A yacht like that is never left unattended unless there’s a problem.
Mona.
The name gleams in silver lettering across the hull.
I stare at it for a second too long. Apprehension curls tighter in my chest when I spot sudden movement and hear a thud echoing from somewhere behind the yacht.
My pulse races and my gaze narrows instinctively.
I squint, silently observing as more than a dozen men troop in and out of the yacht with military efficiency, not the relaxed ease of party staff. They work swiftly, each of them operating with enough coordination to pass as skilled soldiers from the Pentagon.
Swallowing my anxiety, I take a small step forward, crouching slightly near the dock’s railing.
The tablet trembles faintly in my hand as I peer toward the narrow gap between C-17 and the neighboring vessel.
I’m close enough to see clearer outlines of the moving figures. They dress alike in black clothes, like ninjas on a secret mission, their faces shielded with black masks and their attention attuned to the task at hand.
Five of the men stand near the lower deck entrance, moving in perfect sync.
Two of them drag a large black case across the dock while another two keep watch over the marina entrance. The fifth one snaps something irritated under his breath before yanking open the yacht’s storage hatch.
Grunting, I push myself slowly onto the tips of my toes, straining to catch a glimpse at the objects they toss across into each other’s arms, until the case shifts under the flash of marina lights.
I freeze, falling back on the heels of my sneakers at the sight of brick-shaped packages being transferred quickly between the boats.
My stomach tightens, twisting in uncomfortable knots that make it difficult to breathe.
No one ever says this, but having a conscience is sometimes a curse.
Maybe there are days when it’s okay to be oblivious, to live a life where good and evil happen in the world and all you do is enjoy ignorant bliss, without ever caring enough to be bothered.
This moment is one of those times when I wish I didn’t have any common sense, because then I wouldn’t recognize the packages being hauled by those men.
But I do.
I know whatever’s inside those wrapped bundles is enough to bring down the full wrath of the law on everyone and everything that’s come in contact with it.
Ladies and liquor, Henry said.
I resist the urge to direct a curse at his stupid girlfriend for causing his absence. If only he knew that these items were far from smuggled alcohol, drunk idiots, or any type of supplies for a frat party.
And now, more than ever, I would appreciate the presence of another person, so we could figure out the next step together.
Chasing them with a slipper certainly isn’t going to cut it.
I should call the police. I consider calling Henry first, but immediately disregard the thought. He might contact Margaret, and that might make things worse. I don’t want either of them to show up here when drug smugglers are running around.
Oh, Elena.
I should have listened to that nagging voice that repeatedly begged me to turn back.
I didn’t work hard all those years ago—busting my behind at college, tediously fighting my way up the career ladder, landing this job—just to be caught in the whirlwind of an illegal shipment.
Technically, I shouldn’t even be here tonight. My eyes shouldn’t be witnessinganyof this.
They move swiftly but handle the packages carefully, like whatever’s inside matters enough to kill over.
One of the men glances around again, and I catch the impatient tapping of his fingers against his thigh. I can’t see his face, but panic strikes hard through my chest when he grunts what sounds like an order in a hot rush of foreign words I can’t translate.
