Chapter 7 - The 90-Minute Death Clock
The yacht pitched suddenly, a violent shudder that sent me stumbling into the vanity.
The storm Flynn had promised was arriving early.
I gripped the marble edge, staring at my reflection in the mirror, searching for a way out.
I couldn't jump overboard; the ocean would swallow me before Flynn even had the chance to push me.
I couldn't confront the crew; Flynn had likely paid them off, or they were completely oblivious to the slaughter happening under their noses.
Then, a memory surfaced through the panic, cutting through the fear like a lighthouse beam.
I was twenty-two, standing in my father's study as he handed the Solstice blueprints to the shipyard foremen.
"Rich people get hurt, Claire," Dad had told me, tapping a silver pen against the mahogany desk.
"They get hurt when they think money replaces preparation."
He had pointed to a tiny, unmarked square on the schematics of the master suite.
"If things go wrong on the water, you don't call the Coast Guard. You call my people."
I scrambled away from the vanity and ran to the master closet.
I pushed aside rows of designer silk dresses and linen suits, running my hands frantically along the cedar paneling.
According to the blueprint from a decade ago, it was behind a decorative panel near the floorboards.
My fingernails caught on a small, nearly invisible groove in the wood.
I pulled hard.
The panel popped off, revealing a small steel cavity containing a heavy, black satellite transmitter with a single red button.
My hands shook so violently I could barely aim my finger.
I pressed the button and held it.
A small LED light flashed amber, then clicked to a solid, bright green.
Static hissed softly through the small speaker, followed by a sharp, electronic beep.
"Sterling Maritime Security," a man’s deep voice crackled into the quiet closet.
I let out a breathless sob. "This is Claire."
A beat of complete, terrifying silence followed.
"Authentication phrase," the voice demanded, cold and strictly procedural.
My mind raced, fighting through the residual fog of the drugs to remember a password I hadn't thought about in nine years.
"Bluebirds don't fly at midnight," I whispered into the microphone.
The man's tone shifted instantly from bureaucratic to tactical.
"Authentication confirmed. What is your emergency, Ms. Sterling?"
"My husband is planning to kill me."
"Is the threat immediate?"
"He's going to push me overboard at midnight. He's been drugging me. His family is in on it."
"Are you injured?"
"No, but I pretended to take the pills. They think I'm incapacitated."
"Understood. Where is the target now?"
"Above deck. But they're planning to move on my parents next."
The operator paused for exactly two seconds, typing rapidly in the background.
"Ms. Sterling, listen to me very carefully. Do not confront Flynn."
"I wasn't planning on it."
"Do not trust anyone aboard except Captain Reyes. I am pinging him on a secure frequency right now."
"Can you get a helicopter out here?" I asked, my voice cracking.
"The storm cell above your sector is too volatile for air extraction. We are sending an intercept vessel."
"How long?" I pleaded.
"Help is ninety minutes out."
I closed my eyes, resting my forehead against the cold cedar wall of the closet.
"Ninety minutes?" I whispered. "I may not have ninety minutes."
"You only need to survive until contact, Ms. Sterling. Stay in the room. Lock the door. Play dead if you have to."
The yacht pitched again, harder this time, a crash of thunder vibrating through the hull.
"What if he comes for me before you get here?"
"Then you make him fight for every inch of that deck," the operator said coldly. "We will find you."
The line cut out, returning to a steady, quiet hiss.
I slid the wooden panel back into place, sealing the transmitter into the wall.
I looked at the digital clock on the nightstand.
May you like
10:30 PM.
I had exactly an hour and a half to pretend I was helpless, while the monsters in my family prepared my watery grave.
