Chapter 45 - Resurfacing in Fire
I broke the surface coughing, gasping for the clean, salt-tinged night air of the Cyclades.
The geyser subsided into a churning pool inside the ancient stone foundation of the temple ruins. Moonbeams cut through the drifting spray. Beside me, Julian surfaced with a ragged gasp, immediately rolling onto his side to scan the perimeter with his handgun drawn and cleared of seawater.
Ten feet away, sprawling on the shattered marble flagstones, was Richard.
The force of the hatch blowing open had caught him off guard, throwing him across the courtyard. His fine Italian jacket was torn, his hands scraped raw, and an automatic pistol lay on the stone three feet from his outstretched fingers.
Two hired men in black tactical gear were struggling to their feet near the edge of the olive grove, disoriented by the subterranean explosion.
"Emily!" Richard coughed, pushing himself up, his eyes wild as he saw me rising from the flooded shaft like a specter from the deep. "You... you insane bitch, you broke the seals!"
Julian moved with lethal speed. Before the two mercenaries could raise their rifles, Julian fired two suppressive shots into the dirt at their feet, his voice cutting through the wind like a whip. "Drop the weapons! Delos Maritime Authority and the Hellenic Coast Guard are already tracking this coordinate! You're accessories to maritime piracy on sovereign soil!"
The mercenaries, seeing the ferocity in Julian’s eyes and realizing the entire operation had unraveled into an uncontrolled blast, exchanged one look, dropped their weapons, and sprinted down the cliffside path toward their skiff.
Richard lunged for his pistol.
I didn't hesitate. I lunged forward, kicking the weapon over the edge of the marble terrace, watching it clatter down into the pitch-black surf eighty feet below.
Richard froze on his knees, his chest heaving, his face pale under the moonlight. The mask of the brilliant, untouchable Boston executive was completely gone. In its place was the hollow, desperate shell of a gambler who had bet his life on someone else’s ruin.
"You really thought I was still that woman in the diner," I whispered, standing over him, the sea dripping from my hair. "The woman who stared through the window while you gave away everything we built."
"Emily, listen to me," Richard stammered, raising his hands, his eyes darting frantically to the neoprene sleeve strapped to my chest. "You don't understand what you're holding. Helena Cassian is just the front. The people behind her... they own the banks in Geneva, they control the dry docks in Rotterdam! They will hunt you to the ends of the earth for that charter!"
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"Then let them come," I said. "Because my father spent his life fighting them. And I am Arthur Vance's daughter."
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