“YES, DADDY,” THE FILIPINO GIRL, Becca, spoke into the phone. Her voice was as charming as her cherub-like face, but Flynn didn’t buy it. It was all an act to appease Daddy, so he’d open his pockets wider.

Captain Chen manned the helm like a veteran sailor, letting his boss’ daughter finish the conversation. Flynn stood at the back of the bridge, waiting for the right moment to announce his presence. He hoped to use the satellite phone at some point, too. Dean was probably freaking out that Flynn hadn’t made the flight, though he wouldn’t land in Brisbane until tomorrow morning.

Becca dangled the heeled sandal from her toes, while twisting the fringe on her bikini. Occasionally she’d roll her eyes. “Yes, we’ll behave ourselves…She’s not that bad, Daddy. I’m keeping her in line… We’ll be safe on the island with Captain Chen, don’t worry.”

Chen’s chin flexed slightly, but he kept his eyes on the sea through the expansive windows. Clear skies…at least beyond the glass.

The captain is escorting them to shore? Interesting.

“Daddy, I have to go…Yes, I’ll see you in Singapore. Bye.” She hung up and groaned, like a toddler that was just told to go to bed. “Even in the middle of the ocean, I can’t get away from his nagging.” She noticed Flynn, still waiting. “Oh, the engineer hottie,” she cooed with a smile. “Care to join us on our night dive? We’d love to have you.” Something flashed across her face, but Flynn wasn’t looking that closely to identify it.

“That’s nice of you to offer,” Captain Chen answered in his heavy Chinese accent. “However, our engineer has tasks to perform while you’re ashore, Miss Becca.”

Flynn kept a sigh of relief to himself. Instead, he remained silent while she strode out of the bridge, lingering at his side for an extra long look before she turned the corner.

“You asked to see me, Captain.” Flynn kept his spine rigid, a familiar stance from the Navy while addressing a superior officer. Chen turned, his hands firm at his sides. The man didn’t smile, not that Flynn expected him to. Either a skipper thing or Chinese thing, it didn’t matter. The man’s air commanded respect.

“Let me make one thing clear. There will be no fraternizing with the clients—or other crew members—while under my service.”

“Understood.” Not that you needed to say it. Those brats are hardly attractive.

Chen checked a few instruments on the navigation board. “What’s your impression of the equipment below?”

Flynn hesitated. How direct can I be? I got in trouble with my last commander for being too honest. “It could use some improvements,” was the best truthful reply he could come up with, however understated.

Chen nodded. “I’m no engineer, and even I could’ve said that.”

So he’s not disillusioned, like my last CO.

“I’ll need a few replacement parts to make it run better.”

“You’ll have to make do with what we have on board. The owner hasn’t authorized payment for new equipment or parts.”

Figures. A Penny Saved indeed.

“The owner will be joining us in Singapore for the remainder of the trip,” Chen continued. “Anything you can do to make the equipment more efficient until then will be greatly appreciated. I’d like to arrive on time.”

“Four days.”

The captain blinked. “Four days?”

“Until Singapore,” Flynn answered. If we’re meeting the owner in Singapore, then they can’t change the itinerary. Four days on this boat, then I can get Alanna to the U.S. Consulate.

“Shore leave is for those who complete their duties and prove their work ethic,” the captain replied in a clipped tone. “Don’t disappoint me.”

Another man strode onto the bridge, a younger Chinese with a stiff spine and tight uniform shirt. Either eighteen or forty, it was hard to decipher in his features. But clearly younger than Chen with a shaved face and patchy, faded pot marks. Indicative of a greenhorn in any other race.

“This is First Officer and Navigator, Liang Wen. When I accompany the women ashore, he’s in charge.”

Liang gave a slight bow in the traditional Chinese greeting, again with no smile like his superior. Without a word, he took the helm and went about his watch.

I’m probably more experienced than this kid, but as long as they don’t ask me any questions, I’ll play along like a Capuchin monkey if I have to.

Captain Chen motioned for Flynn to join him out of the wheelhouse, then led him around the corner. Before they reached the galley, the captain stopped him.

“I don’t know what your relationship is with Miss Alanna, or how you received this job on late notice. I don’t care. My orders still stand.”

“I’ve got it,” Flynn replied a little too sharply. “Keep my hands to myself and stick to the job. This isn’t my first charter.” Do I have a Troublemaker sign on my forehead?

Chen’s expression sharpened in a blink. “Watch your tone. That’s your only warning.”

Guess that’s a no on the satellite phone. He nodded and left, brushing passed the galley where Alfred and Alanna were cooking something that smelled delectable. Chocolaty. But he wasn’t in any mood for chatting.

He made his way to the engine room below deck, where he could focus on things he liked: fiddling with engines, where the noise drowned out overbearing officers on power trips, who repeated themselves a dozen times like he was incompetent or deaf.

If these men knew even half the things I can do, they’d never question or warn me again.

So I guess I’ll have to prove it.

 

 

 

Puerto Princesa’s waters were clear, pristine, and remote. But too shallow for the yacht to dock, so they had to anchor out several-hundred yards off shore, and shuttle the girls in on the tender.

This was the perfect secluded spot for a private night dive. Calm sea, lush reef, with barely anyone to crowd them. With a full moon overhead, Alanna doubted the quartet would need flashlights at all. She would’ve loved to join them, despite Stacia’s presence. But the reluctant steward was stuck on the boat.

They’d dropped anchor three hours before, just as the sun was setting. Most of the crew had finished their prep work and gone ashore for dinner and a brief break, except for Flynn who’d hidden himself in the engine room all afternoon. Whatever the captain said had clearly irritated him. She’d gone below once to talk to him, but with one look it was clear he wasn’t ready to vent. Letting him take it out on engine parts seemed the better choice, at least until they crashed later.

Liang stayed behind to man the ship, not to mention Alfred, who’d prepped late night snacks for the clients’ return. Then conveniently complained of a headache and went to bed. Which left Alanna in charge of prepping the clients’ rooms for their return.

Before she went ashore, Marie had shown her how to properly turn down the beds and fold the towels. The little white chocolates on the pillows were a nice touch, and coincidentally Alanna’s favorite. The last task was folding the towels in the dryer.

Since no one was around, Alanna set the basket on the sofa in the salon and turned on the massive flat screen television, praying she’d catch some local news channel. Maybe they’d have an update on Solana or news of her brother.

Please let me find something. The weight in the pack around her waist grew heavier with every flip of the channel. Everything was static.

“What are you doing?”

Alanna spun and faced Liang’s accusing stare. The steaming cup in his hand smelled of strong coffee. His eyes were dark, as if his irises had disappeared. He was hard to read.

“I was looking for a news station.”

Liang eyed her, then held out his hand for the remote.

Alanna pursed her lips. Unbelievable. They won’t even allow me to find the news when the ship is empty. So many damn rules, just like the palace. She handed him the remote.

With a few buttons, Liang turned the television to BBC. “Make sure it’s off and these towels are cleared by the time they return.” His Chinese accent was thick, but the words were clear.

Alanna smiled. He didn’t return it, but he nodded, and retreated downstairs.

Nine towels later, as Alanna was losing hope of hearing anything, a picture of her father flashed on the screen. She dropped the towel, scrambling for the remote to turn up the volume.

“King Rodrigo Peralta’s death and the subsequent takeover of Solana have outraged the international community. The United Nations condemns the attack, demanding the Philippines government to intervene. Until now, they’ve refused to take a harsher stance against the drug cartels, who are believed responsible for the royal family’s assassination.”

The picture of her father was from his last dignitary visit to the UK several years before. Alanna had joined him for a play in London’s West End. He’d worn his favorite navy blue suit and green-striped tie, and had always smelled like the tropical flowers in the palace gardens. Whenever Alanna had hugged him, she’d savored it.

Her father wore the blue sash across his chest when out in public, held in place with a jeweled, gold pin of the Hawk of Solana in the center. Its eyes were made of the ice-blue ammephire stone, and its wings spread wide in flight. But in the picture, her father’s face was more wrinkled, more tired than she remembered. As loving and doting as he was, the demands of his country, the loss of her mother, and more recently, the exile of her brother had taken its toll on him.

“The attacks appear coordinated with the attempted assassination of both the Solanian prime minister, as well as the king’s eldest son, Prince André in Las Vegas, Nevada. Though the prince escaped, the prime minister is now unaccounted for. The future of the Solanian royal family remains in question, with the youngest, Princess Alanna, still missing.”

The picture changed to hers, the same one she saw earlier. Her bright eyes smiled back at her, almost mocking her current despair, completely unaware of the catastrophe approaching.

“By law, Princess Alanna is next in line for the throne due to her elder brother’s exile and Crown Prince Tulio’s death. But with most of its parliament members either killed or scattered, the chain of command falls on the heavily damaged military powers. The United Nations Security Council has postponed the vote to send in troops until tomorrow, at the U.S. Ambassador’s request, citing conflicting intelligence reports.”

“Que?” Alanna shouted at the television. “Conflicting intelligence reports? What the hell does that mean?”

Her already-heavy heart dropped to the floor. The contingency plan was based on her father’s agreement with the United States to keep her safe in times of crisis. Everything she’d done since she fled Solana was to get to a U.S. Consulate. Now they were the ones blocking UN intervention.

The news flashed more videos of the destruction of government buildings on Solana, and citizens running for cover from a mass horde of armed mercenaries flooding the streets. The main market behind the marina was completely ablaze.

What the hell is conflicting about these images? They’re being slaughtered—it can’t get clearer than that.

The one that ripped at her mind the most was the still-smoking Royal Square, the main courtyard outside the palace, with the sky-blue dome roof visible above the palm tree line. She’d seen the explosion that destroyed the Royal Guard’s offices, undoubtedly killing everyone inside. A cry threatened to crawl up her throat.

“…coordinated by the Lozano cartel based in Manila. The Philippine government claims the leader, Santos Lozano, has been in hiding for the last year, relying on his generals to conduct most of his business, despite a massive manhunt for the capture of this brutal criminal.”

Alanna scoffed. They’re not trying that hard to find him. He has everyone paid off so he can park his massive yacht in their front yard.

“Bugga’ me.”

Alanna turned. Alfred stood at the top of the stairs in matching burgundy pajama shirt and pants. He stared at the television, slack-jawed. “Princess?”

Her picture was still on screen, tiara and all.

Mierde!