Chapter 7 - Ghost in the HarborThe drainage flue emptied onto a jagged ledge fifty feet above the Atlantic Ocean. Freezing sea spray hit Lucas’s face, snapping him back to full alertness.
Down in the dark cove below, hidden beneath the shadow of the granite cliffs, a sleek 40-foot black-hulled motorboat rocked against the swells.
"Is that the boat from the map?" Clara asked, holding Noah close as the wind whipped her hair across her face.
"It’s an old Vance Global high-speed interceptor," Lucas said, examining the ship's lines. "My father kept it hidden here during the Cold War. If Julian hasn't cleared the docks, it's our only way off the island."
They picked their way down the slippery, icy staircase carved into the rock face. As they reached the wooden dock, the heavy thrum of engine rotors vibrated through the sky above.
Two dark helicopters equipped with powerful infrared searchlights swung out over the ocean, sweeping the coast.
"They're burning the estate," Clara whispered, looking back up at the cliff top.
A orange glow illuminated the night sky. The roof of the Vance manor was engulfed in flames. Eleanor and Julian were scrubbing the crime scene—destroying every piece of evidence, every paper record, and burning their own home to claim an untraceable disaster.
"Get on the boat, go!" Lucas shouted over the roar of the wind.
They scrambled onto the deck. Lucas leaped into the cockpit and shoved the mechanical key—found inside the fallout briefcase—into the ignition console. The twin diesel engines roared to life with a deep, throat-clearing rumble.
"Lucas!" Clara called from the navigation console. "The radar is picked up three fast-craft closing in from the harbor entrance!"
Lucas shoved the throttles forward. The interceptor surged out of the cove, its hull slicing through the dark, icy waves.
Behind them, three tactical gunboats burst out from the fog, their heavy machine guns opening fire. Bright red tracer rounds streaked across the dark water, punching holes through the interceptor's rear deck.
"Get down!" Lucas yelled, spinning the wheel hard port to dodge a burst of fire.
In the lower cabin, Ethan and Mason didn't panic. Ethan reached for the boat's analog radio transmitter, rapidly turning the dials while listening to the crackle of frequency static.
"Dad," Ethan called up through the cabin hatch, his voice steady. "The gunboats are using short-wave encrypted channels. Their lead vessel is coordinating using VHF frequency 156.8."
"Can you jam it?" Lucas yelled back, fighting the wheel as a massive wave crashed over the bow.
"I can overload their receiver," Ethan replied smoothly. He grabbed a copper ground wire from the auxiliary battery box and touched it directly to the radio's antenna lead, short-circuiting the high-power signal.
Instantly, the radio static turned into a deafening screech that broadcast directly into the ear-pieces of the tactical gunboats chasing them.
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The lead gunboat veered wildly off course as its pilot clutched his ears in agony, crashing directly into the trailing vessel in a spectacular spray of foam and twisted metal.
Lucas seized the opening, pushing the engines to their absolute maximum, plunging the interceptor deep into the blanket of sea fog covering the Atlantic.
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