Chapter 38 - Blood on the Nereus
The wind whipped across the open deck of the cargo freighter *Nereus* as it sliced through the choppy, ice-flecked waters of New York Harbor.
Julian Vance stood on the bridge wing, a crystal glass of aged bourbon in his hand, watching the Manhattan skyline recede into the distance behind a curtain of falling snow. His tailored charcoal coat fluttered in the gale, but he felt no cold. He felt the warm, intoxicating rush of absolute victory.
"Status report?" Julian asked without turning around.
A Blackwood mercenary captain stepped out from the wheelhouse, his face grim. "All cargo secured, sir. Crew is locked in the mess hall. We’re forty minutes from international waters. No sign of Dante or the girl."
Julian took a slow sip of his bourbon, a smug smile playing on his lips. "Dante is a dinosaur. He died with his boots in the dirt beneath St. Patrick's. The syndicate belongs to the board now. To me."
*CRASH.*
The entire freighter shuddered violently, as if it had struck a submerged reef. The sound of tearing metal echoed up from the waterline.
Julian stumbled, spilling his bourbon across the polished steel deck. "What was that? Did we hit a shoal?"
"Sir!" another mercenary shouted, bursting out from the control room, his eyes wide with blind panic. "Intruders on the starboard quarter! A stealth interceptor—they rammed the boarding ladder!"
Before Julian could bark an order, the heavy steel door of the bridge was blown inward in a shower of sparks and shrapnel.
Dante stepped through the smoke, his Sig Sauer raised and firing with lethal precision. Two Blackwood guards dropped instantly before they could even raise their weapons. Viktor followed close behind, laying down heavy suppression fire that cleared the bridge in seconds.
And then, stepping gracefully over the threshold into the smoke-filled wheelhouse, came Clara.
Her two-meter golden hair was loose now, streaming behind her like a banner of fire in the wind howling through the shattered bridge windows. Her pale blue eyes locked onto Julian Vance with a gaze so terrifyingly cold that the billionaire actually stepped back, his glass slipping from his fingers to shatter against the deck.
"Dante... Clara," Julian stammered, his polished composure shattering into a million jagged pieces. He forced a thin, desperate smile, raising his hands defensively. "Come on. Let's be reasonable. The syndicate is huge. There's enough wealth for all of us. We can share the board—"
"There is no board, Julian," Clara said, her voice soft, carrying the terrible, quiet weight of a final judgment. She walked slowly toward him, her combat boots clicking rhythmically against the steel floor.
Julian’s eyes darted frantically toward the ship’s master navigation panel behind him. His hand in his coat pocket gripped a concealed emergency detonator—a backup charge rigged to scuttle the entire ship and take everyone down with it.
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"You should have stayed in the gutter, girl," Julian snarled, his thumb slamming down onto the hidden button.
***
