Page 52

DORIAN

“I won’t do anything until I see Caroline.” My voice is steel, leaving no room for negotiation.

The screen flickers, a shift in scenery, to Caroline bound and gagged in dim light, a black box device with red letters straight out of a film strapped to her middle, but I shake my head.

“No. In person.” I hold the suited man’s gaze, unwavering.

There’s no way in hell I’ll comply with any of Geoffrey’s requests, but one thing is certain: if I stand a chance of seeing Caroline again, this is the moment to fight.

He says he’s willing to kill me, but he hopes for a pawn in the White House. And for that, he needs me to be amenable.

“I foresaw this scenario,” Geoffrey states, sounding almost bored, his words muted through the headset. “When you exit the room, we will take you to see her. Instruct Ryan Wolfgang and his colleagues that you will no longer require their assistance.”

I remove the headset and step out of the building to where Ryan and his team are waiting. While I hold up one hand to Ryan, acknowledging him and telling him to stay back, I tap out SOS in Morse code against my leg with the index finger of my other hand.

Ryan stills and gives an almost imperceptible nod.

He couldn’t have heard anything Geoffrey said through the headphones, but he’s aware that something occurred in the closed room.

If he didn’t correctly read my finger movements, someone going over the video after we’ve left will interpret them.

There are security cameras on the eaves of the building, and if there are questions, Arrow will hack into the feed.

I step out onto the tarmac and climb into the awaiting S-76D helicopter.

The armed suit climbs in beside me. “When we return, you’ll fly to DC.”

I neither confirm nor refute his statement, instead shifting to stare out the window.

As expected, we set across the Pacific, leaving the United States behind. Through the window, the coastline disappears beneath us. No witnesses. No jurisdiction. Perfect for whatever Geoffrey has planned.

The suit beside me remains vigilant, his hand never far from his weapon.

While I could overpower him and the pilot and take control of the helicopter myself, the image of Caroline with a bomb strapped to her body stops me cold.

Knowing what I know now, I’m almost positive it’s an altered video, perhaps entirely generated by AI, but for now, I play along.

But once I get to her, all bets are off.

Geoffrey may have studied me, but he’s seriously underestimated me. He believes I’ve lived my life doing as Dad wished and that he can step into our father’s shoes and force me to do his bidding. But he’s wrong—on both counts.

We fly for approximately forty minutes. I track the time on my watch.

A Feadship mega yacht materializes through the marine haze, its 70-meter hull gleaming like a predator’s smile. The Dutch engineering is unmistakable—clean, modern, and built for serious ocean capability. This isn’t just luxury; it’s a floating fortress designed for escape and evasion.

By the waterline mark, she’s running light, maybe 60 percent fuel capacity—the sweet spot for both range and speed. Speed is a necessity to outrun coastal patrols.

If Caroline is on this ship, that video is definitely a deep fake. Detonating a bomb on a ship is suicide.

But what if she’s not on this ship? What if this is another lie?

That’s the problem.

I have no reason to trust this bastard.

What if all of this comes down to a child who believes he was shunned now wanting power? The thing is, Dad didn’t shun him. He kept him close to his side.

Did Geoffrey come up with this plan all on his own?

He mentioned he’s built a network of his own.

How well-formed is his network? Is he the leader, or is he one of several, another group of men working together in an alliance like the syndicate?

Is he being played? Being set up to be the fall guy, one piece in a broader, longer-term strategy?

At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter who is leading whom. There’s right and there’s wrong. And Geoffrey chose wrong.

Stalin once said that death is the solution to all problems. No man, no problem. It’s tempting to agree with him. But time has proven Stalin wrong. Good exists, even in man. It’s a matter of valuing the good and exposing the evil.

The S-76D settles onto the yacht’s helipad, its skids connecting with the deck’s pressure sensors. Four pop-up security cameras track our landing: Axis Q6215-LE models, if I’m not mistaken. Military-grade surveillance.

At the armed suit’s instruction, I release the five-point harness and exit, cataloging details.

No visible crew. Two covered RHIBs mounted on the stern davits, the yacht’s quick escape vessels.

The SATCOM dome is a newer VS240, capable of maintaining broadband connection even in rough seas.

Which means they’ve got real-time communications despite being well outside coastal range.

A hard object presses into my back, right below my shoulder blade.

“Walk.”

The pilot remains strapped in the helicopter.

Is he flying away? Or on standby?

I’m in international waters. They could shoot me, throw me overboard, and proceed as they desire. He could’ve killed me already. Had me poisoned or killed in my home. I’m alive for a reason.

I grab the lacquered railing, leaning into the rolling motion of the vessel.

Spotless white. Clean lines. The pride of the ship’s owner.

The stench of motor fumes blends with salty air.

“Keep walking,” the suit directs. “Along the side.”

He hasn’t searched me. He has to know there’s a tracker on me. Ryan and his team watched me leave. They have a plan.

But Geoffrey would know they have a plan. Does he have others positioned to eliminate pursuers?

I round the bend and enter a cabin.

Caroline sits on a pristine white leather sofa, her eyes widening at the sight of me, gray duct tape over her mouth.

My heart stutters. In two strides, I’m kneeling before her, fingers trembling as they trace the edge of the bruise darkening her eye, the dried blood from the gash above her eyebrow.

“My god, are you okay?” My voice breaks, relief and rage colliding in my chest.

She jerks at my touch.

Fuck . How deep is that scalp injury?

I grip the edge of the tape, the corner frayed and peeling off her skin.

“Uh-uh,” a male voice says behind my back.

Recognizing the voice, I look over my shoulder and see Luke.

And he’s not alone.

Geoffrey . In a suit. No gun.

“I'll let you remove the tape,” Geoffrey says, his voice no different from any other day in Colorado. “But only if she promises to be quiet. I have the beginnings of a headache, and you know what that’s like, right?”

I rip the tape off her mouth in one sweep.

She gasps, and I scan her body, searching for any other injuries. There’s no bomb currently tied to her.

The video he showed before was definitely altered. But is a bomb somewhere else on the ship?

“If you speak, dear, the tape goes back on. I didn’t plan to be so vulgar, but she’s quite the little she-devil. Almost didn’t get her here; isn’t that right, Luke? Did you know that Luke dated your wife?”

Caroline’s bright blue eyes ground me. There’s no terror, no fear. She’s searching mine, questioning, but she understands the most important element. I’m here for her, and we’re going to get through this together.

My absence of a response to his goading must prompt Geoffrey to focus on his next steps. “Now, you’ve seen her. I’ll give you five minutes. Then we depart.”

“You’re going with him?”

Disbelief etches the question. Her incredulity means she trusts me. And she should.

“Caroline, you don’t know him at all, do you?” Geoffrey scoffs. “I know exactly what path he will choose. And deep down, you do, too. That’s why you left him.”

Geoffrey believes he’s won. He’s studied me. He believes he can predict what I will do and how I will behave.

He believes I’ll play along to protect our father. To protect our family reputation. That I’ll willingly step into a life of politics and continue growing our wealth. He truly believes he’s a prophet, but he’s blind to all that matters.

Luke holds his hand to his ear, listening.

“We need to go,” he says to Geoffrey.

The suit who accompanied me heads out in the direction we came from.

Geoffrey nods. My gaze roams over him, tracking the gelled hair, the doughy, vein-riddled skin below his eyes, his slight paunch, and his hunched shoulders from years of poor posture. He doesn’t appear to be carrying a gun, and if that’s the case, he’s reliant on the men he has hired.

Luke reaches for Caroline, and I slam into him, pinning his arm holding the gun against the side of the counter.

“Hands off my wife.”

It’s a growl and a declaration.

Luke pushes back, and I throw a left hook while gripping his wrist, knocking the gun from his grip. My knuckles connect with the solid ridge of his jaw, sending a shock of pain up my arm, but his head barely moves. Military training. This was a mistake.

Luke drives his knee into my ribs with crushing force. White-hot pain erupts through my side as I struggle to maintain my hold on his wrist. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.

“You’re dead,” he hisses, his breath hot against my face.

We circle each other, fists raised. My breath comes in ragged gasps. Luke bounces slightly on the balls of his feet, professionally balanced, while I desperately scan the boat for anything I can use as a weapon. A heavy vase. A knife. Anything.

Geoffrey backs away in the direction his guard went, his face a mask of clinical interest. He’s watching us like we’re a lab experiment.

Luke moves with trained precision, feinting left before launching himself at me. His weight crashes into my chest like a battering ram. We go down hard, the polished deck slamming against my spine. The impact forces air from my lungs in an agonizing rush.