The Atlantic wind howling off New York Harbor tasted like salt, industrial diesel, and impending violence.
Seventy-two hours had passed since Daniel Choi handed over the matte-black entry card. Now, cutting through the freezing, fog-drenched darkness of the private docks, Christian and Julianne walked shoulder-to-shoulder.
Ahead of them, anchored at the exact coordinates printed on the card, floated a massive, three-deck superyacht. Its hull was painted a stealthy, matte obsidian. There were no registration numbers visible, only the flag of Panama hanging limply from the stern.
Julianne wore a floor-length, midnight-blue silk gown. The strategic draping flawlessly concealed the slight, four-week swell of her abdomen, while the plunging back exposed her pale, elegant spine. She looked li
