Splash.
He hit the water hard. He surfaced a moment later, sputtering and coughing on the saltwater, his crisp white linen clothes instantly ruined and clinging to him like a heavy anchor.
“Start swimming, Marcus!” I called out over the railing. “And remember, sharks are attracted to thrashing!”
I watched as he began the humiliating, exhausting dog-paddle toward the distant red buoy.
The tactical leader stepped up beside me, lowering his rifle. “Sir. The Coast Guard cutter confirms they have a visual on the swimmer. They’ll fish him out when he gets close. What about the VIP guests?”
I turned to the investors, who were standing quietly, looking incredibly uncomfortable.
“Gentlemen,” I said, my tone shifting back to polite, professional courtesy. “I apologize for the interruption of your afternoon. My crew will safely escort you back to the marina, and the bar remains fully open on the house.”
The investors nodded eagerly, not daring to say a word.
I didn’t stay on the yacht. I hooked into the extraction harness of the helicopter line. As the MH-60 Seahawk lifted me off the deck and into the sky toward the hospital in Miami, I looked down at the ocean.
Marcus was just a tiny, pathetic speck struggling in the vast, deep blue water.
The war was over. The occupation of my home was finished. The King had officially reclaimed his castle, and the sea had washed the garbage away.
