The Rendezvous at St. Kilda

​POV: Malia

​The air off Port Phillip Bay was sharp, biting, and thick with the stench of salt and damp decay. It was twenty minutes past four in the morning. Fog rolled over the dilapidated wooden planks of the old St. Kilda pier, muting the distant, yellow glow of the coastal road lamps into ghostly halos.

​I stood near the end of the pier, where the rotten pylons jutted out into the churning black water below. The rain had slowed to a miserable drizzle, soaking my hair and plastering it to my forehead. My hand rested inside my leather jacket, fingers tightly wrapped around the rubberized grip of the 9mm pistol.

​Every noise made my skin prickle: the creak of the wooden boards under the tide, the distant moan of a foghorn, the slapping of waves against concrete.

​A pair of headlights cut through the gloom at the base of the pier.

​A sleek, black European sedan came to a smooth halt near the barricades. The engine purred, then cut out. The driver’s side door opened, and a man stepped out into the mist.

​He wore a tailored cashmere topcoat, carrying an umbrella in one hand and a silver-topped cane in the other. Even in the dim light, his silver hair was impeccably groomed.

​Alastair Vane. My father.

​"Malia," his voice drifted across the pier, smooth, refined, completely devoid of remorse. "I must admit, using Callan’s old satellite frequency was a clever touch. A bit melodramatic, but effective."

​He began walking down the pier toward me, his cane clicking rhythmically against the damp wood. Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

​"Stay right there!" I yelled, pulling the pistol and aiming it square at his chest. "Take one more step, and I’ll put a bullet through your heart!"

​Alastair stopped twenty feet away, a faint, condescending smile playing on his lips. He didn't look afraid. He didn't even look surprised.

​"A gun, Malia? Really?" He sighed gently, as if disappointed by a child’s crude drawing. "Did you really think I didn't trace the location of that encrypted transmission the second it hit my terminal? Did you really think you were the only one who learned how to lay a trap?"

​My stomach dropped. A cold wave of dread flooded my veins. "What are you talking about?"

​"Callan was weak because he believed in rules," Alastair said softly, leaning on his silver cane. "You are weak because you believe in emotion. You came here seeking a dramatic confession, a father's tearful apology. But you forgot one basic rule of engagement, my dear child."

​He raised his hand and snapped his fingers.

​BANG! BANG! BANG!

​A deafening series of concussive pops exploded all around me. Blinding white flashes of light detonated from hidden positions beneath the wooden pier, accompanied by terrifying, high-frequency shrieks.

​Flashbangs.

​The world went pure, blinding white. A sound like a jet engine roared in my ears, shattering my balance. I stumbled backward, dropping to one knee as my equilibrium collapsed. My vision was reduced to a swirling vortex of brilliant light and searing pain.

​"Move! Move! Secure the target!" Heavy boots hammered across the wooden planks from all sides.

​I didn't think; I reacted on pure survival instinct. I fired wildly into the white noise, the recoil of the gun bucking through my wrist.

​BANG! BANG! BANG!

​A harsh grunt sounded to my left. I swung the weapon toward the sound, but a heavy tactical boot kicked the gun straight out of my grip. It skittered across the wet planks and splashed into the ocean below.

​Strong, armored hands grabbed my collar, hauling me to my feet. I screamed, driving my elbow back with all my strength, feeling it connect with something soft a nose breaking. The man cursed, but two more bodies slammed into me, pinning my arms behind my back.

​I fought like a wild animal, biting, kicking, thrashing against the crushing weight of five elite mercenaries in full tactical gear.

​"Get her pinned!" a harsh voice yelled over the ringing in my ears.

​They forced me down onto the wet wood. My face was slammed into the rough, splintered planks. Rain mixed with the copper taste of blood in my mouth.

​I stretched my right hand forward, my fingers desperately clawing at the wooden planks, searching for anything: a weapon, an edge, a hope. My thumb brushed against the metal band on my ring finger.

​Wait. I had left Jarrah's ring on his pillow.

​No, not his physical ring. The second ring he had secretly slipped onto my thumb weeks ago during our escape from Sydney was a matte-black titanium band fitted with a subtle, internal bio-pulse monitor linked directly to his personal network.

​I pressed my fingernail hard into the small micro-switch hidden on the inside of the band, digging until the skin tore.

​Click.

​The tiny LED light on the inside of the ring flickered red, sending a panic signal before the connection went completely dead.

​"Jarrah..." I gasped into the wet wood as a sharp needle pierced the side of my neck. "Jarrah..."

​The world began to blur, the terrifying white light fading into a suffocating, velvet darkness.