Chapter 6 - PIER 42
The fog rolling off the East River was thick, damp, and smelled of salt and diesel fuel. Pier 42 was a private, restricted marina hidden behind high industrial security fences, catering to ultra-luxury mega-yachts that required absolute anonymity.
At the far end of the floating dock sat the NIGHTHAWK—a sleek, 150-foot matte-black superyacht flying a Marshall Islands flag. Tinted glass windows wrapped around the upper deck, and two armed security guards in black tactical clothing walked slow patrols along the teak stern.
I stood in the shadows of a stack of shipping containers two hundred yards away, wrapped in a heavy dark wool trench coat. Beside me stood Marcus Cole—Arthur Vance’s chief of private security, a former Special Forces commander whose muscular frame and quiet demeanor projected absolute, lethal competence.
Behind us stood four of Marcus’s top tactical operatives, dressed in plainclothes but carrying concealed submachine guns.
"Kroll’s yacht has its auxiliary engines running, Miss Albright," Marcus reported, looking through a pair of thermal night-vision binoculars. "They’re preparing to cast off within fifteen minutes. Kroll’s communications team must have picked up the news of Gavin’s arrest."
"Is Kroll still on board?" I asked.
"Yes. Thermal imaging shows three individuals in the main sky-lounge on the upper deck. One of them matches Kroll’s physical profile—six-foot-two, broad shoulders, severe limp in his left leg."
I pulled my father's Walther PPK from my inner pocket, checking the chamber once more before slipping it back into my coat.
"We don't storm the boat with guns blazing, Marcus," I said. "Kroll is an intelligence professional. If he hears gunfire, he’ll shred his hard drives, wipe his servers, and throw his satellite phones into the river before we reach the bridge. We need those digital servers intact to prove he ordered my father's assassination."
"What’s the play?" Marcus asked.
I pulled a heavy, velvet-lined leather folder from my satchel—the original, unredacted physical patent portfolio for Summit’s naval navigation algorithms, stamped with my father's personal gold seal.
"I walk up the gangway alone," I said.
Marcus frowned instantly. "Absolutely not, Miss Albright. Your father would skin me alive if I let you walk onto an enemy vessel unescorted."
"Kroll thinks I'm a desperate, grieving widow who just took over a company she doesn't know how to run," I explained, my voice sharp and calculating. "I walk up that gangway offering him a deal: the physical patent keys in exchange for twenty million cash to cover Gavin’s debts. He won't shoot me on sight if he thinks I’m bringing him the exact prize he killed my father for."
Marcus pondered the plan for three long seconds, analyzing the variables. "You give us sixty seconds after you enter the sky-lounge. Then my team breaches the lower deck via the stern swim platform."
"Sixty seconds," I agreed. "Keep your radios open."
Five minutes later, the heel of my boot struck the metal gangway of the NIGHTHAWK.
The two armed guards at the stern instantly snapped their heads toward me, their hands dropping to the tactical holsters at their hips.
"Halt!" one of them shouted in a thick Eastern European accent. "Private vessel! Step off the gangway immediately!"
I didn't stop. I walked up the gangway with my head held high, the heavy wool coat billowing around my black silk suit, holding the velvet folder high in my right hand.
"Tell Victor Kroll," I announced in a clear, commanding voice that cut through the fog, "that Naomi Albright is here to deliver the bio-metric tracking patents he paid my husband to steal."
The two guards exchanged a surprised glance. The lead guard tapped his earpiece, whispering rapidly in German.
After a ten-second pause, the guard lowered his hand from his weapon and stepped aside, bowing slightly with cold, mercenary politeness.
"Upper deck lounge, Miss Albright," he said. "Mr. Kroll has been expecting you."
I stepped onto the teak deck of the mega-yacht. The heavy glass doors slid open automatically, revealing a luxurious, dimly lit interior lined with white leather sofas, polished mahogany paneling, and a private bar stocked with fifty-year-old scotch.
I walked up the spiral staircase to the sky-lounge.
Sitting in a high-backed leather armchair near the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the foggy river was Victor Kroll.
He was a man in his mid-fifties, with razor-cropped silver hair, a pale face framed by a sharp jawline, and cold, pale-blue eyes that looked as though they had never felt a human emotion in his entire life. A heavy, silver-tipped cane rested against his knee.
Standing beside him were two towering security operatives holding silenced submachine guns.
"Naomi Albright," Kroll said, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone with a faint, refined European accent. He didn't stand up. He simply swirled a glass of crystal amber liquid in his hand. "I must admit... I am impressed. I expected Gavin to be incompetent, but I did not expect him to be undone so thoroughly by a woman who spent the last four years hosting charity galas."
"Gavin was a fool, Mr. Kroll," I said, stopping ten feet away from his chair, placing my hands casually into the pockets of my trench coat. "He thought he was a player in a game he didn't even understand."
"And you?" Kroll asked, leaning forward, his pale eyes narrowing as he examined my face. "Do you understand the game, Miss Albright?"
"I understand that my father is dead," I lied smoothly, watching his eyes for any flicker of reaction. "I understand that Summit Enterprises is drowning in federal subpoenas. And I understand that this folder contains the master cryptographic keys to the bio-metric navigation patents you offered my father two billion dollars for."
I held out the velvet folder.
Kroll looked at the folder, then let out a low, terrifying laugh that vibrated softly through the luxurious room.
"You brought me the patents," Kroll chuckled, shaking his head. "How wonderfully pragmatic. You come to sell your father's legacy to the man who ordered his execution."
My chest tightened, but I didn't let a single muscle in my face twitch. "You admit you ordered the crash?"
"Admit?" Kroll smiled, taking a slow sip of his scotch. "My dear child, in my line of work, we do not call it murder. We call it market correction. Your father was an obstinate old man who stood in the way of a ten-billion-dollar defense merger. He refused to sell, so I replaced him with your ambitious, empty-headed husband."
Kroll set his glass down on the glass table with a soft clink.
"And now," Kroll continued, gesturing to his armed guards, "you have walked onto my ship, handed me the patents, and confirmed that you are the only remaining person who connects me to Gavin’s little enterprise."
Kroll lifted his hand, pointing a single finger at my chest.
"Did you really think I would pay you twenty million dollars, Naomi?" Kroll whispered, his eyes flashing with lethal amusement. "You aren't a player in this game. You're just the final loose end."
The two guards raised their silenced submachine guns, aiming them directly at my head.
I looked at the silver clock mounted on the mahogany wall.
Fifty-nine seconds.
May you like
Sixty seconds.
"I didn't come here to sell you the patents, Kroll," I said softly, a deadly smile touching my lips. "I came here to keep you talking for sixty seconds."
