Page 117 of Broken Oath

"I hate waiting."

"You hate everything."

"Not explosions."

Shark laughed.

Reef shook his head.

Nobody argued.

Because Cobra had a point.

Back on shore...

Three monitors illuminated Fathom's face.

Satellite feeds.

Thermal imagery.

Marine traffic.

Communication intercepts.

The entire operation flowed through his screens.

Everything looked normal.

Then a red alert flashed.

Fathom froze.

His fingers stopped moving.

Immediately.

"What?"

Rook asked.

The analyst enlarged the image.

Three vessels appeared.

Fast.

Low profile.

Moving hard.

Straight toward the cargo ship.

The command van fell silent.

Fathom zoomed in.

Military-grade fast boats.