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No, this couldn’t be. This just could not be. Jackson stared harder. It was. A bright white dot anchored in the island’s shallow bay. A sport fisherman, maybe forty or fifty feet, sinister only to sailfish and Mahi.
“Want me to hail them, gentlemen?” the pilot inquired helpfully.
“No point,” Jackson said, feeling his hands clench until the knuckles cracked. “That’s not them.”
Grinning, Garret shook his head and pocketed the drawing. “I knew it.”
“No, you didn’t. Or you would have let me fly out here by myself.”
He shrugged. “Take it easy, kid. Patience is the key.”
That was something Jackson had less of by the hour. “Carlos, we’re leaving.”
The chopper wiggled around in a hesitant turn over the island just as the sun broke through a gap in the clouds. “You sure you don’t want to land here?”
“No, just turn this—wait!” Jackson tore off the sunglasses and pushed his face against the window. Something along the island’s far shore, two miles away, caught the late afternoon light. Something he couldn’t quite see.
A phantom.
“Carlos, head to the east shore.”
Another turn, this one more enthusiastic.
“Are you going to get us home in time for dinner?” Garrett wondered, though his tone held more wariness than jest.
Jackson focused out the front window, desperately searching the dark-gray Atlantic waters, seeking one enormous shadow. He spotted the glint of bold, gold lettering first, then the much lighter teak deck as it came into view.
“Got you, you son of a bitch. Carlos, swing around. Let’s take a closer look.”
As they choppered several wide circles around the vessel, the hunters made note of every nuance with binoculars. Two hundred feet of ship cruised below, sleek and dark and barely there. Along her sides and across her aft, the stylized gold script announced her name to all unfortunate enough to spot her anyway.
Apokryphos.
The hidden.
“I’ll be damned,” Garrett muttered.
“Can we hail them?” Jackson called out to the pilot.
Over the headphones, they listened to Carlos trying to radio the yacht. It didn’t respond until the third attempt. A chillingly unemotional male voice informed them they were on a leisure cruise, in no need of assistance, and receiving no guests.
“I hope you weren’t expecting a welcome mat,” Garrett said.
“Carlos, can you land this thing on their helipad?” The tiny space on the front deck looked tight, but clear of obstructions.
“They don’t sound like—”
“Just do it. Someone on board needs help. Trust me.”
Carlos swung around to eye the possibilities. “Wind is picking up. That boat is moving. It’s risky, gentlemen.”
“I’ll spot you. Just get us close. We’ll jump.”
Garret raised both brows. “It’s a bit late in the day for stunt work, don’t you think?”
“You can go home and have dinner. I’m not letting this—this”—he stabbed a finger at their target—“get away. We let this go, we’ll never see it again. We do this now, we retire tomorrow.”
“Oh, please tell us more,” Garrett said with a glance at the pilot. The man asked no questions about their trip, but at this rate, it wouldn’t be much longer before he figured out bloodshed was involved.
