Chapter 2 - International Waters
The rest of the night was spent in a cold, silent standoff. I bound Gregory’s hands with his own silk ties and locked him inside the master bathroom, allowing him only a ice pack from the room service bucket for his swollen jaw. Sitting on the edge of the bed with my laptop open, I began digging deeper into the Hartman family than I ever had before.
During our eighteen-month courtship, Gregory had presented himself as the heir to Hartman Logistics, a multi-billion-dollar shipping conglomerate based out of Miami. I had done basic due diligence back then, but I had been blinded by the romance—by the idea that I could finally settle down into a normal, comfortable life after the violence of my past.
Now, stripped of my naive romantic notions, I analyzed his family's corporate filings with the eyes of a military intelligence operative.
What I found made my blood run cold.
Hartman Logistics wasn't just a shipping company; it was a front. Underneath layers of shell corporations registered in Panama and the Cayman Islands were off-shore accounts linked to human trafficking, arms smuggling, and illegal maritime transport. My marriage to Gregory wasn't a romance—it was an acquisition. My corporate role at my firm gave his family access to secure port clearances in Eastern Europe.
Suddenly, a knock echoed at the cabin door.
I froze. I checked the clock on the nightstand: 2:15 AM.
"Room service," a low voice called out from the hallway.
I hadn't ordered room service.
Slipping off my heels, I picked up the aluminum bat from the bed and moved silently toward the door, standing to the side of the peephole to avoid giving a target to anyone outside.
"Leave it by the door," I called out, keeping my voice sweet and untroubled.
"I have a personal message from Mr. Vance Senior," the voice replied.
The door handle jiggled. Whoever was outside had a master key card.
The electronic lock beeped green. The door swung open slowly, revealing a tall, muscular man dressed in a dark suit, his hand reaching into his jacket for a suppressed firearm.
He didn't get the chance to draw it.
I slammed the edge of the door directly into his face. He stumbled back into the narrow corridor, and before he could regain his balance, I stepped into the hallway, drove the tip of the aluminum bat straight into his solar plexus, and followed up with a sweeping kick to his ankles. He hit the carpeted floor with a heavy thud.
I bent down, retrieved his silenced pistol, and checked the chamber. Loaded.
"Who sent you?" I asked, placing my foot firmly over his throat.
The hitman gasped for air, his eyes bulging. "Hartman... Senior... said... you were... a loose end..."
Gregory hadn't acted alone. His father had planned to have me subdued—or eliminated—once the ship reached international waters, using the marriage to assume legal control of my assets and security clearances.
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I dragged the unconscious hitman into the suite, locking the door behind me. I looked at Gregory, who was peering out from the cracked bathroom door, his face pale as death.
"Pack your bags, Gregory," I said, checking the magazine of the suppressed pistol. "We're leaving this ship."
