I caught a glimpse of his dark blue security jacket and the holster clip on his belt.

My phone vibrated again in my coat pocket, a dull, rhythmic pulse against my ribs.

I waited until the guard’s footsteps faded behind a heavy metal bulkhead door.

I pulled the phone out and shielded the screen with my gloved hand.

The screen showed an incoming text from an unlisted number.

*He knows you are on the water,* the message read.

There was no name, but I knew the sender.

I deleted the message and slipped the phone back into my pocket.

The air in the lower deck was thick with the smell of diesel fuel and damp carpet.

I moved down the corridor in the direction the guard had gone, keeping my weight on the balls of my feet.

Every joint in the ship seemed to groan as the hull met the frozen harbor water outside.

I passed two closed cabin doors.

I pressed my ear to the first one.

Nothing but the steady hum of the yacht’s generator.

I tried the brass handle of the second door.