down on the bastard, peppering his chest.
Crimson blossomed, and he stumbled back into the salon, tumbling to the deck.
It was game on.
Cameron decided to play a stupid game, and he was about to win a stupid prize. He picked up the rocket launcher and took cover behind the bulkhead. He angled the rocket launcher through the hatch and tried to find the bird in the sky.
By that time, Mike had circled around. The helicopter hovered behind the stern.
Cameron ran through the salon toward the aft deck to get an angle on us. But the dipshit tripped as the boat pitched and rolled with the swells. With the safety cap removed from the grenade, the striker hit the deck. The detonator triggered, and the warhead exploded without being fired.
It was almost comical.
The explosion blasted through the deck, spraying molten shrapnel everywhere.
The bastard got what he deserved, and a slight grin may have formed on my lips.
Sometimes you get lucky.
But my grin soon faded when I realized what was happening.
The explosion ripped through the cases of Oblivium, shattering their containment tubes, destabilizing the volatile element. The following reaction was inevitable. A cascade of doom.
“We need to get as far away from here as possible. NOW!” I shouted.
Mike banked us around and headed back toward shore.
I didn’t know how big the explosion would be, or how long it would take for the reaction to occur.
But with as much Oblivium as they had stolen, our odds of clearing the blast radius were slim.
One substandard pellet had taken out an office building.
There were hundreds, if not thousands, aboard that ship.