Chapter 3 - The Web Beyond the Ship
The gentle thrum of the ship's engines vibrated through the floorboards, a steady reminder that distance was growing between me and any hope of conventional help.
I didn't panic. Panic was a luxury for people who had never been behind enemy lines.
I walked over to my own luggage, unzipped the side compartment, and retrieved my tactical travel kit—a habits-die-hard carryover from my service days. Inside was a multi-tool, heavy-duty black zip-ties, a burner phone, and a small roll of military-grade duct tape.
"What are you doing?" Gregory demanded as I approached him with the tape.
"Ensuring you don't make a sound when your friends arrive," I replied cold-rolled.
I taped his mouth securely, replaced his temporary silk wrist bindings with the heavy-duty zip-ties, and dragged him into the suite's walk-in closet. I locked the door from the outside using the sliding brass latch.
No sooner had I stepped back into the main bedroom than the electronic lock on the suite's front door beeped. A red light flashed green.
Gregory's words echoed in my mind: They work for Hartman Maritime.
I melted into the shadows beside the entryway, pressing my back flat against the wall. The aluminum bat was balanced lightly in my hand, held low and ready.
The door swung open slowly. Two broad-shouldered men in navy-blue cruise security uniforms stepped into the suite. Both wore earpieces, and their hands rested suspiciously near the custom leather holsters beneath their blazers.
"Mr. Hartman?" the lead guard called out, his eyes sweeping the quiet living room. "Everything alright in here? We registered a noise spike from your cabin audio feed."
They weren't ordinary cruise security. Their posture, their scanned sightlines, and the tactical cuts of their suits screamed private military contractors.
"Clear the bedroom," the second guard muttered, unfastening the safety strap on his holster.
The first guard stepped past my hiding spot.
I didn't wait for him to turn around. I drove the blunt end of the aluminum bat into the side of his knee, collapsing his joint with a swift, brutal strike. As he went down with a muffled groan, I spun, using the momentum to swing the barrel of the bat straight into the second guard's solar plexus.
The wind erupted from his chest in a harsh gasp. Before he could draw his weapon, I closed the distance, grabbed his tactical vest, and executed a sharp collar-choke drop, driving his head into the doorframe. He went limp instantly.
The first guard was scrambling on his hands and knees, reaching for his sidearm. I stepped on his wrist, pinning his hand to the floor, and brought the handle of the bat down sharply behind his ear. He collapsed onto the carpet, unconscious.
Breathing steadily, I knelt beside the two downed operatives.
In less than forty-five seconds, I had stripped them of their sidearms—two dark gray Glock 19s—along with their extra magazines, encrypted hand-radios, and master security keycards.
I dragged both men into the suite's second bathroom, locked them inside, and sat down at the vanity desk.
I picked up one of the captured radios. The earpiece hummed with low static, followed by a dark, refined voice speaking over an encrypted channel:
"Security Team Alpha, report. Has the asset been secured? Don't let Gregory overdo the physical damage; we need her conscious for the morning signing."
May you like
My blood ran cold. The voice on the radio wasn't Gregory's.
It was his father—Arthur Hartman. And he wasn't calling from shore. He was on board the ship.
