Chapter 4 - The Lone Ally
Flynn led me down the companionway back toward the master suite. He held me tightly under my armpit, virtually dragging my feet across the carpet to make it appear as though I could barely support my own weight.
"Almost there, sweet girl," he murmured against my ear. His breath was warm, smelling of steak and red wine. "Just lie down. I’ll bring you your night water in a few minutes."
"Will you stay with me?" I slurred, letting my head drop against his shoulder.
"Of course," he lied smoothly. "I just have to help my father secure some loose gear on the lower deck once the storm warning hits. Then I’ll be right beside you."
He deposited me on the bed, lifted my legs onto the mattress, and pulled the duvet over me once again. He lingered for a moment, his hand resting on my forehead, checking my temperature.
"You're burning up," he noted softly.
"Everything's spinning, Flynn," I moaned, turning my face into the pillow.
"It will all be over soon, Cassandra. I promise."
He turned off the bedside lamp, leaving the room plunged into the deep, stormy darkness of the night, and locked the door behind him.
The moment the lock clicked, I sat up.
I had maybe ninety minutes before he returned for the final walk to the aft deck. I couldn't hide in the room; he had the key. I couldn't jump overboard now; the current would drag me into the screws of the propellers.
I needed help.
I crawled off the bed and moved to the small service door tucked behind the teak wardrobe—a private access passage my father had installed so the steward staff could restock the mini-bar without disturbing the guests.
I slid the concealed bolt back and pressed the thin door open.
The passage was narrow, dimly lit by red emergency strip lights, smelling of warm copper pipes and insulation. I crept down the metal ladder, my bare feet cold against the steel rungs, until I reached the galley pantries on the utility deck below.
A light was on inside the crew pantry.
I peeked through the louvered door. Mateo was standing by the sink, scraping plates into the waste disposal unit. His face was pale, his hands trembling as he cleared the wreckage of the dining table.
"Mateo," I whispered.
He jumped, dropping a silver fork into the sink with a loud clatter. He spun around, his eyes wide as he saw me standing in the narrow service doorway, clad in my dark silk dress, my hair disheveled, my face white as chalk.
"Mrs. Vance—I mean, Mrs. Sterling!" he gasped, rushing to close the main galley door behind him. "What are you doing down here? Mr. Sterling said you were severely ill. He told the captain not to let anyone disturb you."
"Mateo, listen to me," I said, stepping into the room and grabbing his forearm. My grip was tight, desperate. "I don't have time to explain everything. My husband and his family are trying to kill me tonight."
Mateo blinked, stepping back a pace. "What? Mrs. Sterling, you're not making sense. You must be having a reaction to your medication—"
"Look at me!" I commanded, my voice dropping into a hard, ice-cold register that stopped him in his tracks. "Do I look insane to you? Do I look like I’m hallucinating?"
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the folded tissue containing the two white pills Flynn had left on my nightstand, along with my phone showing the photographs of Flynn’s planner.
"These are scopolamine and high-dose sedatives," I said, shoving the phone toward his face so he could see Flynn’s handwriting detailing the plan to murder my parents. "Flynn has been drugging my water for three days. He was supposed to put it in my soup tonight, but I dumped it. They are planning to throw me over the aft rail before midnight and call it an accidental drowning during the storm."
Mateo stared at the glowing phone screen. His eyes moved across the dates, the notes about the trust transfer, the cold, business-like logistics of my assassination. His chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths.
"My father hired you, Mateo," I whispered, tears finally breaking through my defenses, hot and stinging against my cheeks. "He paid for your sister’s medical bills in Manila last year when she was in the hospital. You know my family. You know my father is a good man. If I die tonight, they are going to murder him next week in Switzerland."
Mateo looked at the phone, then looked at me. The doubt in his eyes burned away, replaced by a deep, terrified panic.
"My God," he breathed, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Captain Miller... I saw Mr. Sterling give him a bottle of liquor an hour ago. Miller’s in his cabin. I tried to speak to him twenty minutes ago about the storm prep, but he couldn't even stand up straight. He’s completely intoxicated."
"Who else is on watch?"
"Just Jackson," Mateo said, his knuckles turning white. "He’s twenty-two. It’s his first season on a yacht this size. He does whatever Mr. Sterling tells him because Flynn gave him a five-thousand-dollar cash tip when we left Nassau."
"Is the radio working?"
"The main radio on the bridge is locked," Mateo said, his mind starting to race. "Mr. Sterling took the master keys from the bridge wall two hours ago. Said he wanted to make sure no unauthorized crew altered the navigation route during the swell."
"What about the tender?" I asked. "The high-speed RIB on the lower launch deck?"
"It’s secured, but..." Mateo looked out the small round window of the pantry. Outside, the rain was slamming against the glass in heavy, horizontal sheets. The boat took a sudden, violent roll to the port side, sending a stack of plastic trays sliding across the counter. "Mrs. Sterling, the storm is here. The swell outside is twelve feet and rising. If you take the tender out there alone, you'll capsize before you clear the stern."
"It’s better than being thrown off the back of this boat with twenty milligrams of sedative in my blood," I said fiercely. "Mateo, I need you to help me."
"What do you want me to do?" he asked, his voice shaking, but his jaw setting firm.
"I need you to go to the bridge," I said. "Tell Jackson there’s a water leak in the lower engine room. Get him off the bridge for ten minutes. I need access to the emergency satellite beacon in the bridge locker."
"And your husband?"
I looked at the silver clock on the pantry wall.
11:15 PM.
May you like
Forty-five minutes until midnight.
"I’m going back to my cabin," I said softly. "I’m going to let him bring me my final drink. And then I’m going to make sure Flynn Sterling realizes he picked the wrong girl to murder."
