Chapter 409
Chapter 409:
“Show me,” Alistair commanded, leaning over Julian’s shoulder.
“The vessel is running dark,” Julian explained, typing furiously. “AIS transponder is off. But look at the wake pattern. It’s a mega-yacht. Displacement suggests over two hundred feet p>
“Graves,” Alistair growled. “Is it the Poseidon p>
“We can’t confirm visually,” Julian said. “But the trajectory… it’s heading for the deep ocean dead zones where maritime law is unenforceable p>
Alistair slammed his fist on the console. “He’s taking her deep. He wants to disappear p>
“We can intercept,” Felix interjected from the corner, checking his weapon. “But if we go hot, he might panic. He might p>
“He won’t kill her,” Alistair said, his voice devoid of doubt. “Not yet. Lucian doesn’t break toys he hasn’t played with. He’s arrogant. He thinks he’s untouchable p>
Alistair turned to the room full of analysts and mercenaries.
“Prepare the stealth choppers,” he ordered. “We aren’t going to knock on the door. We’re going to tear the roof off p>
Back in the cell, Skye lay on the floor, counting seconds.
One thousand one. One thousand two.
The speaker in the ceiling crackled to life.
“Had enough?” Lucian’s voice echoed in the small space.
Skye looked up at the camera. She made sure her face looked ravaged, defeated.
“I want to shower,” she said, her voice trembling. “I feel dirty. Please. Just let me wash p>
A long silence followed. A test.
“Very well,” Lucian said. “But you will wear what I provide. No more rebellion, Skye. Or the next time, I’ll leave you in here until you rot p>
The door buzzed open.
Skye stood. She kept her head down, hiding the flash of cold calculation in her eyes. She clutched the paperclip in her palm, digging it into her skin until it bled, using the pain to keep her focus sharp.
She wasn’t broken. She was just waiting for the right moment to strike.
𝘖𝘳𝗂𝘨𝗶𝘯a𝗹 𝖼𝘰𝗇t𝖾𝘯𝘁 f𝗋o𝗺 𝖻𝘦.𝖼𝗼𝗺
The cell was a sensory deprivation tank. No light, save for the blinking red LED of a camera high in the corner. No sound except the relentless drone of the ship’s engines vibrating through the steel floor.
Skye lay on the thin, lumpy mattress of the cot. Her body was wracked with tremors. The hypothermia was settling in deeper, her core temperature struggling to recover. Every breath was labor—a wheezing struggle against saltwater irritation in her throat and lungs.
She stared at the wall opposite the cot. A large mirrored panel. In a brig, a mirror was an absurdity.
Unless it wasn’t just a mirror.
Two-way glass, Skye thought, her mind foggy but still working. He’s watching.
On the other side of the glass, Lucian Graves stood in the observation room, a lit cigar in his hand. Smoke curled around his fingers like a serpent. He watched the thermal feed on a monitor beside the window. Skye’s heat signature glowed a dull, concerning blue-orange against the cool room.
“She’s hypothermic, sir,” the ship’s doctor said nervously, adjusting his glasses. “Her vitals are dropping. If we don’t warm her up and treat the saltwater inhalation soon p>
“She’s stubborn,” Lucian murmured, tapping ash onto the floor. “She thinks she can outlast me. She thinks her silence is a weapon p>