The Elias Conspiracy (Caspian Anderson #3)

Prologue

Two Decades Ago

Ten Miles off the Coast of Venezuela

Aboard MY Cristo

Westcott thought he spotted a school of skipjack tuna a hundred yards off, but by the time he brought the binoculars to his eyes, it had disappeared.

But that was fine, because the day had already rewarded him handsomely.

Two massive tarpons had given him a fight that had left his arms aching in the best way, and a trio of yellowfin tuna now chilled in the icebox below, destined for the chef’s grill that evening.

Behind Westcott, the yacht’s polished wake stretched out in a gentle V before dissolving into countless ripples.

Off to starboard, the low green ridges of the Venezuelan coastline blurred with the ocean, their peaks catching the dying light.

Westcott turned to look at his wife, Nailah, who was seated in the shaded cockpit lounge, a novel on her lap.

She was half wrapped in a soft linen shawl, her eyes on the horizon more than on her book, with the sea breeze tugging at her braids.

God, she’s beautiful.

Nailah made eye contact with him and beamed before returning her attention to her book.

That his wife was still able to smile like that despite the ache that had settled over them these past few years amazed him.

They had tried everything, but nothing had brought them closer to having the children they both desperately wanted.

Westcott, who had made his fortune through a salvage start-up that recovered and processed plastic waste from the ocean and refined it into industrial resin for American and European automakers, hadn’t hesitated to spend a considerable amount of money on fertility treatments.

But even that had yielded nothing. It was obvious to him that all the tests, the consultations with the specialists, and the never-ending talk of possible alternatives had worn him down more than they had her.

Nailah had always been stronger than him.

He was about to join her when something off to port snagged his eye. He brought up his binoculars.

There. Something was in the water about a mile off.

“Ease to port, John,” he shouted to his captain. “Bring us about. Something’s in the water.”

The Viking adjusted course, and as they closed in, the scene sharpened into something Westcott hadn’t expected. A small boat had capsized, and a child was desperately clinging to it as it rolled with each swell. Westcott’s heart seized.

“God,” Nailah whispered behind him. “That’s a little girl.”

In a commanding voice, Westcott told his captain how he wanted the yacht to be positioned and then began to issue orders to his two deckhands. The moment the Viking’s powerful engines went to idle, Westcott raced down the stairs to the main deck, then vaulted over the transom.

The water hit him like ice, shocking the breath out of his lungs, but he powered through.

He fought to the surface, took a few short breaths, and oriented himself.

The capsized boat was less than thirty feet away, but the current was stronger than he had anticipated.

Still, he was an excellent swimmer, and with the adrenaline rushing through his veins, he’d reach the boat in seconds.

Between strokes, he looked at the boat, and for a heartbeat, his eyes met the little girl’s.

She couldn’t have been older than eight or nine, and he could tell she was terrified.

Her lips were blue, and her hair was slicked across her face.

She was doing her best to climb atop a piece of the hull, but it kept sliding out from under her.

He had almost reached the girl when her grip failed.

Westcott watched in horror as she slipped under the surface without a sound, or even a splash.

He didn’t think; he dove.

He kicked down, struggling against the strong current and the salt stinging his eyes. He could barely see, and with his lungs already spent, he knew he had only seconds left before instinct took over and he’d suck in a mouthful of water.

He kicked harder and frantically swept his hands in front of him.

Nothing. Only drifting strands of seaweed and dark bubbles rising past his face.

Panic jabbed through him as he turned in a slow circle, scanning, his lungs burning so hot he thought his chest was going to explode. He didn’t want to give up, but he couldn’t keep going either.

There. A flicker. A swirl of pale fabric drifting a few feet below him. And then he saw her, a small limp shape sinking into the gloom.

He dove deeper, pulling with desperate strokes. He could feel the pressure building in his skull. He was about to turn around when his fingers closed around the girl’s frail wrist.

He pulled the child toward him, then pushed upward, kicking with everything he had. His vision began to narrow, and an instant later, his mouth opened against his will and salt water spilled past his lips. He gagged.

He was about to die. He was sure of it. He wasn’t going to make it. The surface was too far away, and the urge to suck in more salt water was overpowering, almost primal.

A voice in his head screamed at him to let go, to breathe, to give up.

No. Not yet. One more stroke.

The water broke around him, and Westcott’s mouth tore open in a ragged gasp. The girl didn’t move. Her head lolled, her mouth slack.

Strong hands from above seized them both, hauling them onto the yacht’s swim platform. Westcott collapsed, exhausted. His entire body was shaking.

He turned his head, only to see that Nailah was already by the girl’s side, checking the child’s pulse. And then, without hesitation, she locked her hands and began chest compressions.

“One, two, three, four—” Nailah counted under her breath.

On the fifth compression, the girl jolted, and a gush of seawater poured from her mouth.

She coughed violently, choking and sobbing.

His wife pushed damp hair from the child’s face and looked directly at him.

Something had changed in Nailah’s expression, a softness he hadn’t seen in months.

His wife pulled the girl into her arms, murmuring soft Spanish into her ear as the girl’s small hands found Nailah’s linen shawl and clung to it.

Westcott rolled to his stomach, then rose unsteadily, his heart still hammering in his chest.

He had done it.

By sheer force of will, he had stolen the girl back from the ocean.

And in that act, he saw a glimpse of something larger.

The world was a cold, indifferent sea that swallowed the weak without remorse.

But he, Everett Westcott, could be the hand that reached into water and chose who survived, and who thrived.

Perhaps it was arrogance, or maybe a calling; he couldn’t tell yet.

But as he stood there, dripping and trembling, he felt something settle inside him. Something that felt dangerously close to clarity. Or could it be destiny?

Fate was just another current, wasn’t it? Blind and cruel, for sure, but hadn’t he just defied it and won?

Yes. I did.

And this girl, this silent, shivering child in his wife’s arms, was proof.

She had been plucked from nothingness by his resolve alone.

Without him, she wouldn’t have made it, and that truth burned bright and absolute in his mind.

He had chosen her. Saved her. He had redirected the course of her life.

And if I can do that for one girl, then why not more? Why not millions?

Someday soon, Westcott was sure of it now, it wouldn’t just be one frightened little girl rising from the sea off the Venezuelan coast. No, it would be entire nations that would rise or fall by his hand.

No . . . by our hands, he thought, looking at his wife.

Hadn’t they just proved that shaping fate was possible? That salvation wasn’t random?

It can be engineered. Just like resin.

One only needed vision. And the stomach for it.

And the girl they’d just saved, she would play a role. He knew that too. She didn’t know it yet, but her life had been claimed, just like his.