Nathan adjusted the collar of his linen shirt, the fabric light against the sweltering tropical heat. At 55, he looked like the quintessential retiree: silver hair at the temples, a deep tan, and the relaxed smile of a man who was finally in no hurry. His wife, Samantha, was on the lower deck, immersed in a gardening masterclass.
This was their 30th anniversary—three decades of life together, twenty of which Nathan had spent in the shadows, executing missions that don’t exist in history books.
His eyes, trained by decades in Naval Special Intelligence, instinctively scanned the horizon. Suddenly, his pupils constricted. At the very edge of the sea, three dots appeared. They weren’t moving like cargo ships.
They weren’t bobbing like fishing trawlers. They were slicing through the waves toward the Ocean Delight with a predatory, high-speed grace.
Nathan set his drink down. Inside him, a beast he had tried to bury five years ago began to wake up. “Three fast-attack skiffs. At least 300-horsepower engines. Four men per craft,” his brain calculated. When the sun glinted off the matte-black barrel of a machine gun, Nathan was already moving.