Chapter 148
Chapter 148:
A sleek white luxury yacht was carving through the waves toward their position, moving fast. The name painted along its stern in gold script was unmistakable: The English Rose. Kegan’s men on the tactical boat raised their weapons instantly — then stood down just as fast at a sharp word from Kegan over their comms. He was letting the snake into the pit.
Cailin followed Hilliard’s gaze.
Standing at the bow, gripping the railing and wearing an expression of perfectly staged devastation beneath a white cashmere wrap, was Charla English.
“Hilliard! Hilliard!” she screamed, waving both arms as though she were the cavalry arriving to save the day.
J𝗈і𝗻 𝗼𝘂𝗋 𝘤𝗈𝘮𝗺uո𝗶t𝘺 𝘰𝘯 𝗀𝗮l𝗻𝗼𝘷е𝗅𝘀.сom
Cailin’s hands curled into fists at her sides. The audacity. The sheer, breathtaking evil of it.
“Speak of the devil,” she said.
The English Rose pulled alongside the tactical boat, its crew hastily deploying a gangway. Before it was even fully secured, Charla rushed across it, her heels clicking precariously on the wet metal.
“Oh my God! Hilliard, are you okay? Is the child okay?” she sobbed, her face arranged into an expression of practiced terror.
She threw her arms around Hilliard’s wet, shivering frame. “I was so worried! Gretchen’s boat had a silent alarm linked to my phone. I saw the alert and came as fast as I could p>
Hilliard stood rigid, his arms at his sides. He let her cling to him, his eyes cold and analytical, watching the performance with a chilling stillness. He was reconciling the woman in his arms with the kill order Gavin had confirmed.
Cailin watched from beneath her blanket, shivering, a fresh wave of nausea rising in her throat.
“How could this happen?” Charla pulled back and dabbed a perfectly formed tear from her cheek. “I will sue the rental company. They let a maniac take our boat p>
She turned her gaze to Cailin, her expression shifting seamlessly into one of deep, theatrical sympathy. “Cali, I am so sorry. I can’t imagine how frightened you must have been.” Charla took a step toward her, extending a manicured hand as if to offer comfort.
Cailin snapped.
Five years of rage — every lonely night, every lie, every moment of fear compressed into a single instant — detonated.
Smack.
She slapped Charla’s hand away, the sound cutting across the water sharper than the wind. The motion cost her; a wave of dizziness crashed through her and she stumbled backward, catching herself against the cabin wall.
“Don’t touch me, you murderer,” Cailin said. Her voice was deadly calm but thin, barely holding its shape.
Charla gasped. She stumbled back, eyes wide with mock horror. Then, with the grace of a trained performer, she glanced down, located a rope cleat bolted to the deck, and stepped deliberately into it.
She went down with a cry, clutching her leg. “Ah! My ankle p>
“Charla!” Hilliard was already moving toward her, his face tight with concern.
“She pushed me! Hilliard, she pushed me!” Charla wept. “I was only trying to help p>
Hilliard looked up at Cailin, his brow drawing into a hard, accusing line. “What is wrong with you? She came here to help p>
“She fell on her own,” Cailin said, her voice flat with exhaustion. “It’s an act, Hilliard. It has always been an act p>