The Sea Boarding

​POV: Jarrah

​Saltwater whipped against my face like cold wire, stinging the raw skin of my cheekbones as the inflatable hull slammed into the flank of the Sydney gunboat. Pitch-black. Not a single moonbeam cut through the heavy, bruised clouds rolling off Bass Strait. The ocean was a churning void of ink and froth, violent enough to snap ribs if you missed your footing on the wet rubber. But we didn't miss it. Malia didn't miss.

​She was already moving, a shadow dissolved into the midnight spray, her boots hitting the slippery steel ladder of the enemy vessel with absolute, terrifying silence.

​My heart hammered against my ribs not from fear, but from that sharp, electric rush that only came when we moved as one. For months, the Sydney faction had thought they could creep down our coast, sliding their blockade runners into our waters under the cover of a dead-dark night, thinking we were soft. Thinking Calaby was up for grabs. They had no idea what was waiting for them at the bottom of the world.

​"Clear," her voice cut through the roar of the diesel engine and the crashing waves via the comm-link in my ear. Low, steady, devoid of adrenaline. Pure ice.

​I vaulted the railing, my Glock heavy and warm in my grip, sliding onto the steel deck of the Sydney boat. It was slick with sea mist and engine grease. Every step was a tightrope walk between a silent kill and a watery grave. Below deck, muffled shouts echoed. They knew someone was on the hull, but they were looking for a squad, a navy crew, a militia. They weren't looking for two people who had carved an empire out of blood and salt.

​We moved down the narrow gangway like twin predators. A guard stepped out from the bulkhead, his assault rifle raised, eyes wide and blind in the red emergency glow of the corridor.

​He didn't even get his safety off.

​Malia’s combat blade was already out, a silver flash in the dim red light. She swept low, taking his legs out while my hand clamped over his mouth, dragging him down into the shadows before his boots could hit the metal floor with a thud. I felt the heat of his breath against my palm, felt the exact second his consciousness fractured under the pressure of her grip on his carotid.

​"The left corridor is mine," she murmured against my ear as we reached the junction. Her shoulder brushed mine, damp leather sliding against wet wool. For a split second, amidst the stink of ozone, cordite, and fear, her fingers grazed the back of my hand. A brief, grounding touch. Stay sharp. Always, my pulse answered.

​In under fifteen minutes, the entire operation was over. No alarms tripped. No distress beacons sent. Just the quiet, heavy thud of seventeen Sydney operatives zip-tied and stacked in their own cargo hold, breathing hard in the dark.

​I kicked open the captain’s quarters door, my pistol leading the way. The senior officer, a smug bastard named Vance who had promised the Sydney council he’d bring Melbourne’s ledger back on a silver platter, was sitting at his mahogany desk, a satellite phone frozen in his hand.

​He looked up, his face draining of every drop of color as I stepped into the light. Malia slipped in behind him, silent as a ghost, pressing the muzzle of her suppressed pistol directly to the base of his skull.

​"You're late," I said, my voice dangerously soft, leaning against the doorframe while the salt dripped from my hair. "We expected you an hour ago."

​Vance swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "You're... you're Calaby."

​"And you're trespassing," Malia whispered, her breath ghosting across his ear.