They Drank My Father’s Champagne and Toasted My Death. They Forgot Whose Daughter I Am

A roar dropped out of the black sky above us, enormous, mechanical, drowning the storm — and four brilliant spotlights snapped on at once and pinned the deck in white glare as a tactical helicopter came down out of the dark and hung directly over the yacht, rotor wash flattening the rain sideways.

And out of the darkness on the water, three high-speed interceptor boats came in fast from three directions, throwing wings of spray, their lights strobing blue and red across the waves, hemming the yacht in on every side.

“UNITED STATES COAST GUARD! NOBODY MOVE! DOWN ON THE DECK, NOW!”

Ropes uncoiled down from the helicopter and officers came down them faster than seemed possible, hitting the teak with their weapons already up.

Flynn made a high, broken sound I’d never heard from a grown man and stumbled backward, letting go of me so suddenly I dropped to the boards.