Chapter 8 - Midnight Intercept
The Gulfstream G650ER sliced through the dark turbulence at 45,000 feet, cruising at Mach 0.90 toward South Florida.
I sat in my rightful seat—the wide, cream leather captain’s chair behind the forward bulkhead. Daniel was working across from me, coordinating with the Broward County Sheriff’s Office and federal marshals stationed at Port Everglades.
"The Sea Mist is an eighty-foot Sunseeker," Daniel said, tracking a blinking GPS transponder on his tablet. "Registered to a shell company tied to Kenneth Kowalski—Sabrina’s older brother. Coast Guard has placed a discreet monitoring detail outside the inlet, but they can't board the vessel without probable cause until it enters federal territorial waters."
"We don't wait for her to enter the water," I said. "What time does her car hit Fort Lauderdale?"
"Based on traffic cameras and license plate readers on I-95, her silver sedan crossed the Florida state line forty minutes ago. She’ll reach Pier 44 around 3:30 AM."
I leaned back, swirling two fingers of sparkling water in a crystal glass. The humiliation Grant had planned for me had vanished like smoke. In its place was a sharp, clinical focus. My father had always told me: When a competitor tries to steal your ground, you don't argue with them. You buy the ground beneath their feet and evict them.
"Daniel," I said. "Who owns Pier 44 Marina?"
Daniel tapped his keyboard, searching commercial land registries. "It's owned by Coastal Marine Holdings... which is a subsidiary of Vance-Hawthorne Real Estate Trust."
I almost laughed. The sheer irony was poetic.
"Call the dockmaster," I said. "Tell him the owner of the marina requires an immediate lockdown of all slips. Turn off the shore power to Pier 44. Lock the security gates. No vessels depart until I arrive."
At 2:45 AM, the Gulfstream touched down smoothly at Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport. A motorcade of two black Suburbans, arranged by our private security contractors, was waiting on the tarmac beside the private terminal.
We drove through the humid, salt-tinged Florida night, the palm trees whipping in the pre-dawn ocean breeze.
When we pulled up to the gated entrance of Pier 44, three Broward County patrol cruisers were already parked with their lights dimmed. The dockmaster, an older man in a windbreaker, stood beside the security booth holding a clipboard.
"Mrs. Whitmore?" he asked as I stepped out of the SUV.
"Yes. Is the Sea Mist still in its slip?"
"Right at the end of Dock C," the dockmaster confirmed. "Shore power is cut, and we placed a steel maintenance barge across the fairway channel. Nothing bigger than a jet ski is getting out to the ocean tonight."
"And the silver sedan?"
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"Drove in ten minutes ago," he pointed toward a dark rental car parked under the shadow of a banyan tree. "A woman carrying two heavy bags went aboard. She hasn't come back down."
I turned to the lead federal marshal standing beside me. "Shall we?"
