The seaplane rocked gently on the open water, its engines humming low as it drifted under power. Noah stared out at the horizon, sweat cold on his neck. Two long boats had appeared—dark silhouettes cutting fast across the waves. “Heck,” he muttered, “they’re not supposed to be here.”
Jamie leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Could be the Coast Guard,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction. Noah shook his head. “They’re too early.” The boats didn’t answer their hails. No radio call. No flag. Just speeding closer, too straight, too silent. His stomach dropped. “They’re not here to help us.”
The boats closed in, the gap shrinking with each heartbeat. Spray exploded against their hulls, misting the air. Dark silhouettes stood tall—faces hidden, arms raised, shouting in a tongue neither pilot could grasp. Noah’s grip on the controls turned to iron. Jamie’s voice was barely a breath: “What now?” But they didn’t need to answer. This wasn’t a rescue. It was a fight to stay alive.