BLOODLINE OF ASHES

Julian’s hands slammed onto the wet teak of the yacht’s lower swim platform. The impact jarred his dislocated ribs, tearing an agonized scream from his throat, but his fingers hooked into the stainless-steel scupper drains.

The boat surged forward, the massive bronze propellers churning the water into a white foam inches beneath his dangling boots.

Gritting his teeth until enamel cracked, Julian hauled himself upward over the transom, rolling onto the aft deck just as the yacht cleared the harbor slip, angling its bow into the open swells of the outer bay.

"You really are your father's son," a cold voice said from above.

Julian looked up through the rain.

Marcus stood at the top of the molded fiberglass stairs leading to the upper salon deck. In his right hand, he held a sleek, nickel-plated revolver. In his left, he held the carry handle of Maya's travel incubator.

The orange warning light on the unit had turned solid red. A shrill, low-voltage beep was sounding from the miniature ventilator.

"Put her down, Marcus," Julian said, his voice raspy from salt water, slowly pulling himself to his feet, keeping his hands open and visible. "This is between you and me. Let the baby go."

Marcus laughed, a dry, aristocratic sound that cut through the roar of the wind. "Between you and me? Julian, there has never been a 'you and me.' You were an accident. A byproduct of Victoria’s pathetic attempt to hold onto Arthur’s money. Do you know how much this child is worth dead?"

"She’s your blood," Julian said, taking a cautious half-step toward the stairs. "She’s your grand-niece. Clara was your daughter."

Marcus’s smile vanished, replaced by an expression of cold, clinical disgust.

"Clara was a mistake from a careless summer thirty years ago," Marcus said, not a hint of warmth in his slate-gray eyes. "A mistake that cost me thirty percent of my birthright. And now, thanks to your pathetic sentimentality, she’s back, threatening to dissolve the entire corporate empire. You think I care about blood, Julian? Blood is an expense. Capital is eternal."

"You're insane," Julian whispered.

"I am pragmatic," Marcus corrected, raising the revolver, aiming it squarely between Julian’s eyes. "When the coast guard finds this boat adrift ten miles off the shelf, they will find you, having murdered your uncle in a fit of psychotic rage over your wife's tragic medical complications, before throwing your own infant into the Atlantic and turning the gun on yourself. A tragedy of wealth and madness. The board will mourn, the stock will stabilize, and the Swiss accounts will clear by morning."

A massive rogue swell struck the starboard side of the vessel, tilting the deck violently at a forty-degree angle.

Marcus’s footing slipped on the rain-soaked fiberglass. For a fraction of a second, his balance faltered, and the travel incubator slid across the deck table toward the open railing.