Chapter 96 - The Dead Patriarch's Tea
The salvage basket hoisted Elena and Maya up through the salt fog, depositing them with a heavy metallic clang onto the rusted, diamond-plate deck of the *Marianas Dawn*.
Four men in unmarked black maritime gear stood around the perimeter, their submachine guns lowered at the low-ready position. They didn't speak. They didn't offer a hand. They were soldiers—hardened, silent, with eyes that had witnessed unspeakable horrors on black-budget missions.
"Follow," one of them grunted, gesturing toward a heavy iron hatchway leading into the superstructure.
Elena held Maya tight against her chest, her fingers brushing the handle of the small diver’s knife she had salvaged from the escape pod. Her body was burning with fever; the infection from the knife wound was spreading fast. But she forced her legs to move, stepping over the threshold into the belly of the ghost ship.
The interior was starkly different from the rusted exterior. Inside, the corridors were lined with mahogany paneling, brass fittings, and high-end military surveillance monitors displaying satellite feeds of every major ocean lane in the world.
She was led into an expansive observation salon at the stern of the vessel. Rain tapped rhythmically against broad panoramic windows overlooking the foaming wake.
Sitting in a leather wingback chair beside a crackling electric fireplace was an elderly man.
He was nearly eighty years old, with stark white hair, a weathered face etched with deep scars, and piercing gray eyes that were identical to the eyes of Arthur—Elena’s dead husband. He wore an old navy wool cardigan and rested his hands on a silver-topped walking cane.
On the low table beside him sat a silver tea set, steam rising gently into the cold room.
"Sit down, Elena," the old man said, his voice like grinding river stones. "You look as though you've just been thrown into the Atlantic. Which, knowing Eleanor, is probably an accurate assessment."
Elena stayed standing, her boots leaving puddles of seawater on the Turkish rug. "Thomas Montgomery."
The old man poured tea into a fine porcelain cup, the liquid golden and fragrant. "The world believes I drowned in nineteen ninety-eight. It was much easier to run the family's true enterprises without the Securities and Exchange Commission breathing down my neck. And, more importantly, without Eleanor trying to poison my coffee every morning."
"You let your sons grow up under her?" Elena demanded, rage cutting through her exhaustion. "Arthur died because of her! Lucian became a sadistic murderer because of her! And you were out here playing ghost?"
Thomas Montgomery set the teapot down with deliberate slowness. His gaze shifted from Elena to the baby wrapped in her arms.
"Arthur’s death was an unforeseen tragedy," Thomas said quietly. "Lucian's degeneration was entirely predictable; he was weak, just like his mother. But you... you survived Eleanor twice. That makes you far more interesting than either of my sons."
May you like
"I don't want to be interesting to you," Elena hissed. "I want medicine for my daughter, stitches for my arm, and a boat to the mainland."
"The mainland?" Thomas chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "My dear, the moment Eleanor reaches shore, she will trigger the red protocols. Interpol will have your face on every screen from London to Tokyo as an international terrorist who abducted the Montgomery heiress. You won't make it past customs in any port on this planet."
