The Last Rival

Malia 

​Peace, in our world, was never a permanent state; it was merely the interval between storms.

​It was 02:30 hours when the red emergency beacon flashed silently on the master console in our coastal command center. A secure ping from our naval radar picket off the coast of Queenscliff flagged an unauthorized vessel slipping past the maritime border: a low-slung, unregistered smuggling freighter cutting its lights and heading straight into Victorian waters.

​A rogue faction from the Sydney underworld, the remnants of the old Vanguard syndicate, were trying to make a final, desperate push into our southern shipping lanes. They thought our pivot to legitimate corporate operations had made us soft. They thought we had traded our teeth for boardroom pens.

​They were about to learn how lethal a pen could be when backed by naval gunboats.

​"They're moving cargo containers onto smaller motorized skiffs about three miles out," Jarrah’s voice cut through the dim, blue-lit control room. He stood over the tactical map, his combat vest strapped over his black tactical turtleneck, his Browning 9mm holstered at his hip. "They're aiming for the old salt warehouses on the peninsula."

​I stood beside him, adjusting the comms headset over my ear. I was dressed in tactical gear as well, dark, matte-black layers designed for mobility at sea.

​"They brought two gunrunners and a transport," I said, my fingers flying across the terminal to lock onto the vessel’s GPS coordinates. "If we intercept them in the open water, we cut off their retreat before they ever touch our shoreline."

​Jarrah looked at me, a dangerous, thrilling smirk breaking across his features. "You want to run the naval interception from the bridge of the Calaby 1, or do you want to lead the tactical boarding party with me?"

​"I'll command the bridge and lock down their escape vectors," I replied, grabbing my submachine gun from the rack. "You take the fast assault boat and board their freighter. Flush them out, Jarrah. Leave none of them standing."

​"With pleasure," he murmured, leaning in to press a fierce, hard kiss to my lips before turning and striding out toward the launch docks.

​Fifteen minutes later, the night air exploded with the roar of twin diesel engines as our fleet sliced through the black, churning waters of Port Phillip Bay.

​Standing on the elevated command bridge of our lead patrol gunboat, the salt spray whipped across my face as I watched the rogue smuggling vessel loom larger in our thermal sights through the pitch-black darkness.

​"This is Calaby Maritime Security to an unregistered vessel," I spoke directly into the encrypted radio channel, my voice ringing out cold, calm, and carrying the absolute authority of an executioner. "You are violating sovereign territorial waters and operating within our commercial logistics zone. Cut your engines immediately and prepare to be boarded. You have thirty seconds."

​The radio crackled with static, followed by a harsh, defiant laugh from the smuggling captain. "Screw your corporate permits! We run Sydney, and we're taking Melbourne"

​"Fire warning shot across their bow," I commanded without missing a beat.

​A fraction of a second later, the heavy deck-mounted autocannon on our bow thundered, sending a blazing arc of tracer rounds screaming across the dark water, slamming into the ocean fifty yards in front of the rogue freighter. The blinding flash illuminated their panic as their engines slammed into reverse, the ship lurching violently.

​"They're stopping!" my helmsman shouted over the roar of the engines.

​"Too late for apologies," I muttered, tracking the movement through my binoculars.

​Right on cue, Jarrah’s tactical assault boat roared out of our flank shadow, surging up alongside the listing smuggling ship. In a flawless display of tactical precision, Jarrah and his strike team fired magnetic grappling hooks up to the gunwale, scaling the steel hull in seconds like dark phantoms.

​Through my binoculars, I watched Jarrah clear the upper deck, his weapon flashing in the dark as the rogue guards scrambled and fell in rapid succession. Within two minutes, the gunfire ceased, and Jarrah’s voice came over my tactical comms, steady and laced with adrenaline.

​"Bridge secured, Malia. The cargo is intercepted. No survivors left fighting."

​I let out a slow, steady breath, a cold, triumphant smile spreading across my lips as I looked out over the conquered waters.

​"Good work, commander," I replied into my mic. "Bring the prize ship back to port. Let the rest of the underworld know that Melbourne belongs to us."

​As our fleet turned back toward the harbor, escorting the captured vessel like a triumphant armada, I turned away from the wind and stepped back into the warmth of the bridge. The war for the underworld was finally over. We hadn't just survived it; we had conquered it together.