Chapter 17 - The Ghost Fleet
The Providence holding facility had been breached not with weapons, but with forged extradition papers.
By dawn, the Rhode Island State Police and federal marshals had converged on Bennett Maritime. Preston Vale had been transferred out of the Wyatt facility at midnight under the guise of an emergency federal deposition in Boston. The private transport van had been found abandoned in an industrial park in Fall River, the marshals inside bound and tranquilized.
"He had help from the inside," Special Agent Miller told us, pacing the floor of our marina office. "Preston used the last of his European accounts to pay an extraction team. But he can't leave the country by air. Every runway in the Northeast is locked down."
"He doesn't need a runway," I said, pointing out the panoramic window toward the open Atlantic. "He grew up racing six-meter sloops. He knows every hidden cove between Newport and Nova Scotia."
Nathan was reviewing the automated tracking system on the central terminal. "There’s an unregistered cutter operating without an AIS transponder, hugging the southern shore of Cuttyhunk Island. It registered on the harbor radar forty minutes ago, but disappeared into the radar clutter near the shoals."
"That’s the *Sea Ghost*," Luke said grimly. "The seventy-foot offshore racer Preston bought under a Delaware LLC two years ago. Twin turbodiesels. She can outrun any Coast Guard cutter in four-foot seas."
"He isn't running to Canada," I said, a terrifying revelation striking me cold. "He wouldn't leave without proving he still had power. Preston’s ego won't let him crawl away into exile while our father’s name is flying on every mast in Newport."
Just then, my personal cell phone buzzed on the desk.
The caller ID was blocked.
I picked it up, putting it on speakerphone as Nathan, Luke, and the federal agents leaned in close.
"Grace," Preston’s voice came through the speaker. It was hoarse, manic, and ragged with madness. "Did you like my fireworks at Drydock Three? It’s a pity your brothers know how to turn a valve. But that was just the opening act."
"You’re a fugitive, Preston," I said, keeping my voice steady, though my heart pounded against my ribs. "You have no home, no money, and no family left. Turn the boat around."
May you like
Preston laughed—a broken, hysterical sound that sent chills down my spine.
"I don't need a home," he hissed. "I’m taking what was promised to me. Check the nursery, Grace. Look at what my people left on your kitchen counter."
