Adrian looked down at Nora, his dark eyes burning with lethal, protective certainty. "Are you ready, little boss?"
Nora picked up her encrypted phone, sliding it into her leather portfolio beside her childhood yellow purse. She stood tall, smoothing down her oversized black tie, a fearless smile touching her lips. "Marcus, prep the supersonic transport. Tell the southern fleet to hold their breath. We're going hunting."
The sub-antarctic gale screamed across the granite crags of southern Chile, driving sheets of sleet against the reinforced cockpit of the Cole family’s tactical stealth transport. Below, the pitch-black waters of the Golfo de Penas churned with twenty-foot swells, throwing white foam against sheer volcanic cliffs.
Inside the pressurized main cabin, the lights glowed in subdued tactical red. Adrian Cole stood beside the central holographic mapping console, wearing a black maritime assault jacket over a dark tactical vest. His sleeves were pushed up, displaying the intricate rose and thorn tattoos along his muscular forearms.
Beside him, Nora inspected the action of her customized sidearm, her movements fluid and practiced. Despite the combat gear, Adrian’s black silk tie remained tied over her tactical collar, its tail tucked securely beneath her load-bearing vest.
"Telemetry confirms our vessel, the Sovereign Dawn, is held at anchor three miles inside the fjord," James Jr. reported through his headset from the pilot’s jumpseat. "Thermal imaging shows forty armed hostiles aboard. They’ve established heavy machine-gun nests along the bridge wings and container decks."
"Hostage status?" Nora asked, her voice calm, precise, and devoid of tremor.
"Twenty-four crew members locked in the engine control room," Marcus answered, racking the bolt of a suppressed assault carbine. "They’ve wired the bulkhead with remote thermite charges. One false move and they melt the entire compartment into liquid steel."
Adrian stepped closer to his niece, placing a broad, heavy palm on her shoulder. The heat of his hand seemed to cut through the freezing draft of the cabin. "This is personal for them, Nora. The Castiglione family was built on fear and extortion. When your father dismantled their shipping cartels thirty years ago, he took their sovereign ledger—the book that proved their nobility was bought with blood and treachery."
"And they think I have it," Nora murmured, looking up into her uncle's fierce, dark eyes.
"You do have it," Adrian revealed quietly, his baritone dropping to a gravelly rumble. "James etched the master cryptographic key into the base of his silver lighter. He knew that one day, when the old world choked on its own greed, someone would come looking for the ash of what he burned."
Nora’s breath hitched slightly, but her jaw tightened with resolve. "Then they won't get ash, Uncle Adrian. They’ll get the fire."
"What’s the tactical deployment, sister?" James Jr. asked, looking back over his shoulder, his blue eyes hungry for action. "We drop via halo-jump directly onto the superstructure?"
Nora shook her head, curling her right hand into a fist, bracing her chin as she studied the holographic fjord. "Dropping on the superstructure trips their perimeter alarms and detonates the engine room. We use their arrogance against them. They demanded that I come aboard alone with the lighter. So that is exactly what they will see."
"Nora, absolutely not," James Jr. protested sharply. "You aren't walking onto a hostile vessel without fire support!"
"She won't be without fire support, James," Adrian intervened smoothly, a dark, chilling smirk spreading across his rugged features. "She’ll have me. Marcus, arm the underwater submersible pods. James, you bring the transport around the rear of the cliff face and jam their satellite uplink on Nora’s mark. Nora... you walk through their front door."
Nora checked her bare wrist in her iconic, comedic habit, then looked at Adrian with a brilliant, predatory grin. "Ten minutes until my meeting with the ghost of Venice. Let's make sure he doesn't survive the presentation."
Adrian’s deep laugh rumbled through the aircraft. "Handle it, little boss."
The ocean spray was blindingly cold as Nora Cole stepped off the pilot tender onto the lowered metal gangway of the Sovereign Dawn. The massive container ship loomed above her like an iron monolith in the howling storm, creaking violently against the raging swells of the fjord.
Four mercenaries dressed in dark arctic assault gear and ballistic helmets immediately surrounded her, their automatic rifles leveled at her chest. Nora didn't flinch. Her white trench coat whipped violently in the gale, but her oversized black silk tie remained straight, pinned against her blouse by a gold falcon clip.
"Hands where I can see them, girl," the lead mercenary barked over the roaring wind, stepping forward to pat her down.
Nora caught the man's wrist in mid-air. Her grip was surprisingly vicious, utilizing the close-quarters joint locks Adrian had drilled into her since childhood. She twisted his wrist outward with a sickening pop, forcing the six-foot-two mercenary to his knees on the slick steel grating.
"If your hands touch my coat again," Nora said, her voice dropping to an icy, melodious whisper that froze the surrounding men in their tracks, "I will snap your radial nerve and kick you into the propeller blades. Escort me to your master."
The remaining three guards raised their weapons, their eyes wide beneath their tactical visors. A harsh voice crackled over their radio headsets: "Bring her to the bridge! Now!"
The lead guard scrambled up, clutching his sprained wrist, cursing under his breath as they led Nora through the damp corridors of the ship.
When the heavy blast doors of the main navigation bridge slid open, Nora was greeted by the scent of expensive cigar smoke mingling with the stench of wet gunpowder. Standing at the central navigation console was a man in his late fifties, possessing aristocratic Italian features, slicked-back silver hair, and a scarred cheek. He wore a tailored cashmere topcoat over an open-collar silk shirt, holding a crystal glass of dark rum.
"Nora Cole," the man purred, turning to face her with an exaggerated bow. "The spitting image of your treacherous father. I am Don Rafael Castiglione. Matteo was my father. James killed him in cold blood off the coast of Sicily."