Chapter 45 Interception Point
The ninety-minute countdown eliminated all pretense of civilization. The local team had a powerful, dark sedan waiting, and the drive from the industrial district to the port was less a journey and more a controlled demolition of traffic laws. Rhys was in the front passenger seat, barking commands in Mandarin and English into two separate comms while I sat immediately behind him, my documents secured in a waterproof bag.
The speed was reckless, forcing me to brace against the center console. The car slammed through corners, and I was thrown violently toward the driver's side, then immediately back toward Rhys. Every maneuver pressed my knee, hip, or shoulder against his seat, sending a jolt of heat through my damp clothes. The adrenaline pumping through my system, meant to heighten my senses against danger, instead sharpened my awareness of him.
"Hold steady, Dr. Winslow," Rhys ordered, his voice flat, not looking back. He knew exactly where I was, exactly how the G-forces were leveraging my body against his space.
"My stability is contingent on your driver's sanity, Vance," I shot back, forcing a note of scorn into my voice. I leaned forward, resting one hand on the back of his leather seat, forcing myself to look past his shoulder, focusing on the flashing, chaotic lights of the port ahead. The air inside the car was thick with the scent of his cologne and the coppery tang of my own fear and arousal.
The car skidded to a stop near a dilapidated dock structure. Two of Rhys’s operatives—solid, silent men—were waiting by a low, black speedboat designed for speed and stealth. The port was dark, lit only by high-mast security lamps that cast long, distorting shadows.
"We move now," Rhys commanded, leaping from the car. He didn't wait. He was already aboard the rocking, low-slung vessel when he turned, extending his hand.
The dock was slippery with salt and grime. I took his hand, and the contact, though necessary, was explosive. His grip was iron—hot, rough, and absolute. He didn't simply guide me; he claimed me. In one smooth, effortless movement, Rhys swung me from the dock and across the gap, placing me down hard on the fiberglass bench of the boat. My legs tangled for a moment, and I lost my balance, falling not onto the seat, but directly against his chest.
The impact was startling—a complete, momentary compression of our bodies. My breasts were crushed against the hard plate of his abdomen, and my hands instinctively flew up, finding purchase on the thick cord of his neck. The roar of his body heat was immediate, overwhelming the humid air.
"Anchor yourself," he growled, his voice a low, warning sound directly in my ear, his hands spanning my waist with bruising authority to set me straight. The contact lasted only two seconds, but in that fleeting, terrifying moment, the reality of our shared physical destiny—and the memory of our night in Monaco—reasserted itself with punishing clarity.
The engines roared to life, deafening in the close quarters. We shot out from the dockside, navigating the narrow channel toward the vastness of the Singapore Strait. The water was choppy, and the boat slammed down repeatedly, jarring my teeth. I focused on the horizon, trying to ignore the way the violent, random motion continually threw me closer to Rhys, who sat directly opposite me.
He was all focused efficiency, talking low into his headset, detailing the Triton's exact coordinates to his offshore surveillance assets. The sea spray hit us, cold and sharp, but it couldn't cool the furnace inside my clothes.
"The Triton is making speed," Rhys announced, lowering his voice so only I could hear him over the engine's whine. "They’re running dark. They know we’re coming."
"They're mercenaries, Vance," I yelled back, holding tightly to the side rail. "Finch wouldn't send them without a counter-protocol."
"Then we will break their protocol," he stated, his grey eyes flashing in the intermittent moonlight. He leaned in, his face close to mine as the boat executed a sharp turn. The sudden shift slammed my thigh hard against his, and I gasped, a sound lost in the engine's noise. Rhys didn't pull away. He held the contact, maintaining the hard pressure of his leg against mine, using it as a shared anchor against the centrifugal force. It was a raw, silent acknowledgment of the energy binding us, functional and erotic all at once.
After ten minutes of brutal high-speed travel, a dark mass appeared ahead. The Triton, a squat, powerful tug with minimal running lights, was speeding toward the breakwater, minutes from escaping into open, chaotic seas.
Rhys gave the signal. The speedboat drew alongside the tug in a shower of spray. Two of his operatives secured grappling lines.
Rhys moved first, a seamless transition from sitting executive to brutal operator. He vaulted onto the tug's deck, drawing a silenced weapon. The confrontation was immediate and loud, filled with the crack of fiberglass and shouted commands in a language I didn't recognize.
"Dr. Winslow," Rhys barked, appearing suddenly at the tug's railing, his face streaked with sweat and water. "Bridge. Now. Secure the navigation system."
I didn't hesitate. I scrambled up the ladder, ignoring the burning protest of my muscles. I found the bridge empty except for a single, panicked technician trying to wipe the ship's hard drives. I threw myself at him, my shoulder connecting hard with his chest, sending him sprawling. I ripped the data cable from his hand.
I looked down at the tug's deck. Rhys was standing over a mercenary, his foot planted on the man's chest, ensuring compliance. He looked feral, powerful, utterly untamed.
I turned to the primary console, analyzing the ship's comms logs. They weren't transmitting coordinates; they were receiving them. I found the encryption key and fed the logs to Julian.
A moment later, Rhys was beside me in the cramped bridge, his presence filling the space with damp heat and violence. "What did we get?"
"We stopped the cable cutter," I managed, fighting for breath. "But the funds were still moving. They were receiving instructions, Vance. Instructions for an extraction point." I pointed to the glowing screen. "Finch is expecting them to complete the sabotage, but if they fail, he has a backup plan for the primary asset: Ljubljana. He’s moving the core architecture to Slovenia."
Rhys stared at the screen, then down at me, his eyes burning with a dark, satisfied intensity. The danger was averted, but the hunt was far from over. And neither was the agonizing tension between us.