I dialed a single, pre-programmed number. The call connected instantly.

“Alpha-Nine,” I said, my voice cutting through the night air like a shard of ice. “This is a priority one declaration. Urgent recall, maximum deployment to the vessel The Neptune’s Crown. My coordinates are live. Code: VENGEANCE. Move.”

The isolation of the yacht, the vast, empty expanse of sea and sky that had empowered John’s cruelty, was about to become the instrument of his complete and utter ruin.

The next five minutes were agonizing. The sea remained vast and black. The Johnsons, including John’s father, exchanged nervous, condescending glances. John even let out a small, contemptuous chuckle. “Who was that, Anna? Your lawyer? The coast guard? They won’t get here for an hour. Don’t be so dramatic.”

But then, a new sound began to intrude. A deep, powerful, guttural roar—too fast, too precise, too aggressive for a pleasure craft—began to approach from the darkness. The Johnsons’ smug smiles faltered, replaced by genuine confusion, which quickly curdled into fear.