The sun hit the cracked blinds of the project apartment as Marcus sat down to his grind. He laid out the burner phones and the encrypted tablets on a scarred wooden table. With a focused sigh, he took up a stylus and began coding in that fast, jagged script that only his small crew could read. His mind moved like a high-speed processor, his fingers flying over the glass as his strategies formed faster than he could type. He often said he moved like a machine, creating ghost profiles and shell companies for the moment, and forgetting them the second the play was over. During these morning hours, he lived in the digital world, feeling every risk, every betrayal, every payout, and every cold regret of the game. But as soon as he stood up, the mask of the "quiet son" returned, and he became just another teenager on the block, looking like he didn't have a single play in the world.
His mood that morning was heavy. The hard look on his young face showed the weight of the war he was starting. He ate a solo burger for lunch, because Joan was out at a street fair with some people from the neighborhood. He'd been invited, but he'd stayed back because his infrastructure was lagging. He'd just gotten a text from his tech lead pointing out that their new encryption was a month behind and the crew was getting anxious for the drop. Hence, he chose the hustle over the hang, though usually, he liked to keep his eyes on the target.
In the afternoon, his head started thumping—brain fag from staring at code too long. He went to his room, crashed on the bed, and fell into a dead sleep over an old magazine. In his blackout, he didn't hear the door click open two hours later. Joan, still in her leather jacket, crept in on tiptoe. She stood over him, a strange look of hate—almost a predator's hunger—crossing her face. She whispered something to herself, her fists balled up like she wanted to swing. Then she crossed to Marcus's backpack, which was unzipped on the chair. Without a sound, she went through it, checking his burner phones and a stack of blue-tinted ledgers. Having seen enough, she slipped back out, Marcus never knowing she was there.
The room was pitch black when he woke up. His head felt like it was full of lead, and his eyes burned like fire. His throat was bone-dry, and he was shivering. It felt wrong, and he stood there trying to clear the fog before hitting the lights. The clock showed it was nine at night. He'd been out for six hours! He wondered if he'd been slipped something. He remembered the soda he'd left on the table. It had a bitter aftertaste. The bottle was the one he'd started at lunch, and anybody in the house could've spiked it while he was in the bathroom. He felt like an amateur for being so sloppy. Yeah, that soda had a chemical kick to it. He'd been drugged. He wouldn't drink anything he didn't crack open himself from now on. But who did it? He didn't think he had enemies inside the house yet.
He called for a runner and told him to bring a strong energy drink. He slammed it, paced the room, and tried to shake the haze. He'd missed dinner and felt weak, but the caffeine brought him back. It was too late to go out, so he headed downstairs to find Joan. A few of Seth's soldiers were in the kitchen smoking and talking low, but she wasn't there. He went back up and knocked on her door. No answer, so he pushed it open. The room was dark, but the air still smelled like her heavy perfume. He tapped on her bedroom door. Nothing. He turned the handle and flicked the switch.
The room was stripped. The suitcases were gone. A chill hit his chest. Joan had bounced!
He sprinted down to the lookouts at the front gate. "Where's Joan?" he barked.
"She caught a cab to the airport around four-thirty, lil' homie," the lookout said. "She was in a rush. Said she got a page, packed her bags, and hit the road."
"Where was she headed?" Marcus demanded.
"No clue, man," the lookout said, shrugging his shoulders.
"What airline?"
"Lufthansa, man. She said something about a connection in Frankfurt or maybe Trieste."
"Then she's heading for Europe," Marcus muttered, his eyes narrowing in rage. She'd ghosted him without a word, just like her husband had. It was a setup. But how did they get the narco into his drink? He stood there in the hallway, indecisive for a split second. Marcus was a kid of few words, but a kid of action. Joan's disappearing act triggered the monster inside him. In seconds, his mind was made up.
He went back to the lookout. "Is Big Taylor in the back?"
"He's in his office," the man replied. "Having a sit-down with his crew."
"Thanks," Marcus said, and headed straight for the private suite in the back of the club. He entered to find a middle-aged, silver-haired man from Philly named Hiram Taylor. He was a major player in the shipping game.
"Come in, Marcus!" Taylor barked. "Grab a seat, kid."
Marcus looked at the other shooters in the room. "Can I get a minute?"
"Sure. Let's hit the back," Taylor said.
They stepped into a private room. Marcus didn't waste breath. "Is the Coya ready to sail?"
"Yeah, she's fueled up. Why?"
"Because I need a favor, Taylor," Marcus said, his voice ice-cold.
The alert American, who owned the massive white yacht currently docked at the pier, looked him over. "In love with that girl, Marcus? I saw you watching her. Well, you can try to catch her, but she's got a six-hour lead on the flight."
"She's got a layover. We can beat her to the coast if we move now," Marcus said. "Either way, I'm meeting her when she lands."
"The Coya ain't a racer, remember that. But if you want her, Marcus, she's yours. My man will tell the captain to take your orders."
Marcus thanked him, and Taylor just laughed. "As long as she's back by Sunday. Good luck, kid."
Thirty minutes later, Marcus was on the deck of the luxury yacht as it pulled away from the pier. He headed to the bridge where Captain Merton, an old-school sailor with gray hair, was on the wheel.
"I hear we're chasing a target, sir? It's gonna be a stretch; she's got a head start."
"She's stopping for a transfer," Marcus said. "Just do your best."
"Understood. We'll push the engines. It's lucky we fueled up yesterday. If the mail-plane hits a delay, we'll be there. But if not, she might be in Trieste before we touch the dock." The captain barked an order to the crew. The vessel cleared the harbor and began cutting through the dark water of the bay, the engines thrumming under their feet.
The Coya was a beast, built by a billionaire before the market crashed. No expense had been spared. It had the best tech, a private chef, and a hand-picked crew. It was a floating palace. As Marcus stood on the bridge, he watched the city lights fade. The night was dark and the wind was picking up.
"I need to be there before she leaves that airport, Captain," Marcus said. He looked like a boss in his heavy coat, the collar up against the salt spray. He had spent years moving weight and dispatches for his father, but the life of a soldier had been too small for him. He'd quit the old ways to build something better.
Captain Merton kept his eyes on the horizon. "I hear you, sir. I've told the engineers. We're going full throttle. If we miss her, it won't be for lack of trying."
"I know, Captain. I need to send a message. Is the satellite link up?"
"Always. The comms-room is right behind the funnel."
Marcus went below, pulled a burner from his bag, and typed a message to a man named Marrucci in Italy. The text was a mess of numbers and symbols—a code only they knew. It was signed "George Hatherley." He took it to the comms-room, where a young tech was sitting. The tech hit the switches, the generator hummed, and he began tapping out the signal. Suddenly, a response came through the void, and Marcus's message was sent.
Through the night they pushed north. Dawn broke in a bleed of red and gold. Marcus was still on the bridge. Ahead was the coastline, the rugged entry to the Adriatic. The sun felt warm, and Marcus went below to grab a coffee with the captain.
"The pressure is dropping," the skipper said. "Weather's gonna turn ugly before we hit the port."
"The target's in the same storm," Marcus shrugged.
"They might beat it," the skipper muttered, eating his breakfast.
All day they pushed past the islands, the coast looking like a postcard. By evening, a stiff wind was howling. The engineers pushed the boilers to the limit, the yacht forged ahead through the tempest. Marcus didn't sleep. He lay in his bunk thinking about the secret—the one his readers would never know. It was a secret of real life, a truth so wild it sounded like a lie.
For two hours he pondered as the yacht rolled in the waves, the water thundering on the deck above. Suddenly, the second officer opened the door.
"Captain says the target vessel is five miles ahead, sir. He needs you on the bridge."
Marcus threw on his coat and ran up. "Look!" the captain shouted, pointing at a speck of light in the dark. "There she is! I'm gonna burn the distress flares and radio them. We'll tell 'em we're sinking and need help. What you think?"
"Do it," Marcus said.
"We're off the coast. Let's hit the comms." The captain told the officer to prep the flares. In the radio room, the captain told the mail-boat to heave to. A moment later, the tech was sending the SOS heard by every boat in the sea. He switched off and listened.
"They're biting, sir!" the tech shouted. "They're turning around!"
"Light it up!" the skipper yelled.
A blue flare lit up the sky, a fake signal of death. As it faded, they saw the lights of the target boat changing course. She was coming straight for them.