Chapter 2 - The Water
I woke choking.
Salt water hit my face.
My body snapped forward.
Pain tore through my shoulders.
For several seconds I did not know where I was.
Then another wave struck.
I opened my eyes.
Ocean.
The jet ski beneath me was moving.
Not under my control.
My wrists were secured against the handlebars with black straps.
A safety strap crossed my torso above my pregnant belly.
Ahead, another jet ski cut across the water.
Victoria.
A tow line ran from her machine to mine.
She was dragging me.
“Stop!”
My voice disappeared into wind.
Victoria looked back.
Saw I was awake.
And smiled.
“Hold on tighter!”
She accelerated.
The rope snapped taut.
I screamed.
My abdomen struck the padded front edge despite the restraint system.
Not hard enough to throw me.
Hard enough to hurt.
I twisted.
The straps around my wrists would not release.
I looked toward shore.
The resort had become distant.
People crowded the dock.
Some looked confused.
Some were filming.
And there was Julian.
Binoculars.
Drink.
Watching.
“JULIAN!”
He did nothing.
Victoria turned sharply, throwing spray over me.
I coughed.
My daughter moved violently inside me.
“Please!”
Victoria slowed just enough to circle.
She came alongside.
Her face was bright with adrenaline.
“Still think you’re better than me?”
“What are you doing?”
“Teaching you what happens when you make Julian miserable.”
“You’re insane.”
Her smile disappeared.
“No. You’re spoiled.”
Then she leaned closer.
“He could have had everything if you had just signed what you were supposed to sign.”
I froze.
“What?”
She accelerated before answering.
The tow line yanked.
Pain ripped across my lower abdomen.
Then I felt warmth between my legs.
At first I thought my water had broken.
Then I looked down.
Red diluted into seawater around the seat.
Blood.
My entire body went cold.
“No.”
I stopped fighting the wrist restraints.
Panic wastes oxygen.
My father taught me that when I was fourteen and a storm overturned our small sailing dinghy.
Assess.
Breathe.
Act.
I looked at the watch on my left wrist.
Dark face.
Waterproof.
Satellite enabled.
My father had given it to me eight months earlier after I became pregnant.
“For emergencies.”
I teased him.
“Dad, I live in Virginia, not a submarine.”
He replied:
“Emergencies rarely ask where you live.”
The watch was linked to a commercial satellite SOS network used by sailors, expedition crews, and military families.
My father also received emergency relay because he had configured the contact tree himself.
One recessed switch under the side guard.
Hold three seconds.
I could not freely move my wrist.
But my thumb reached.
I pressed.
Nothing.
Again.
Three seconds.
The watch vibrated.
SOS SENT.
Then audio.
Static.
“Genevieve?”
My throat closed.
“Dad.”
His voice became instantly sharp.
“Where are you?”
“Ocean.”
“I have coordinates.”
“They…”
A wave hit.
I gasped.
“Genevieve!”
“I’m strapped to a jet ski.”
Silence for perhaps half a second.
Then:
“Who?”
“Victoria.”
“Julian?”
I looked toward dock.
“He’s watching.”
My father’s breathing changed.
“Are you injured?”
“I’m bleeding.”
“Baby moving?”
“Yes.”
“Stay conscious.”
“They’re trying to kill us.”
He did not tell me everything would be okay.
Hector Sterling never lied to make me calm.
Instead:
“I have your signal. Maritime rescue is being notified now.”
Victoria glanced back.
She had seen me speaking.
She slowed.
“What are you doing?”
I turned my wrist away.
She swung around.
“What did you press?”
I said nothing.
She came closer.
Then the watch speaker crackled.
“Genevieve, local maritime rescue has your position. A joint search crew is six nautical miles south.”
Victoria heard.
Her face changed.
On the dock, Julian suddenly lowered his binoculars.
He grabbed his phone.
My father’s voice continued.
“Stay alive.”
Victoria shouted toward shore although he could not hear her.
“JULIAN!”
She accelerated hard.
This time away from rescue lanes.
My jet ski followed.
My body screamed.
Then a sound rolled across the sky.
Rotor blades.
Distant.
Growing.
Victoria looked up.
A helicopter appeared above the headland.
Then another.
Two fast patrol boats emerged from the southern side of the bay, sirens cutting across the water.
The rescue response was not my father privately commanding military units.
A satellite distress alert had reached the Mexican maritime rescue center, and a U.S. Coast Guard liaison crew already operating nearby during a joint maritime exercise had been redirected in coordination.
But from the water, I knew only one thing.
Help was coming.
Victoria knew too.
She swerved.
Nearly flipped.
The tow line crossed dangerously.
I screamed.
One patrol boat cut between us.
A loudspeaker:
“SHUT DOWN THE ENGINE!”
Victoria kept moving.
The boat matched her.
Another rescue craft approached me.
A crew member reached toward the tow line with a hooked pole.
I heard my father through the watch.
“Genevieve.”
“I’m here.”
Then his voice changed.
Cold.
“Do not let Julian leave.”
“What?”
“We found the payment source for the watercraft charter.”
My heart hammered.
“Dad…”
“It wasn’t Victoria’s account.”
The rescue crew severed the tow line.
My jet ski slowed.
Hands reached for me.
Then my father said:
May you like
“Someone financed this with your husband.”
And before he told me the name, everything went black.
