Chapter 5 - Docking in San Juan
The tropical morning sun beat down mercilessly on the concrete expanse of Pier 4 in Old San Juan. The sky was an immaculate, postcard blue, and the turquoise waters of the harbor rippled gently against the massive, towering white hull of the *Caribbean Empress*.
From the upper decks, calypso music drifted down, accompanied by the excited chatter of hundreds of tourists dressed in floral shirts and sun hats, eager to spend their day shopping for rum and jewelry in the historic cobblestone streets of the old city.
Derek Nolan stood on the starboard promenade of Deck 10, leaning against the teak railing, nursing a mimosa.
Beside him, his mother Patricia was adjusting her oversized designer sunglasses, her lips pursed in an anxious, sour line.
“Derek, I don't like this,” Patricia hissed, leaning close to him. “Hannah sounded insane on the phone yesterday. You heard her! She said the police were there. What if she called the cruise line? What if they stop us?”
“Mom, shut up and drink your drink,” Derek snapped under his breath, his eyes darting toward the gangway staging area below. “Hannah is a soldier, not a magician. She has no authority here. By the time the local cops in Virginia figure out what was in that closet, they’ll have to file extradition requests through three different federal agencies. That takes weeks. Our contact in Tortola meets us at midnight tonight. Once we board the catamaran, we’re ghost.”
“And Elena?” Patricia whispered. “Where is she?”
“She’s in the cabin, packing the hard drives and the cash pouches,” Derek said, checking his gold watch—a watch he had bought with my deployment hazardous duty pay. “We disembark with the first excursion group under the guise of an all-day rainforest tour. We don't return to the ship. We take the private water taxi straight to the marina.”
“And the child?” Patricia whispered, her voice trembling slightly. “What if they charge us with neglect?”
“Hannah found her,” Derek said, waving his hand dismissively as if swatting away a fly. “The kid is fine. Hannah will play the martyr, cry to her military buddies, and raise Lily by herself like she always wanted. She got what she wanted, we get what we need. Everybody wins.”
A voice crackled over the ship’s public address system: *“Good morning, passengers. Port authorities have cleared the vessel. Excursion groups one through four may now proceed to Deck 4 for gangway departure.”*
“That’s us,” Derek said, straightening his linen blazer. “Let’s go.”
Down on Deck 4, the crowd moved in a slow, jovial queue toward the exit portal. Derek held a sleek leather carry-on bag tightly against his side. Behind him, Patricia and his sister Jenna walked close together, while Elena Rostova, stunning in a wide-brimmed straw hat and dark glasses, pulled a matching designer roller bag.
Derek flashed his SeaPass card at the ship’s security scanner. The machine beeped green.
“Have a wonderful day in San Juan, Mr. Nolan,” the security officer said with a polite smile.
“Thank you,” Derek smirked, stepping through the portal into the covered accordion gangway that sloped down to the terminal floor. “We plan to.”
They walked down the ramp, laughing quietly amongst themselves, already feeling the rush of absolute freedom, the thrill of getting away with the perfect crime.
They stepped off the ramp onto the polished concrete of the terminal floor.
The terminal was cavernous, usually bustling with tour guides holding signs, taxi dispatchers, and souvenir vendors.
Today, the terminal was dead silent.
There were no tour guides. There were no taxi dispatchers.
Standing in the center of the vast, echoing hall was a cordon of twelve federal agents wearing tactical vests emblazoned with yellow **FBI** and **HSI** lettering, their M4 carbines held at the low-ready position.
Flanking them were two uniformed Coast Guard officers and four federal marshals.
And standing dead center, directly in front of the exit doors, was Major Hannah Nolan.
I was wearing my crisp, pressed Army service uniform, the golden oak leaves of a Major gleaming on my shoulders, my chest covered in three rows of ribbons, including the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart.
Derek stopped dead in his tracks. His face drained of every drop of blood, turning a ghastly, translucent shade of gray. The leather carry-on slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.
“Hannah?” he squeaked.
Patricia let out a high, terrified squeal and shrank behind her son. Jenna froze, her jaw dropping open, while Elena Rostova instantly spun around to retreat back up the gangway—only to find four armed Customs and Border Protection officers blocking the ramp behind her.
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“Hello, Derek,” I said, my voice ringing clear and steady through the cavernous terminal. “Welcome to Puerto Rico.”
***
