Chapter 3 - The Trap Above the Ocean
“I’m going.”
Marisol didn’t blink.
“No.”
“They have a photograph of my employee.”
“They have a photograph of your employee standing outside a building. That doesn’t mean she’s in danger.”
“It means they want me to believe she is.”
“Exactly.”
“And if they’re willing to threaten her?”
“Then walking into their chosen location alone is the worst possible response.”
I knew Marisol was right.
That didn’t make standing still easier.
Maya Brooks had been with me from the beginning.
When Sentinel Forge was nothing more than borrowed training mats and overdue invoices, Maya had answered phones, negotiated vendor contracts, and occasionally slept on the office couch during ninety-hour weeks.
She wasn’t an employee.
She was family.
I called her.
She answered.
“Claire?”
“You okay?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Where are you?”
“At home now.”
“You’re sure?”
A pause.
“Yes. Why are you acting weird?”
I closed my eyes.
Relief hit me harder than fear had.
“Someone photographed you outside the office.”
“What?”
“Lock your doors. Call local police. Daniel will explain.”
“Claire, what is happening?”
“I’ll tell you when I know.”
I ended the call before she could argue.
The photograph had been taken earlier.
A threat constructed from information Douglas already possessed.
That told me something.
He didn’t currently control Maya.
He needed me to think he did.
“He’s bluffing,” I said.
Marisol nodded.
“Probably.”
“But why Deck 11?”
“We’ll find out without you.”
Security officers quietly surrounded the observation lounge.
Cameras showed no Douglas.
No Grant.
Only passengers finishing cocktails under dim blue lighting while a pianist played near the windows.
Another bluff.
Then one security officer found an envelope beneath a chair.
Inside was a copy of the unsigned proxy.
Across it, handwritten in black marker:
MIDNIGHT. LAST CHANCE.
Marisol swore under her breath.
“He’s moving us around.”
“Keeping security busy,” I said.
“With what purpose?”
I thought about Douglas.
Not Grant.
Grant wanted immediate results.
Douglas planned systems.
“If everyone is searching passenger spaces,” I said slowly, “what areas become less protected?”
Marisol looked toward the door.
“Operations.”
Within seconds she was on the radio.
Security doubled around the bridge, communications room, and engineering access points.
Nothing happened.
At 9:17 p.m., the ship’s internal network briefly went offline.
Three minutes.
That was all.
Long enough to disrupt passenger Wi-Fi and electronic room-access logging.
When the system returned, one file had been accessed.
My passenger record.
Nothing else.
“They wanted your passport information?” Marisol asked.
“Maybe.”
But it didn’t fit.
Douglas already knew my birth date, address, and most of my personal details through Grant.
Why risk penetrating a ship network for information he possessed?
Then I realized.
“Not my passenger record.”
“What?”
“My emergency contact.”
The ship listed Daniel Cho.
My attorney.
Marisol checked.
She was right.
Daniel’s personal mobile number and home address were attached.
I called him.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Nothing.
I called Maya.
“Where’s Daniel?”
“He left the office about an hour ago.”
“For where?”
“Home, I think.”
“Call him.”
“I already did. No answer.”
My fear returned.
This time Douglas wasn’t threatening an employee.
He was targeting the lawyer who could block the deal.
Jacksonville police were contacted.
Twenty-three minutes later, Daniel called me himself.
“I’m fine.”
I gripped the phone.
“Where were you?”
“Police just arrived at my house.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“I was driving.”
“Did anyone approach you?”
“No.”
“Any strange vehicles?”
“Claire, breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
He paused.
“That sounded very Marine of you.”
Despite everything, I laughed once.
Then Daniel became serious.
“I found something.”
“What?”
“Douglas’s financial problem isn’t just debt.”
I waited.
“There’s an internal whistleblower complaint.”
“About what?”
“Misappropriated client funds.”
That changed the stakes.
“How much?”
“Potentially eight figures.”
Mercer Protective didn’t need Sentinel Forge merely to survive.
Douglas might need it to hide something.
“If he gains control of my company…”
“He gains access to legitimate revenue streams, new credit capacity, and a way to restructure liabilities.”
“Could he bury missing money?”
“For a while.”
“And if I sign?”
“You become connected to the mess.”
There it was.
The real trap.
Douglas didn’t simply want my company.
He wanted my reputation.
My clean financial history.
My contracts.
My assets.
If authorities later discovered fraud, he could claim the problems began after integration.
Maybe blame me.
Maybe claim Sentinel Forge was the source.
My phone buzzed.
Grant.
Not a text.
A call.
Marisol activated recording.
I answered.
“Claire.”
His voice sounded different.
No arrogance.
“Where are you?”
“Safe.”
“Listen to me.”
“Why?”
“My father lied.”
I looked at Marisol.
“About what?”
“Everything.”
“You’ll need to narrow it down.”
“He said the proxy was temporary. He said he needed voting rights for ninety days while the companies merged.”
“You threatened me with a bat for a temporary proxy?”
“I know.”
“That’s not an explanation.”
Grant breathed shakily.
“He told me Sentinel Forge would make us rich.”
“You were already rich.”
“My family looks rich.”
There was bitterness in his voice.
“But?”
“We’re broke, Claire.”
I said nothing.
“Dad owes everybody. Banks. Investors. Former partners. He said if we didn’t get Sentinel Forge, everything disappears.”
“So you married me.”
“I loved you.”
“No.”
“I did.”
“You don’t threaten someone you love.”
Silence.
Then Grant whispered, “I know.”
I almost hated him more for sounding sincere.
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Grant.”
“I mean it. Service area. No windows.”
I exchanged a glance with Marisol.
“Why are you calling?”
“Because Dad took my phone before.”
“And now?”
“He left it.”
“Convenient.”
“I think he wants me to call.”
Of course.
Another stage in the manipulation.
“Grant, what does he want?”
“You.”
“That’s obvious.”
“No, Claire. I mean he needs you physically present.”
My skin prickled.
“Why?”
“There’s a notary.”
I stared at Marisol.
“A what?”
“A notary. He brought somebody onto the ship.”
“To notarize the transfer?”
“Yes.”
“Against my will?”
“He thinks if the video shows you signing voluntarily, nobody will question it immediately.”
“And the bat?”
“He didn’t know I’d actually bring it.”
I almost laughed.
“Now you’re blaming improvisation?”
“Claire, please.”
“What else?”
Grant started breathing faster.
“Dad said something about the wedding license.”
“What?”
“He kept saying marriage was necessary because spouses have privileges outsiders don’t.”
Legal privileges.
Financial privileges.
Access.
Standing.
Claims.
“He needed me married to you before the transfer,” Grant said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Then a voice appeared faintly in the background.
Grant stopped.
“Dad’s back.”
“Grant—”
The call disconnected.
Marisol immediately ordered technicians to trace it.
The signal came from Deck 4.
Crew-access area near provisioning.
Security teams moved.
Five minutes later they found the phone.
Grant wasn’t there.
Neither was Douglas.
But another object was.
A wedding photograph.
Mine and Grant’s.
Someone had drawn a black circle around my face.
And written beneath it:
MIDNIGHT.
I looked at my watch.
10:08 p.m.
Douglas wasn’t running away.
He was buying time.
The question was why.
At 10:31, we got the answer.
My smartwatch displayed an incoming company-security alert.
Sentinel Forge’s banking administrator account had received a password-reset request.
The authentication method?
Spousal emergency recovery.
I stared at the screen.
Grant and Douglas had never needed my signature alone.
The marriage itself had been part of the attack.
May you like
And somewhere aboard the ship, Douglas Mercer was preparing to use it before midnight.
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