Ventress Ship Novels & Stories

one of the securities sent to retrieve Esther says, “and one of our rescue ships is gone, she must have got tipped off and ran.” “What!” Heath yells angrily. It seems this cruise is surely from hell.

Outside, the gulls screamed over the wreckage of the silver yacht, now just a ribcage of metal in the bay. "You can't keep me," Vesper rasped. She sat on the edge of the kitchen chair, her wrists raw from the rope. "My firm... they have protocols. If I don't check in, the next boat won't be a rescue team. It’ll be a clean-up crew."

The Atlantic was a churning cauldron of slate-grey water and white foam. The Vesper cut through the swells with a violent, jarring rhythm that made every weld in the hull groan. On the radar, a massive signature had appeared—not a ship, but a floating fortress made of lashed-together tankers and refurbished oil platforms. This was The Grave, the mobile capital of the Corsairs. "They’ve locked onto our signature," Marcus shouted over the roar of the gale. "They’re painting us with fire-control radar, Julian! If we don't transmit the parley code in thirty seconds, they’ll turn this boat into a reef."

“Lady Ever—” “No names.” Becky lifted a hand without slowing. “Not mine. Not yours. Not tonight.” The man bowed his head. “As you wish.” “Is the ship ready?” “Aye.” He jerked his chin toward the vessel moored at the far end of the dock. It was a weather-beaten cargo ship, hull patched, sails rolled, the Eastwind insignia freshly painted over with a darker, unfamiliar crest. “False flag, false registry, false manifests. No one’ll track where she’s goin’.”

He struck several more times in quick succession. Finally, Wallace collapsed in a pool of blood. The vendor checked his breathing. Once he was certain Wallace was dead, he swiftly fled. Yet, after a few seconds, Wallace suddenly gasped for air. With great effort, he crawled outside, reaching for his signal flare. But he had no strength left. He lost consciousness before he could fire the signal flare.

“Come on, sister. Be fair. How about a personal destroyer-class cruiser? I have one docked at the eastern port right now. The Northwind God. I barely touch the steering wheel.” “She does not want your oversized metal tin, Leif,” Zaria cut in smoothly. She pinned the brooch to her lapel. “If Penelope wants a ship, I will give her the Venus. It has twin-turbo engines and spelling wards that can outrun any pack hunter in the hemisphere.” “The Venus has no firepower,” Leif countered, his voice rising as he stepped into Zaria’s space. “My ship can blast a hole through a pack house from three miles out.”

A single, isolated vector in the Celtic Sea—one of our primary transit corridors—turned a flat, warning crimson. "It's the Vane Vanguard," Kincaid said, leaning over my shoulder, his professional calm cracking as he read the telemetry. "One-hundred and eighty thousand tons of containerized cargo en route from Rotterdam to Halifax. She’s carrying Vane Global's largest early-quarter shipment of high-value industrial manufacturing components." The crimson line representing the ship's path was bending. The vessel was executing a hard, automated turn to the south, steering directly toward a restricted, French-controlled military transit corridor. This was a sharp, deliberate course deviation, ent

It rounded the headland fast, military pattern, Bratva colours on the hull; and there was a change in engine sound as it pierced into the bay and already mens' hands were raised on deck before it had even come all the way alongside. I looked at Vivienne. She looked at the boat. For the first time since we arrived on the beach, her face reflected something other than composure.

The waves moved in silver silence, the moonlight folding over the dark water. A single yacht floated near the horizon, anchored just beyond the coast, sleek, black, and unmarked, its lights dimmed to nothing but a faint, golden glow beneath the deck. It was a ship meant for ghosts, and tonight, two of them met on its deck. Deborah Valmere stood near the railing, her silk coat caught by the sea breeze, her reflection trembling in the water below. The wind carried the faint scent of salt and metal, and somewhere beneath it, the phantom trace of gunpowder from Geneva still clung to her memory.

"Show me." The captain bowed and started walking fast ahead. We didn't have to go too far because he pointed at a large residential apartment complex partially on fire and I saw the giant letters spray painted in red. "Death to the Moon Goddess vessel." I read the large text.