Chapter 6
The open sea was our only ally,
a vast,
impartial expanse where the rules of men and corporations dissolved into salt and deep water.
I spent the next three days navigating by the stars,
avoiding the main shipping lanes,
and feeding Ryan from the limited supplies I had grabbed from the burning pantry.
We were ghosts on the radar,
but I knew it was only a matter of time before the digital net closed around us again.
I had to find a neutral ground,
a place where the information I possessed was more valuable than the flesh of my son.
I pulled up the contact list on the tablet,
the encrypted,
non-public names that Logan had warned me never to use.
There was one name,
a retired signals analyst living in a remote fjord in Norway.
She had been one of the few who had fought against the original implementation of the Vanguard protocols.
If anyone could help us bury Ryan’s medical history,
it was her.
But reaching her would be a journey through the heart of the European network.
I plotted a course for the Shetland Islands,
a brief stop to refuel and exchange the boat for something less traceable.
The journey was a blur of gray swells and freezing spray.
My wound was festering,
the infection spreading with a silent,
thumping intensity that made every movement a battle against delirium.
Ryan took over the watch,
his eyes sharp as he scanned the horizon for ships,
his small frame resilient against the harsh elements.
I felt a surge of pride,
mixed with a bitter,
suffocating guilt.
This wasn't the childhood he deserved.
But he was alive.
And he was mine.
We reached the Shetlands under the cover of a dense,
unseasonal fog.
I found a dock in a hidden cove,
a place where smugglers and outcasts conducted their business in the dark.
I traded the boat—the only home we had left—for an old,
reconditioned trawler that looked like it had been held together by rust and sheer force of will.
It was ugly,
slow,
and perfectly anonymous.
We loaded our supplies,
the weight of the operation becoming heavier with every passing hour.
I felt the first signs of the sepsis—the fever dreams,
the hallucinations,
the weakness.
I had to get to the fjord.
I had to get him help.
As we pulled away from the docks,
I caught a glimpse of a black,
unmarked helicopter hovering on the horizon,
its rotors a rhythmic,
thumping heartbeat against the fog.
They were here.
They were already here.
"Dad,"
Ryan said,
his voice calm,
pointing to the sky.
"There's a bird."
"A big bird,"
I whispered,
my hand reaching for the flares.
"And we need to let them know we aren't worth the trouble."
I didn't fire the flares.
I rigged the old boat's engine to overload,
a timer set for five minutes.
We jumped into a small,
inflatable raft as the trawler chugged forward,
a decoy heading toward the open ocean.
The explosion was magnificent,
a ball of fire and debris that bloomed against the fog like a dying star.
The helicopter turned,
its sensors drawn to the heat and the motion,
and we slipped away in the dark,
a small,
inflatable speck on the churning,
angry sea.
We had escaped again.
But the cost was getting higher.
My vision was blurring,
the world turning into a kaleidoscope of gray,
black,
and deep,
inviting blue.
I fell back into the raft,
the cold water washing over me,
and I prayed for the strength to survive one more mile.
May you like
One more hour.
One more breath.
