Chapter 33 - Eleanor's Coordinates
The freezing salt spray battered our faces as the rigid-inflatable boat rocketed through the dense morning fog, skimming across the churning Atlantic swells at forty knots. The silhouette of our beloved bluff house receded into the mist, and within seconds, a blinding fireball erupted on the cliffside. The strike team had detonated thermite charges, reducing the house—the site of our short-lived victory—to a blazing funeral pyre.
Margaret let out a strangled sob, but Dad kept his arm wrapped around her, his eyes fixed on the gray, unforgiving horizon.
Liam steered the boat with one hand on the dual-throttle, the other clutching his satellite communicator. A digital interface flashed across his mounted touchscreen, pinging an erratic, repeating beacon.
"I have an uplink," Liam shouted over the roar of the twin outboards.
I leaned over his shoulder, shielding the screen from the ocean spray. "Is it Eleanor?"
"When Eleanor was booked into the federal detention facility two days ago, the U.S. Marshals embedded a subcutaneous medical tracking chip in her left forearm due to her fabricated heart condition," Liam explained, his jaw tight. "The strike team jammed the primary GPS signal, but they didn't account for the low-frequency acoustic pulse designed for deep maritime telemetry."
"Where are they taking her?"
Liam zoomed in on the navigation chart. The blinking amber dot was moving east-northeast, away from the Massachusetts coastline, heading straight out into the international waters of the North Atlantic.
"An offshore platform," Liam said grimly. "Platform 44-B. It’s an abandoned deep-sea oil rig thirty-five miles off the coast of Maine. Officially decommissioned ten years ago by an offshore drilling consortium. Unofficially, it’s a floating black site operated by the Sovereign Trust."
"They're taking her outside U.S. territorial jurisdiction," I realized, cold dread pooling in my gut. "Once she’s on that rig, federal law enforcement can't touch them."
"Federal law enforcement won't touch them anyway, Maya," Liam replied darkly. "The convoy attack on I-95 wasn't just an ambush; it was an inside job. Five marshals died because someone in the regional attorney's office leaked the transport route. If we call in the authorities, the Trust will execute Eleanor the second a Coast Guard cutter appears on their radar."
"Then what are we going to do?" I asked, looking him dead in the eye. "We can't storm an offshore fortress by ourselves."
"We aren't alone," Liam said. He punched a speed-dial sequence into the secure comms panel.
The line connected on the second ring. A gravelly, disciplined voice responded on speaker: *"Specter Seven, state your status."*
"Ghost actual," Liam answered smoothly. "The target package breached our safehouse. Richard is neutralized. Asset Alpha is held captive on Platform 44-B. I need the maritime retrieval package at coordinates 43.12 North, 69.45 West in two hours."
There was a brief pause on the other end. *"You understand the cost, Liam. If your contractor steps onto that rig, there is no diplomatic immunity. You're entering a zero-footprint zone."*
"Understood," Liam replied without a flicker of doubt. "Prepare the insertion gear. We're taking the rig down."
He hung up, then turned his gaze toward me. For the first time since this nightmare began, I saw the true face of the man who had stood quietly in courtrooms and corporate boardrooms as my attorney. Liam wasn't just an elite lawyer. He had spent years in the dark, hunting the very monsters who had now put a target on my back.
"Are you ready for this, Maya?" he asked softly. "Because once we board that platform, Eleanor’s life won't be the only thing hanging in the balance."
May you like
I looked down at the icy, roaring water beneath our hull. "She betrayed me. She destroyed my marriage. But she is my sister, and I won't let them slaughter her in the dark. Let's go."
***
