Chapter 12 - The Cold Atlantic
The impact with the ocean knocked every cubic inch of air from Naomi’s lungs.
She plunged into the black, freezing water, the pressure roaring in her ears. Above her, the surface burned orange and yellow, a shifting canopy of flame from the spilled diesel. The suction of the 120-foot yacht going down was immediate, dragging her downward into the dark like a giant hand gripping her waist.
Naomi kicked with everything she had, fighting the whirlpool created by the dying vessel. Her lungs burned, screaming for oxygen. The pistol weighed heavy against her thigh, dragging her down; she reached down, unbuckled the holster, and let the weapon sink into the deep.
She kicked upward, breaking the surface thirty yards away from the burning wreckage.
She gasped, choking down a mixture of sea spray and air. The yacht was gone. Only the tip of the radar mast remained visible for three seconds before sliding beneath the waves with a final hiss of steam. Small pockets of fire drifted on the surface, surrounded by floating seat cushions and shattered mahogany planks.
Of Julian and Marcus, there was no sign.
Naomi floated in the swell, her body trembling uncontrollably as the hypothermia set in. The storm was passing, the gale winds sweeping the rain westward, but the open ocean was indifferent. Without a lifejacket or a beacon, she had less than two hours before exhaustion drowned her.
Then, through the mist and drifting smoke, she saw a faint green light bobbing on the waves fifty yards out.
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It was an inflatable liferaft, its sea anchor deployed, riding the swells with methodical stability.
Naomi began to swim.
