Chapter 18 - THE FLOATING FORTRESS
Terminal 4 was private, cordoned off by razor wire and guarded by private security checkpoints that had been abandoned in a hurry.
At the end of the long concrete pier sat *The Leviathan*, a two-hundred-foot luxury exploration yacht painted matte black. Its twin diesel turbines were already churning the harbor water into white froth as the gangway began to lift.
Marcus slammed the tow truck through the security gate, tires screaming on the wet concrete. Daniel didn't wait for the truck to stop. He kicked the door open, hit the pier in a rolling sprint, and leapt across six feet of open, churning black ocean, slamming hard against the yacht’s lower swim platform.
He hauled himself up, soaked and bleeding, just as the vessel began sliding into the open channel toward international waters.
The lower deck was deserted. The interior was sleek, illuminated by sterile blue recessed lighting. It didn't look like a pleasure yacht; it looked like a floating surgical hospital. Stainless steel doors lined the corridor, each marked with biohazard warnings.
Daniel moved like a shadow, his weapon drawn, following the faint sound of a child’s crying.
At the end of the central hall, behind a reinforced glass observation window, stood Arthur Vance.
The billionaire was seventy years old, with stark white hair, wearing an impeccably tailored three-piece suit. He sat comfortably in a leather armchair inside an operating theater. On the surgical gurney beside him sat Lily, hooked to a small pulse oximeter, her face streaked with tears. Rebecca was tied to a chair in the corner, a bloody rag stuffed into her mouth.
"Daddy!" Lily screamed through the glass the moment Daniel appeared.
Arthur Vance slowly turned his head, raised a crystal glass of whiskey, and pressed a red button on his armrest.
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The heavy steel bulkhead behind Daniel slammed shut, trapping him in the airlock corridor.
***
