Chapter 23
The Atlantic Ocean was a churning expanse of deep blue beneath the fading afternoon sun. Three unmarked, military-grade tactical boats cut through the freezing waves with terrifying speed, converging on the rusting hull of the Sicilian freighter. Vincent did not orchestrate this assault from a comfortable boardroom; he stood at the bow of the lead vessel, the sea spray dampening his thick, neatly styled dark hair. He wore heavy black tactical gear over his tailored trousers, his suppressed assault rifle raised and ready. "Engage the jamming frequencies," Vincent ordered over the encrypted comms, his American accent slicing through the roar of the engines. "Black out their communications." The tactical boats slammed against the side of the freighter. Vincent and his elite operatives scaled the hull with blinding, synchronized efficiency. They breached the main deck, moving like phantoms. The Sicilian mercenaries, expecting a simple smuggling operation, were completely caught off guard. The sharp, deafening cracks of suppressed gunfire echoed across the water. Vincent moved with the lethal, fluid grace of a veteran warlord, systematically neutralizing the hostile guards with flawless, surgical precision. The bright, natural light of the setting sun offered no shadows for the intruders to hide within. Within four minutes, the deck was entirely painted with the blood of the foreign syndicate.
