By the time my husband finally came home, our three-year-old daughter had already been buried / Chapter 36 / 121

Chapter 36 - Sins of the Sterling Dynasty

The Atlantic Ocean was a violent expanse of black glass and crashing white foam beneath the winter moon.

Bar Harbor was shrouded in freezing fog when our sedan rolled onto the commercial pier. Waiting in the shadow of a rusted fish processing plant was a sleek, matte-black high-speed interceptor craft—a combat assault boat belonging to the elite maritime tactical unit.

A tall man in dark naval fatigue gear stepped out from behind a stack of shipping containers as we pulled up. He had the hard, sun-baked face of a career special forces commander.

"Commander Vance," Andrew said, stepping out into the biting ocean air and offering a firm hand.

"Andrew," the man nodded, his eyes dropping to the small bundle in my arms. "Is this the girl?"

"She has less than ninety minutes of stasis life left," I pleaded, stepping forward so Vance could see Chloe’s pale face through the blankets. "Please. If we don't reach Dr. Gable aboard the *Leviathan*, she won't survive the night."

Vance’s jaw hardened. "The *Leviathan* is positioned twelve miles offshore, sitting right outside the contiguous zone in international waters. We monitored a high-speed helicopter landing on their helipad forty minutes ago. Satellite confirms the boy was aboard."

"Leo," I whispered.

"The vessel is armed," Vance warned, gesturing toward the assault boat where six heavily armed tactical operators were checking suppressed rifles and rebreather gear. "They have point-defense systems and at least twenty private maritime security contractors. If we board that vessel without flag-state authorization, it's technically an act of war under maritime treaties."

"My father doesn't fly a legitimate flag," Andrew spat, checking the action on his tactical sidearm. "He’s an international fugitive using biological weapons against a minor. If you won't take us, Vance, give me the helm of that interceptor. I'll ram the damn yacht myself."

Vance looked at Andrew, then looked at me—a mother holding her dying child, shivering in the freezing salt air, ready to tear down heaven and earth.

"Get aboard," Vance commanded. "We run dark. No lights, no active radar until we are within breaching distance."

Five minutes later, the twin high-output diesel turbines of the interceptor craft roared to life, churning the black waters into a rooster tail of foam as we cleared the harbor mouth and surged into the open Atlantic.

The boat cut through the six-foot swells like a razor blade. Inside the small, armored cabin, Andrew and I sat on the deck, Chloe cradled between my knees. Andrew held a portable cardiac monitor to her chest.

*Beep...*

The interval between beats was widening. The stasis drug was beginning to paralyze her autonomic nervous system.

"Seventy minutes," Andrew whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "Evelyn, if the yacht's lab is locked down, we won't have time to extract Gable."

"Then we don't extract him," I said, cold fury washing over the terror that had consumed me for hours. "We force him to treat her on the ship. And then I am going to find Jonathan Sterling."

"Evelyn—"

"Four years, Andrew!" I snarled, my voice cutting through the thrum of the boat’s engines. "Four years ago, he let me believe she died in that clinic! He put an empty coffin in the dirt! He tried to turn my baby into a pharmaceutical harvest crop! I survived his poison, I survived his trials, and I will not let him steal her a second time. If Jonathan dies tonight, it won't be on an operating table receiving a stolen heart. It will be looking into my eyes as I pull the plug on his miserable existence!"

Vance turned back from the helm, his face illuminated by the red glow of the radar screen.

"Target acquired," Vance announced. "Twelve o'clock, three miles out. It's lit up like a floating palace."

Through the salt-streaked glass of the bridge, I saw it.

Rising out of the churning black waves like an obsidian fortress was the *Leviathan*. Three hundred feet of gleaming steel and tinted bulletproof glass, equipped with satellite domes, an aft helipad, and an illuminated upper deck that shone brilliantly against the empty sea.

Suddenly, the red emergency sirens aboard our interceptor began to wail.

"We’ve been painted!" the tactical sensor operator yelled. "Surface search radar from the yacht! They’ve acquired our approach!"

From the upper superstructure of the *Leviathan*, a blinding xenon spotlight swung down, pinning our small craft in a beam of daylight.

Over our vessel’s emergency marine radio, a voice echoed—smooth, frail, yet dripping with the venomous arrogance of an untouchable tyrant:

"Andrew. Evelyn. You are remarkably predictable. Bring my granddaughter aboard... or my security grid will turn your little boat into splinters."