Chapter 2 - The Ghost of Newport
The Newport Shipyard was quiet at three o'clock in the morning. A heavy fog had rolled in off the bay, wrapping the towering hulls of the luxury yachts in a cold, grey shroud. The smell of diesel, salt, and wet timber hung heavy in the air.
I stood in the shadow of an empty shipping container, wearing a dark hoodie and black jeans, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
My father’s yacht, The Celeste, was docked at slip forty-two. It was a massive, hundred-and-forty-foot custom Benetti, a floating palace of chrome, glass, and teak. Usually, there would be a full crew on board, but according to the shipyard’s public schedule, the vessel was scheduled for a complete mechanical haul-out and cleaning following the "tragic accident." The crew had been dismissed for the week, leaving only a single night watchman.
I had spent the last twenty-four hours studying the security layout of the shipyard. As a teenager, I had spent summers sneaking out of this very port to escape my family’s suffocating control. I knew the blind spots of the harbor cameras. I knew how to slip past the main gate by walking along the rocky breakwater.
"Mara," Elise's voice whispered through my earpiece. She was parked a quarter-mile away, monitoring the shipyard’s public radio frequencies on a police scanner. "The security guard just completed his rounds on the west dock. You have a ten-minute window before he loops back to the main office."
"Copy that," I whispered back.
I slipped out of the shadows, my sneakers moving silently over the damp gravel. I ran toward the boarding ramp of The Celeste. The yacht sat low in the water, looking dark and dead in the fog.
I reached the bottom of the ramp and took a deep breath. The physical memory of the cold Atlantic washed over me, making my limbs freeze for a split second. This is where they threw you, my mind screamed. This is where they tried to drown your child.
I forced my feet to move, stepping onto the teak deck.
The yacht was silent, save for the gentle creaking of the lines against the dock. The main salon doors were locked, but I didn't need to get inside the main cabin. I needed to get to the bridge.
The bridge of The Celeste housed the vessel's primary navigation and communication systems, including the onboard security server. Like most ultra-luxury yachts of its class, my father’s boat was equipped with a state-of-the-art camera system that recorded twenty-four hours a day, storing the footage on a secure, closed-loop server located in the captain’s quarters behind the helm.
I climbed the narrow stairs to the upper deck, my eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of motion. The fog was my ally, hiding me from the high-resolution cameras mounted on the slip’s light poles.
I reached the bridge door. It was secured with a digital keypad.
I stared at the glowing blue buttons. My father was a man of absolute habit, a man who believed his own intelligence was so superior that no one could ever outsmart him. He used the same six-digit code for everything—his private safe in Brookline, the keyless entry to his office, and the security doors on his boats.
It was the date of his first major real estate acquisition: October 14, 1984.
1 - 0 - 1 - 4 - 8 - 4.
I pressed the keys. The lock clicked, and the heavy door slid open with a soft hiss.
I slipped inside, closing the door behind me. The bridge was pitch black, smelling of expensive leather and electronics. I pulled out a small penlight and clicked it on, keeping the beam pointed downward.
I moved past the massive captain's wheel and the glowing navigation screens, entering the small office space directly behind the main console. This was where the vessel’s computer hardware was housed.
I found the security rack. A small blue light was blinking on the server unit, indicating it was active and recording.
"Elise, I'm in," I whispered.
"Great. Do you see the USB port on the front of the main drive?"
"Yes."
"Plug in the drive I gave you. It has an automated extraction script. It should bypass the admin password and copy the last seventy-two hours of video data directly to the flash drive. It’ll take about four minutes."
I pulled the high-speed flash drive from my pocket and slotted it into the server. Instantly, the blue light turned to a solid, angry red as the data began to transfer.
3:02 AM.
I stood in the dark, my eyes darting to the windows of the bridge. The fog was thickening, making the lights of the shipyard look like distant, ghostly eyes.
Then, I heard it.
The soft, metallic sound of a shoe hitting the boarding ramp below.
My heart stopped.
"Elise," I breathed, my voice barely a thread of air. "Did you see anyone enter the dock?"
There was no response through the earpiece. Only static.
"Elise?"
"Mara... crackle... static... police... coming..."
The connection went dead.
I looked at the server. The progress bar on the small screen was only at forty-two percent.
Forty-two percent.
The footsteps were louder now, moving deliberately across the lower teak deck. They weren't the hurried, heavy steps of a shipyard security guard. They were quiet. Measured. Professional.
I pressed myself against the wall beside the office door, holding my breath, my hand reaching out to grab a heavy metal winch handle sitting on the console.
The footsteps started up the stairs leading to the bridge.
I looked at the server screen. Eighty-one percent.
The door to the bridge opened.
A man stepped into the dark room. He was tall, dressed in a dark tactical jacket, his face shadowed by a baseball cap. He didn't turn on the lights. He held a small, professional flashlight in one hand, and in the other, a suppressed semi-automatic pistol.
He wasn't security. He was a professional.
He moved toward the captain's desk, his flashlight beam scanning the floor. He saw the glowing blue screen of the security server.
He stepped into the office cubicle.
The second his back was turned to me, I swung the heavy winch handle with every ounce of strength left in my aching body.
The metal struck the side of his head with a sickening crack.
He let out a muffled grunt and stumbled forward, his gun clattering against the deck. He didn't go down. He spun around, his eyes wild, his hand reaching out to grab my throat.
I kicked him in the knee, hard. He buckled, and I slammed the winch handle into his collarbone. He collapsed against the desk, groaning in pain.
I grabbed the flash drive from the server. The screen read 100% COMPLETE.
I didn't look back. I ran out of the bridge, down the stairs, and vaulted over the side railing onto the floating dock below, my feet hitting the wooden planks with a loud smack.
Behind me, the man stumbled out onto the upper deck, raising his pistol.
A silent spark flashed in the fog.
A bullet struck the wooden dock inches from my foot, sending splinters flying.
I ran. I ran through the cold, gray fog, my lungs burning, my heart exploding, not stopping until I breached the main gate and threw myself into the passenger seat of Elise’s waiting car.
May you like
"Go!" I screamed.
Elise slammed on the gas, the tires screeching as we tore away from the Newport Shipyard into the dark night, leaving the ghosts of my family behind us.
