Chapter 3 - The Ghost Manifest
The card reader clicked red, then green. The brass handle rattled downward.
Naomi shoved the open pelican case beneath the tangled duvet, dove across the room, and gripped the handle from the inside, throwing the manual deadbolt across the frame with a violent click.
""Naomi?"" Julian’s voice was smooth, draped in false warmth. ""Babe? Why is the door locked? I brought you a glass of the vintage.""
She leaned her forehead against the polished mahogany veneer, steadying her voice, letting a soft, sleepy slur coat her vowels. ""Julian? I... I felt so dizzy after the sunset breeze. I took a migraine tablet. I was just laying down.""
Silence hung thick on the other side of the door. She could hear the soft clink of champagne flutes rattling against a silver tray.
""Open up, sweetheart,"" Julian coaxed, his tone dropping an octave, tightening at the edges. ""You shouldn't take medication on an empty stomach. Marcus poured our favorite reserve. Just one sip to celebrate.""
""Give me five minutes,"" she murmured, faking a breathy sigh. ""Just let me wash my face.""
""Five minutes,"" he replied. His steps lingered before retreating down the carpeted hallway.
Naomi bolted back to the pelican case. Inside lay a pre-loaded satellite tracker, a folder of forged bearer bonds, a 9mm compact pistol with two magazines, and an audio recorder containing twenty hours of Julian’s recorded wiretaps. The case hadn't been planted by an ally. It had been stashed here by Julian’s previous partner, a shipping heiress who had vanished off the coast of Sardinia two summers ago.
Naomi thumbed through the documents under the soft beam of her phone. At the very bottom lay a notarized bill of lading: the yacht was carrying fifty million in laundered cartel bonds, and Naomi’s signature had already been forged as the sole registered owner.
When the boat went down, she wouldn't just be dead; she would be posthumously branded a fleeing financial criminal.
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Suddenly, the hum of the engine changed pitch. The vessel began to accelerate hard, the bow rising against the surging offshore chop. Through the porthole, the distant lights of Saint Martin were disappearing into a wall of black fog.
The ship wasn't waiting until midnight. They were moving now.
