The Admiral's Vengeance

The deafening roar of military-grade twin-turbine engines shook the salt-heavy air above the Cabo resort bay, instantly drowning out the mocking laughter of Victoria Hayes. The sleek white hull of the Coast Guard cutter sliced through the frothing green water with aggressive precision, cutting off Victoria’s jet ski from behind, while two Blackhawk helicopters flared their landing skids just thirty feet above the surface, kicking up blinding spray that hammered the shoreline.

Victoria’s jet ski fishtailed violently as the wash from the cutter hit her stern. She let go of the tow line controls, her manicured fingers flying to her hair as the hurricane-force downdraft from the overhead chopper battered her watercraft.

"What is this?! What’s happening?!" Victoria shrieked, her voice cracking with sudden panic as she looked toward the distant wooden pier.

Julian Vance stood frozen on the dock. The glass of scotch had slipped from his hand, shattering into amber shards against the weathered teak planks. His perfect corporate composure dissolved in a microsecond. He squinted up at the lead helicopter, tracking the bold red-white-and-blue emblem of the United States Coast Guard and the matte-black tactical markings of an elite naval rapid-response unit.

In the center of the bay, my wrists were still locked in heavy nylon straps to the handles of the trailing jet ski. Pain pulsed in waves through my lower abdomen, sharp and blinding. The warm blood mixing with the saltwater stained the white fiberglass beneath me a sickening pink.

"Cut the straps!" a voice boomed through the helicopter's external long-range acoustic hailing system. "Cut the tow line immediately or be engaged as hostile targets!"

A diver in a drysuit plunged from the side of the Coast Guard cutter, hitting the water with a clean splash and surging toward my jet ski with powerful strokes. Within seconds, his razor-sharp rescue knife sliced through the nylon bindings around my wrists. The sudden release of pressure sent a wave of dizziness spinning through my brain.

"Ma'am, I've got you," the diver shouted over the screaming turbine wash, his voice steady and trained. "Medical transport is inbound. Don't move."

As they lifted me from the bucking watercraft onto the rescue inflatable, my eyes locked on the shoreline. Julian was running down the pier, his designer suit jacket flapping behind him like the wings of a trapped bird.