Midnight Overboard

For three seconds, Flynn froze like a statue carved out of ice. He stared at the small black phone in my hand as if it were a venomous snake about to strike.

"Where did you get that?" he hissed, abandoning all pretense of gentleness as he lunged forward to grab it.

I ducked beneath his outstretched arm with a burst of adrenaline that defied the residual sedatives in my bloodstream, spinning away from the railing and dashing toward the heavy glass door leading back into the interior lounge.

"You bitch!" Flynn roared, recovering instantly. He launched himself after me, his heavy designer shoes skidding on the wet teak deck.

I slammed my palm against the emergency release button beside the glass door. The pneumatic seals hissed, and the heavy door slid open just enough for me to squeeze through. But before I could pull my foot inside, Flynn’s heavy hand clamped around the ankle of my boot, jerking me backward with brutal force.

I hit the deck hard, scraping my palms against the rough wood, letting out a sharp gasp of pain as he hauled me backward into the open air.

"Give me that phone, Rory!" Flynn snarled, straddling my hips and pinning my arms to the wet deck with his knees. His face was twisted into an ugly mask of rage, the perfect aristocratic facade completely shattered. "You think a little audio clip is going to stop a multi-million-dollar estate liquidation? I'll throw you over right now, phone and all!"

"Look up, Flynn," I choked out, staring past his shoulder with a tight, defiant smile.

He frowned, glancing back over his shoulder toward the shadows of the upper observation deck.

A dozen red laser dots suddenly appeared out of the darkness, dancing across Flynn’s chest, his shoulders, and his face.

Before he could process what was happening, the heavy security floodlights of the yacht flared to life, blindingly bright, turning the dark aft deck into broad daylight.

"Federal Maritime Law Enforcement! Stay right where you are! Hands where we can see them!"

The deep, amplified roar echoed across the water from a sleek, unmarked black Coast Guard cutter that had pulled alongside our yacht under the cover of the storm, its boarding tubes slamming against our hull with a heavy thud.

Before Flynn could even lift his hands off my chest, heavy combat boots pounded against the teak deck. Two armed federal agents in tactical gear descended on him like a pair of tactical panthers, grabbing his arms, wrenching them behind his back, and slamming him face-first onto the wet deck with a resounding crash.

"Agent Miller, Federal Maritime Task Force," a tall, sharp-eyed woman in a tactical vest announced, stepping over Flynn’s writhing body and extending a gloved hand down toward me. "Are you alright, Mrs. Sterling?"

I took her hand, letting her haul me up to my feet as the cold rain lashed against my face. I looked down at Flynn, who was spitting saltwater and blood from where his face had hit the deck.