Chapter 17 - Thunder on the Water
The high-caliber match round tore through the night with a suppressed, whip-like crack.
Four hundred yards away, on the aft deck of the *Astraea*, the armed guard standing immediately to Lord Vance’s left collapsed instantly as the round bypassed his armor plates.
Panic erupted across the yacht.
"Sniper! East crane array!" Weiss screamed, drawing an automatic pistol and shoving Lord Vance toward the reinforced salon doors.
Before the deck sentries could acquire the firing position, Gabriel fired three more rapid shots, punching through the vessel’s auxiliary fuel bladders stored near the swim platform. He loaded a specialized incendiary round, aligned the crosshairs with the spilling fuel, and fired.
A colossal fireball erupted from the stern of the *Astraea*, illuminating the black water of San Pedro Harbor in brilliant, terrifying orange hues. The shockwave rattled the windows of the port authority tower half a mile away.
Sirens wailed across the harbor basin.
Gabriel was already moving. He rappelled down the side of the shipping container with Nora secured firmly against his chest, landing silently on the concrete pier. Moving through the dense smoke of burning diesel, Gabriel advanced like a shadow through the chaos.
Two maritime security operatives sprinted down the gangway to extinguish the fire. Gabriel intercepted them at the base of the slip. Two muffled shots from his sidearm, delivered with terrifying efficiency, dropped both men into the water before they could raise their carbines.
Gabriel bounded up the burning gangway, clearing the deck with lethal precision. He moved through the smoke-choked aft deck, slicing Arthur Bennett’s zip-ties with a flick of his blade.
Arthur tumbled forward onto the bloody teak planks, coughing violently. He looked up, his one unswollen eye widening as he saw Gabriel—and the little girl strapped to his chest.
"Nora..." Arthur sobbed, reaching out with broken, trembling fingers. "My baby... God, Nora, forgive me... I didn't see... Victoria, she..."
"Can you walk?" Gabriel demanded, dragging Arthur to his feet by his collar, eyes scanning the yacht’s shattered superstructure.
"I... I think so," Arthur wheezed, clutching his fractured ribs.
"Get to the service skiff on the starboard dock," Gabriel ordered, shoving an extra sidearm into Arthur’s hands. "Take the ignition lanyard. Do not wait for me if they breach the slip."
"Gabriel, wait!" Arthur choked out, pointing toward the heavy titanium doors leading down to the lower deck suites. "She’s not dead! Victoria... she wasn't on the rocks! Vance brought her aboard three hours ago... they reconstructed her face... she’s down there!"
Before Gabriel could process the words, the heavy salon doors slammed open.
Standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the roaring flames of the burning stern, was a figure holding a gold-plated submachine gun.
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She wore a long black coat over bandages wrapped tightly around her neck and jaw. But the eyes—those cold, venomous, calculating emerald eyes—were unmistakable.
Victoria Ashford had returned from the dead.
