Page 83 of Defending What's Mine

And for the first time since this nightmare began, the fear starts to win.

40

Asher

Cold salt wind slices across the cutter’s deck, prying at every exposed seam in my gear. I taste metal in the air—diesel exhaust, seawater, the tang of adrenaline that’s been flooding my bloodstream for thirty-six hours. Out in the ocean, the night is an ink-black void, but through night-vision gogglesSea Dreamerglows a soft, spectral green, a single moving speck on an endless grid of coordinates.

We’ve been shadowing her for forty agonizing minutes, running dark along a south-southeast vector. Coast Guard sensors keep pinging the same three warm bodies on her bridge, two more on the aft deck, and—faint, mid-ship, motionless—two tightly clustered heat signatures that have to be Charlotte and Melanie. They’re alive. That knowledge is the only thing holding the fury in my chest together so it can be used.

I pace the rail, steadying my breathing. My plate carrier feels ten kilos heavier than usual; every oiled pivot in my M4 sounds like thunder in my ears. This will be a hard, fast hit—no time to negotiate, no room for errors. Diego’s crew is smallbut professional, cartel-trained. If they panic, they’ll push those women below deck, hit international water, vanish into the trade lanes, and we may never find them again.

The coxswain’s voice crackles over my headset. “Sixty seconds to intercept.”

I glance at the men beside me—two Maritime Security Response Team operators and a DEA tactical agent. They’re calm, focused, nodding once. They know the stakes. Dean’s voice cuts in from the command net, tone clipped but edged with something that almost sounds like hope. “Drone overhead confirms course. No hostile radar emissions. Window’s open, Hawke.”

“Copy,” I answer. My pulse kicks once, steadying as training takes over. I catalog the plan a final time: fast-boat approach on the starboard quarter, grapples up, breach at the stern service ladder, secure the bridge, medical extraction of the hostages. Ten minutes door-to-door, if we do it right.

The cutter throttles down. Our RHIB jolts as it’s lowered into black water. Engines catch with a volcanic snarl, then we’re skimming the swell, hull slapping foam. The wind tears at my exposed skin, the sprays needling my face. Twenty knots, then thirty, the silhouette ofSea Dreamerfills my goggles—sleek lines, gleaming hull lights reflecting off rolling waves.

“Boarding team, radios to whisper,” the lead Coastie mutters. I thumb mine to low. The yacht’s stern ladder rises like a ribcage, metal slick and gleaming. On deck, a guard paces, rifle slung but ready.

We cut the engines, the momentum coasting us the last eight feet. Grapple hooks arc up, clank, bite steel. I climb first—boots silent, rubber sole meeting rung. My pulse tracks each motion:left foot, right, shift weight, silent as thought. Cresting the rail, I drop to a crouch behind a deck locker. The guard turns, brows knitting at the noise he thought he heard. Too late. A bean-bag round smacks his chest, and he crumples with a breathyoof, more stunned than wounded.

The team flows over like oil on glass, splitting left and right along the teak deck. I pivot toward the salon hatch, my heart hammering. A second guard emerges with his pistol half-drawn. My M4 barks twice, subsonic rounds punching his vest and dumping him without lethal force. He hits the deck groaning, weapon skittering under a deck chair.

Bridge first. Two Coasties stack on the hatch, breach charge the latch with a softpopof compressed gas. Door swings, they sweep in, wrestle the startled captain to the floor before he can so much as throttle down. Lights inside flare, and I hear Castillo’s voice—a surprised curse—then a scuffle. One of the Coasties growls, “Hands! Hands!” Followed by clacking cuffs.

Bridge secure. My turn.

Mid-ship companionway smells of varnish and stale air. I move fast, rifle tucked tight, NVG overlay painting doorframes and corners in eerie gradients. Down two steps, starboard passage. At the locked cabin I yank a bump key from my cuff pocket, tension wrench, a quick snap, and the tumblers give. I push in, leading with the muzzle.

Charlotte jerks upright on the bunk, shock flashing to recognition. “Asher.” Her voice tears through me. Melanie sits beside her, wide-eyed, blanket clutched like a shield. No bindings—Diego felt safe enough out at sea.

I swing the rifle to safe, sling it, cross the distance in two strides. The instant Charlotte is folded against me, the universe realigns. Her pulse hammers at her throat, and I feel every fragile beat. “You’re okay,” I murmur, though it’s mostly for me.

Her fingers fist in my sleeve. “I knew you’d come.”

Melanie struggles to her feet, tears streaking dried salt on her cheeks. I guide them both toward the door. “Stay behind me.” My voice is steady, but rage still surges beneath. Anyone tries to stop us now will meet something worse than bean-bags.

We emerge into the corridor as a DEA agent cuffs the last conscious guard. Castillo sits on his knees, wrists locked behind him, expression dripping arrogant despair. Charlotte tenses, and I steer her left, shielding her from the sight. There’s no satisfaction in his capture—only relief that he can’t touch her again.

Topside, the wind has sharpened to a knifepoint. The RHIB is already alongside, crewman braced to help the women descend. Charlotte hesitates on the rail, and I tuck my arm around her waist. “I’ve got you,” I promise. She nods, jaw clenched, and steps down, one rung at a time, Melanie close behind. Once aboard, blankets cocoon them against the spray.

The Coast Guard cutter looms ahead, deck lit like a beacon. As we accelerate, Charlotte presses closer, shivering from adrenaline let-down more than cold. I hold her tight, eyes never leaving the dark horizon. The danger isn’t over until we’re tied to a dock, but a weight has shifted—the hunter’s edge replaced by something quieter, fiercer: the certainty that I’d cross any ocean to reach her again.

We hit the cutter’s boarding ramp. Medics whisk Charlotte and Melanie toward the ship’s infirmary, but Charlotte’s grip snaps tight around my wrist. “Stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” I walk beside her through the steel passages, past blinking consoles and watch standers offering hushed congratulations. Inside the medical bay, fluorescent lights reveal everything the darkness hid—finger-width bruises, rope burns, exhaustion carved under her eyes. She sits on the exam table, shoulders slumping only when my hand settles on her back.

The corpsman runs vitals, asks gentle questions. No broken bones, no deep lacerations. It’s a miracle in itself. Melanie’s exam echoes similar results. Survival shock will set in later, and we’ll manage that when it comes.

An hour crawls past while paperwork is logged, prisoners transferred to the brig, and the yacht is taken under tow. I check on Charlotte every five minutes; each time her eyes track me with quiet certainty, grounding us both. At last the XO steps in, voice low. “Sector St. Pierce cleared for immediate return. You want to call your people?”

I nod, already pulling out my phone. Margaret Lane answers on the first ring—raw relief flooding every syllable when I tell her Charlotte is safe, alive, en route. A second call to Dean; his exhale scrapes static across the line. “Good work,” he says. “See you dockside.”

I tuck the phone away, return to the infirmary. Charlotte extends her hand, palm up. I fit my fingers through hers, the simple touch more powerful than any medal. We don’t speak—words feel too small. Instead we sit, side by side, while the cutter plows north, the throb of engines pushing dawn closer.

When first light bleeds across the porthole, Charlotte shifts, leaning her head against my shoulder. Her voice is a whisper but it hums straight into my bones. “Take me home.”

---