He glances at the dark ocean churning below the cliffs. "There is a man," he says. "An old... associate. He owes me a life. He operates out of a decommissioned oil rig in international waters. It’s a data haven. A fortress."
"An oil rig?"
"It’s the only place the Syndicate can't touch. It’s sovereign territory. If we can get there... we can unlock the drive. We can access the funds. We can buy an army."
"How do we get there?"
"We need a boat," Alaric says. "A fast one."
He presses the gas pedal. The truck roars into the night. "Call the number," he commands. "Tell him the Wolf is coming. And he’s bringing the Queen."
I dial. The line rings. Static. Then a voice. Deep. Distorted."This line is dead."
"Charon sent me," I say, using the code Alaric taught me.
A pause."Charon is a myth."
"Not anymore," I say. "He’s bleeding in a truck next to me. We need extraction. Coordinates to follow."
"Cost?"the voice asks.
"Two hundred million dollars," I say. "And the head of the Syndicate."
A laugh. Dry."Welcome back to the game, Director."
I hang up. I look at Alaric. "He's in."
Alaric nods. "Good. Then let's go to sea."
The borderland is behind us. The ocean is ahead. And the sharks are waiting.
CHAPTER 28
BLACK GOLD
POV: Elodie Fray
Location:The Pacific Ocean (International Waters) -> The Leviathan Oil Rig
Track:Personal Jesus– Depeche Mode (Marilyn Manson Cover)
Sensory:The stinging salt spray, the roar of massive waves against steel pillars, the suffocating hum of server cooling fans.
Mood:Industrial Dread & High-Stakes Negotiation.
The ocean is not a place of peace. It is a graveyard that hasn't finished digging its own holes.
We are three hours out from the coast, cutting through the black water in a rigid-hulled inflatable boat that hits the waves like a hammer hitting concrete. The spray is constant, freezing, and tastes of brine and diesel. I am huddled in the stern, shielding Alaric from the worst of the spray with my body. He is shivering violently, the thermal blankets provided by the boat's pilot soaked through. His face is a mask of grey exhaustion, his eyesclosed, his good hand gripping the safety line with a strength that is rapidly fading.
The pilot—a man who goes by the name 'Charon' but looks more like a mercenary washed out of the foreign legion—doesn't speak. He just steers into the swells, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
"There," Charon yells over the roar of the twin outboard motors.
I look up. It rises from the sea like a rusted god. The Leviathan. A decommissioned oil rig, a massive platform of steel and concrete standing on four legs that plunge deep into the abyss. It is lit by thousands of amber industrial lights, glowing in the mist like the eyes of a swarm of insects. A flare stack burns at the top, a permanent torch signaling our arrival to no one but the seagulls.
It is ugly. It is terrifying. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
"That's it?" I shout to Alaric, leaning close to his ear. "That’s the safe haven?"
