Page 99 of Jenna's Protector

In the distance, a series of small explosions light up the night. Flares arc across the sky, drawing the guards’ attention on deck.

“Alpha and Charlie teams, move in,”CJ orders.“You’ve got a small window to board without being seen. Make it count.”

We kill the engine, gliding the last few yards in eerie silence.Walt secures the RIB to the yacht’s hull on the port side, near the stern. Alpha team does the same on the opposite side of the vessel.

We board the vessel one by one, our movements fluid and practiced.

Jenna. Jenna. Jenna.

Her name pulses with each beat of my heart.

We creep onto the deck, lethal shadows in the night.

Two guards, alerted by some sixth sense, turn. Before they can raise the alarm, Blake and Gabe fire tranquilizers. The darts find their marks, and the guards crumple silently to the deck.

Ethan directs us with hand signals. Hank and Gabe go to the bridge, Rigel and Walt head below to the engine room, and Blake and I remain with Ethan to sweep the cabins.

And find Jenna.

We move into the yacht’s interior. The opulence is staggering—marble floors, gold-plated fixtures, priceless art adorning the walls. It reeks of money and power. Of men who think they can buy and sell lives.

A guard comes up a set of stairs. Blake moves like lightning. His dart finds the man’s neck.

Another silent takedown.

So far, we’ve yet to raise any alarms.

We penetrate deeper into the interior, past luxurious guest cabins and lavish lounges. Each closed door is a possibility.

Is she behind this one?

No.

This one?

No.

As we round a corner, we come face to face with another guard. He’s big, easily six-foot-four, with fists like hams. He doesn’t hesitate, swinging a meaty fist at my head.

I duck the punch. His fist whistles over my head. Blake moves in, landing a solid hit to the guard’s solar plexus. The big man grunts but doesn’t go down. My elbow connects with the guard’s jaw.

It’s a brutal, silent dance.

We can’t risk using our weapons in the enclosed space. Can’talert the entire yacht to our presence. The guard fights like a cornered animal, all brute strength and desperation.

Finally, I see an opening. Blake keeps the guard distracted. I slip behind him. My arm loops around his thick neck. He thrashes, trying to throw me off, but I hold on and jab a tranquilizer dart into the meat of his neck. Slowly, his struggles weaken, and he slumps to the floor, unconscious.

We pause, catching our breath.

Too close.

We continue our methodical sweep of the yacht, clearing room after room. Guest cabins, lounges, a state-of-the-art gym—all empty.

The tension builds with each cleared space.

Where is she?

Mitzy’s voice comes through again as we move deeper into the yacht’s interior.“Charlie team, thermal imaging suggests three heat signatures in the master suite, starboard side of the bow. They could be our targets.”

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