Reed and his team, armed with intel from Secretary Kessler and maritime intelligence, had tracked Barry Cox to open waters near Vieques, Puerto Rico. They secured a discreet hotel perched on the slopes of Monte Pirata, the island's towering peak rising nearly a thousand feet above sea level. From their elevated vantage point, using a high-powered telescope set up by the window of their cramped hotel room, they could see the Hampshire Feadship Yacht—a floating palace of glass, steel, and excess—anchored in an isolated pocket of the ocean, far from standard shipping lanes. The yacht drifted like a ghost ship under the pale light of the moon, silent and untouchable. Its position shifted frequently, forcing Reed and his team to constantly adjust their surveillance, but with the steady flow of maritime intelligence, they managed to keep their target in sight. Each glimpse of the distant yacht brought with it a heavy reminder: Barry was out there, still moving pieces on his invisible chessboard.

  Inside, Barry Cox had attempted to sealed himself off from the world. Surrounded by endless sea and just a few handpicked loyalists, his empire had shrunk to the length of a yacht deck. Dovere remained at his side—a cold, methodical enforcer who acted without hesitation and questioned nothing. But Reed knew something Barry had likely overlooked: isolation breeds vulnerability.

  In Reed’s Puerto Rico hotel room, a makeshift control center hummed with activity. He stood in front of a flickering bank of monitors, each displaying maps of shipping lanes, satellite images of the yacht, and maritime intelligence reports. Carter sat hunched over a tablet, his brow furrowed in concentration. Kranch leaned against a wall, eyes sharp beneath furrowed brows.

  Reed turned to face them, and said, “Barry’s strength has always been his network. His ability to manipulate from the shadows, pull strings without being seen. But out there, he’s alone. Dovere is the last pillar holding him up. If we break Dovere, the whole fa?ade crumbles.”

  Carter looked up, skepticism etched across his face. "Reed, Dovere isn’t Seth. Seth had cracks—you could see them in his eyes when Barry turned up the pressure. Dovere’s different. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver. You could put a gun to his head, and he’d still follow orders without blinking. The man is carved out of stone and programmed like a machine. I think if Barry told him to jump overboard with an anchor tied to his ankles, Dovere wouldn’t hesitate—he’d just ask how deep the water is. Whatever loyalty looks like in Barry’s world, Dovere embodies it. You’re not going to shake that with a few clever words on a screen. If we’re betting everything on Dovere second-guessing Barry, we’d better make sure that message doesn’t just plant doubt—it needs to light a fuse.”

  Kranch grunted in agreement, his deep voice rumbling through the dimly lit room. "Reed, Carter’s right. Dovere’s not the kind of guy who loses sleep over moral dilemmas. He’s not wired like that. You could show him Barry’s entire empire crashing down in flames, and Dovere would still be there, holding the lighter and waiting for the next set of orders. But… everyone’s got a line, even Dovere. Barry killed Seth. And Dovere’s smart enough to know Barry doesn’t keep loose ends alive for long. If we can make him feel that—make him believe he’s not an exception to Barry’s rule—then maybe, just maybe, we can crack him. But it’s gotta be perfect. Dovere doesn’t guess. He doesn’t wonder. He only acts when he’s sure. That message has to punch him in the gut, Reed. It has to make him feel like the knife is already at his back."

  Reed nodded, “Which is why we won’t ask him to turn. We’ll make him think Barry already has. If we can plant a seed of doubt, Dovere’s loyalty becomes a ticking clock. That’s how we break him.”

  The room went quiet as the weight of the plan settled over them. It was audacious—reckless, even. Dovere wasn’t just loyal; he was smart. Manipulating him would require precision, and even then, it was a gamble.

  Carter’s chair creaked as he ran a hand through his hair. It was obvious this whole thing made him nervous. "You’re talking about baiting Dovere with a message he thinks he intercepted. But Barry’s no fool, Reed. If Dovere brings that message to him, Barry will sniff out the setup. Guys like Barry don’t survive this long without having an internal radar for manipulation. If he even suspects Dovere’s loyalty is wavering, he’ll turn the tables before we can blink. We’re not just playing chess here, Reed—we’re playing against someone who wrote the rulebook. One wrong move, one misplaced comma in that message, and Barry will smell the trap a mile away. Dovere might get spooked, or worse—he might double down on his loyalty. Either way, we lose."

  Reed’s gaze was unyielding. “That’s why the message has to feel accidental—like Dovere stumbled onto something he wasn’t meant to see. It needs to look like Barry let his guard slip.”

  Kranch pushed off the wall. “How do we even get a message like that to Dovere without raising red flags?”

  Reed turned to Carter. “The Lyt Meeter.”

  The words hung in the air like a challenge. Carter’s face went pale.

  “No way, Reed. If we do this—if we strip it down, weaken the encryption—it’s done. The Lyt Meeter’s finished. We’ll never get another use out of it. You’re talking about burning one of our most valuable tools.”

  Reed stepped closer, “If this works, Carter, we won’t need it again.”

  For a moment, Carter didn’t move. Then he let out a long breath and nodded, rolling his chair over to the Lyt Meeter. The device sat on the desk, small and unassuming, but its value was immeasurable.

  Carter began to work, fingers flying over the controls as he stripped the device down to its bare digital bones. Sparks flared as he bypassed failsafes and overrode security protocols. Each keystroke felt final, like chiseling away at a marble statue. Kranch hovered nearby, his broad shoulders tense. Reed paced, his mind racing through every contingency, every potential failure point.

  After what felt like an eternity, Carter leaned back, sweat dotting his brow. The Lyt Meeter was humming faintly, its light flickering erratically.

  “It’s ready,” Carter said, his voice tight. “But this is a one-shot deal. Once we hit SEND, this thing’s toast.”

  Reed nodded, stepping forward. “The message needs to be subtle. It can’t scream setup. It has to feel like a glimpse behind the curtain—like Dovere caught something he wasn’t supposed to see.”

  They crafted the message together, each word weighed carefully, balanced on a razor’s edge.

  "Seth served his purpose. Dovere will too. Loose ends get tied off eventually."

  Carter’s finger hovered over the SEND button. For a split second, hesitation flickered across his face. He looked to Reed, then Kranch. Their eyes held a clear message: Push the button. Taking a deep breath, he pressed it.

  The Lyt Meeter shuddered. A wisp of smoke curled from its seams, and its faint hum died away. The small device slumped lifeless on the table; its final task complete.

  Silence filled the room. All eyes turned to the monitor displaying a stream of digital signals. The bait was in the water—cast into the vast, endless sea of cyberspace.

  Kranch broke the silence. “If Dovere bites, he’ll second-guess every word out of Barry’s mouth.”

  Reed said calmly, “And if he doesn’t… we’re dead in the water.”

  The team stood in silence, watching the screen like fishermen staring at a motionless line, waiting for the faintest tug—a ripple in the stillness.

  Reed leaned against the table, his voice low. “Now we wait.”

  The camera feeds flickered. The static hum of electronics filled the air. Outside, the distant crash of waves against the shore echoed faintly. Somewhere, out in the vast emptiness of the ocean, Dovere’s world was about to tilt—if they were lucky.

  And if they weren’t… they’d have to find another way.

  The next seventy-two hours stretched like wire pulled taut over a pit of uncertainty.

  In the cramped confines of their temporary command center, Reed, Carter, and Kranch existed in a haze of stale coffee, dim screens, and endless silence. The faint hum of servers and the occasional static crackle of a radio were the only sounds filling the void. Grimes, still stationed in Las Vegas, sent periodic updates—none of them offering any clarity.

  Fatigue weighed heavy on all of them. Sleep came in scattered, restless shifts—twenty-minute naps stolen between data updates, heads slumped against the table or propped up against the wall. Someone was always awake, taking their turn monitoring screens, scanning for any flicker of movement, any hint of progress.

  Meals were an afterthought—protein bars and lukewarm coffee, a steady diet of caffeine and convenience. At one point, Carter had made a quick run to a street vendor just outside the hotel, returning with a grease-stained paper bag filled with empanadas. The smell alone had jolted them out of their haze, a fleeting reminder of the world beyond the four walls of their command center. They ate in silence, the warm, flaky pastry and savory filling a brief comfort before returning to the grind.

  Carter paced like a caged animal, muttering under his breath about the odds of success. Kranch’s attention shifted between the telescope and the monitors, eyes flicking between maritime traffic logs and communication intercepts, searching for even the faintest ripple in the digital ocean—and the actual ocean. Reed, seated at the head of the table, stared blankly at the dead Lyt Meeter, its charred components a painful reminder of their one-shot gamble.

  It had been hours. Maybe days. The clock meant nothing anymore. The only rhythm they followed was the slow, grinding cycle of watching, waiting, and trying not to think about what would happen if they missed their window.

  Each hour dragged on, every tick of the clock reverberating in their ears like a drumbeat of doubt. Messages poured in from Kessler—coded updates about maritime patrols, flagged signals, and unconfirmed sightings. But none of it pointed to Dovere.

  As the first day of waiting drew to a close, exhaustion began to set in.

  On the second night, Carter broke the silence. “What if he’s not biting, Reed? What if Dovere’s already shown the message to Barry and they’re laughing at us from the sundeck of that yacht right now?”

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  Reed didn’t answer, his gaze still locked on the screens.

  Kranch, ever stoic, grumbled, "It's Dovere. If he's thinking, he's not acting. If he's acting, he's not thinking. He's a slow burn, but if that seed took root, it'll grow. We just have to wait."

  By the third day, exhaustion clung to them like a heavy fog. Eyes bloodshot, nerves frayed, they cycled through caffeine, cold water, and snacks, anything to stay sharp. Grimes pinged them once more—still nothing.

  Hours stretched endlessly under the weight of waiting, punctuated only by the hum of electronics and the occasional clink of coffee cups on the cluttered table. The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in molten gold and dusky lavender as shadows stretched across the cramped hotel room. Time was ticking away—but soon, they would know if it had all been worth it.

  Miles away, across the vast ocean, Dovere had taken the bait, his doubt manifesting in subtle ways no one had noticed yet. For example, he lingered too long on his duties. He was seconds late to his assignments. The cracks were small, nearly imperceptible, but they were there. Even his responses to Barry were slower—not as crisp—laced with hesitation where there had once been certainty. He had started cross-checking intel he would have once accepted without question.

  Even his movements had changed. His usual confident stride had stiffened, his steps more cautious—uncertain. He hadn’t spoken his suspicions aloud, but the questions were forming, multiplying, pressing in on him with every passing hour.

  Dovere needed to act. And he needed to act now.

  Back in the hotel, Kranch, adjusted the focus ring of the telescope with deliberate care. The faint creak of the tripod echoed in the silence as he squinted into the eyepiece, tracking the glint of the Hampshire Feadship Yacht far out on the horizon. He let out a yawn, rubbing his eyes with one hand while keeping the other steady on the telescope.

  And then he froze.

  His posture straightened, and he leaned closer, his brow furrowing as he adjusted the focus one final time.

  "Reed…" Kranch's voice was low, measured, but carrying a sharp edge. He turned slightly, eyes still locked on the telescope. "I think we've got something."

  Carter took a look, typing rapidly on his laptop, translating the rhythmic morse code pattern of flashes into text.

  .-. . ... ..- .--. .-.. -.-- ..--- -.. .- -.-- ... -- . . - .--. ..- . .-. - --- .-. .. -.-. ---

  Carter glanced up, his face pale. “Resupply. Two days. Meet Puerto Rico.”

  The room went still.

  Reed exhaled slowly, his eyes locked on the faint flicker of light seen through the telescope. “It’s a signal. Dovere is doubting. And he’s careful about it. That means he’s not sold yet—but he’s listening.”

  Carter, still thinking about the decoded message, muttered, “This isn’t random chatter. He’s creating a gap. He wants us to see it. The same message is being sent at intervals.”

  Reed nodded firmly; his voice low but resolute. “He’s reaching out. It’s subtle, cautious—but it’s there. That’s enough for me. We find him. We meet him in two days. Looks like our little message was received.”

  Meanwhile, back on the yacht, Barry walked the hollow corridors of the Hampshire Feadship Yacht, his polished leather shoes echoing with a hollow finality against the marble floors. The grandeur of the vessel—a floating palace of luxury—now felt more like a mausoleum.

  Six staterooms, gleaming wood paneling, gold accents, and designer furnishings, yet only four were occupied: Barry, Dovere, and two of Dovere’s most trusted men. The rest of the yacht, minus the staff was empty, hollow, a void where an empire had once been built and celebrated. Barry passed an ornate dining table set for twelve, untouched plates still sparkling under the soft glow of the crystal chandelier. The yacht had been built for celebration, for power—but now it felt like a stage set for failure.

  He paused at one of the wide windows overlooking the endless ocean. The yacht was adrift in isolation, far from prying eyes, and yet Barry could feel them—eyes watching, shadows creeping in. His reflection stared back at him in the glass, a fine line of sweat clinging to his brow despite the air conditioning humming softly around him.

  The crew avoided his gaze now—quick nods, hurried footsteps, and eyes cast downward whenever he passed. Even Dovere, the ever-reliable hammer in Barry’s toolkit, had been quieter. Calculated, yes, but reserved. Dovere wasn’t speaking as much, wasn’t reporting every detail as he used to. And Barry noticed. He noticed everything.

  Stopping near the grand staircase that spiraled down toward the lower decks, Barry gripped the polished wooden railing tightly. His knuckles went white as his mind raced. Where had it gone wrong? Vienna. Seth. SYNC. The escape from Las Vegas. All moments that had slipped, cracks forming in what he once thought was an unbreakable plan.

  His empire had been vast—a network spanning continents, controlling information, people, and secrets. And now, piece by piece, it had crumbled.

  Dovere was still loyal, Barry assured himself. He was a professional, and professionals don’t let emotions cloud their judgment. But Dovere was no successor. No architect. He wasn’t a man who could carry Barry’s vision forward. Dovere was an enforcer, not a legacy.

  Legacy. The word gnawed at Barry like rust on steel. That’s what all of this had been about. Building something eternal, leaving his fingerprints on the world, ensuring his name wasn’t forgotten. But now, the legacy felt brittle—ready to shatter with the faintest push.

  Barry adjusted his posture, his breath steadying as he straightened his coat. He wasn’t done. Not yet. There was still a path back—there always was.

  He turned sharply, his eyes narrowing as he climbed the staircase to the control deck.

  If he could eliminate Reed Sawyer, if he could regain control of the narrative, he could still twist the story to his advantage.

  Barry Cox was not a man who faded into obscurity.

  The air in Puerto Rico carried the sharp tang of salt and diesel fumes as Reed, Kranch, and Carter waited under the sweltering sun, spread across vantage points near José Aponte de la Torre Airport. The tropical humidity clung to them, beading on their foreheads and soaking into their clothes. Above them, the sky remained deceptively calm, an endless stretch of blue—a stark contrast to the tension simmering below.

  Grimes' voice crackled through their earpieces from his remote station back in the U.S.

  “Helicopter approaching. Same profile as the one on Barry’s yacht. It’s him.”

  Reed exhaled slowly, his gaze locked on the horizon. A distant, low thrum filled the air as the helicopter emerged—a sleek black silhouette slicing through the sky before touching down on the sunbaked tarmac of the small airstrip.

  Kranch’s voice came low and steady. “Eyes on Dovere. He’s stepping out. Got two men with him. Both armed. Truck’s waiting. Looks like they’re heading out.”

  The trio exchanged quick glances, then split up—Kranch heading toward the far side of the airport, Carter blending into the traffic flow near the loading zone, and Reed trailing Dovere from a discreet distance.

  Reed followed the supply truck into the parking lot of Ralph’s Food Warehouse. The lights buzzed overhead, and the aisles smelled faintly of produce and industrial cleaner. Reed carefully followed Dovere discreetly, keeping his distance as crates of bottled water, rice, canned goods, and other supply items were loaded onto carts.

  Reed slipped into the produce section, maneuvering through stacks of cardboard boxes and crates of avocados. Dovere was examining a head of lettuce when Reed stepped into view, his hands raised, palms out.

  “Dovere,” Reed said, quietly.

  Dovere’s hand went immediately to his holstered pistol, his cold eyes locking onto Reed like a predator spotting prey.

  “Easy,” Reed said calmly. “You know how this ends if we go loud. I’m not here for that.”

  For a moment, the two men stood locked in a silent standoff, the hum of refrigeration units the only sound between them. Then, with a faint sigh, Dovere’s hand moved away from his weapon.

  “Talk fast, Sawyer,” Dovere said, his voice sharp, his shoulders still tense.

  Reed kept his voice low and measured. “You’ve been watching Barry, haven’t you? You know he’s unraveling. He’s slipping, Dovere. And you know as well as I do—you’re not Seth. You’re not disposable. But Barry doesn’t see it that way, does he?”

  Dovere’s eyes narrowed, his stoic face betraying just a flicker of doubt.

  Reed continued. “Here’s the truth—you can’t win this on your own. But together, we can finish this. I have the Coast Guard standing by. One word from me, and they’ll swarm that yacht.”

  Dovere’s voice was low, almost a growl. “No, that is not going to work.“

  Dovere stepped slightly closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “First, I don’t trust them. Second, Barry has a dead man's switch he carries in his pocket. The innocent crew and any coastguard aboard would be killed if he presses that button.”

  Dovere continues, “So, instead, how about I go back empty-handed. I’ll tell Barry the area was crawling with suspicious activity—too hot to risk a resupply run. He’s paranoid enough to believe it.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the aisle before continuing.

  “I’ll suggest shore leave for the crew next week. Barry will allow it. They have been acting funny and he knows they need a break. They’ll head out, thinking it’s just routine. But instead, they won’t come back. You can make sure they’re detained the moment they hit land.”

  Reed nodded slowly, processing the plan.

  Dovere’s voice dropped even lower. “That leaves Barry isolated. No crew. No supplies. No escape. He’ll be desperate, and desperate men make mistakes. I’ll dangle a lifeline—a contact, a dock, a fake escape route. And when he bites… you’ll be waiting.”

  Reed studied Dovere carefully. There was no hesitation in his words, no flicker of doubt in his cold, professional demeanor. But beneath that icy exterior, Reed caught something else—a faint crack in the armor.

  “What’s stopping you from taking the yacht and disappearing yourself?” Reed asked bluntly.

  Dovere smirked faintly. “Because, Sawyer, Barry Cox isn’t just my employer. He’s my unfinished business. And I don’t leave loose ends.”

  Reed extended his hand. Dovere stared at it for a moment before clasping it briefly—an agreement forged in shadows and necessity.

  “You know the stakes, Dovere. If this goes wrong, we all go down.”

  “It won’t,” Dovere said with steely certainty.

  Dovere stepped back, his expression already shifting into the unreadable mask he wore around Barry. Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the warehouse, blending into the background like a phantom.

  Reed regrouped with Kranch and Carter. The weight of the plan hung heavy in the air.

  “He’s going back,” Reed said quietly. “Empty-handed. If Barry buys it, we’ll have our opening.”

  Kranch rubbed his jaw. “It’s a good plan, but it hinges on Dovere sticking to it. He could still sell us out.”

  Reed's eyes squinted in the bright sun, watching the helicopter fade into the distance.

  “He won’t,” Reed said firmly. “Not this time.”

  The yacht drifted silently under a moonless sky, the soft lap of waves against the hull the only sound in the oppressive stillness. Dovere stepped onto the deck, his boots barely making a sound on the polished teak wood. His hands were empty, his face impassive—a mask carved from stone.

  Barry stood near the bow, his silhouette sharp against the faint glow of distant starlight. The dead man’s switch rested in his palm, his knuckles white from how tightly he gripped it. His gaze was locked on the horizon, where the sea stretched out into infinite darkness.

  “No supplies?” Barry’s voice was sharp, cutting through the night air.

  Dovere shook his head slowly. “Too many eyes. Too many questions. I had to pull back.”

  Barry’s eyes flickered with suspicion, but he said nothing. His fingers danced subtly along the dead man’s switch, as though testing its weight, its power. For a moment, Dovere thought Barry might press it right then and there—just to remind himself he still held control.

  Without another word, Dovere turned and walked away, disappearing into the labyrinthine corridors of the yacht. The flicker of doubt had been planted. The seed of paranoia, watered.

  Somewhere in the shadows of the yacht, Dovere paused, exhaling slowly. Every move from here on out would need to be perfect, every word calculated, every glance controlled.

  From the distant height of their hotel balcony near Monte Pirata, Reed, Kranch, and Carter stood side by side, taking turns staring at the faint blinking lights of the yacht through the telescope.

  “I sure hope this works.”

  Reed nodded slowly, his jaw set. “It has to work, so now we wait.”

  But the pieces were finally in place.

  The next move belonged to Dovere.