72 Blowing up a ship

**Date = 3 July**
*A week has passed since they took Lee. And we got the next location.*
**Place = San Francisco (Napa)**

**POV - Enrique**

His time is up. Jackson got his location.

The same M.O.

Except, there is no video this time. Not YET.

The main question on my mind is, what are we gonna find? Lee … in the state of Amanda?

Axel did the daily recon. Everyone’s accounted for.

Except for Lee.

But for some reason, unknown to me, Jackson doesn’t look too anxious. He seems calm and collected. Not at all like he was the day at the warehouse.

It can be a front. With him, you never know.

I asked and got a grunt and an undecipherable mumble.

Axel hasn’t said a word since we got in the Jeep. He looks more worried than my brother. His hands, gripping the armrests of the luxurious seats, are tense, and his eyes haven’t stopped looking through the tinted window.

I know them well enough to know the two of them are either up to something — or they’ve already done something.

I just don’t know what that something is.

And I’m not actually sure I want to know … Jackson’s somethings usually mean trouble. A lot of it.

But, then again, if I know, I can get ahead of it. Be prepared.

So I push.

“Right … and correct me if I’m wrong here … you left River at Black Pit” — I tilt my head, eyes narrowing on the man across from me — “and you blew up their plans?”

Leaving River there … I get that part. Black Pit is guarded like a vault, and with Luke and Lili around, at least River’s got someone her own age to spar with.

The problem is the second half of that sentence.

“Yep,” Jackson answers, so casual it makes my teeth ache.

“Define ‘blew up’?”

I lean back, folding my arms, trying to scrape some sense out of him. It’s like squeezing water from a stone — or maybe gasoline from fire.

This past week has been nothing but shadows and guesses.

I figure that we’re going to find something bad. That Graham’s boat somehow got roped into this mess. That my twin didn’t just disappear for nothing. And that the new goons orbiting us like the sun belongs to Black Pit.

But the middle part … what he actually did … what exactly we’re walking into right now … why he isn’t pacing holes in the floor or spitting nails the way he usually does … that, I still haven’t cracked.

His usual brainwave regime is like herding cats through a minefield — a storm of half-baked genius ideas, impossible plans that somehow work.

Yeah, his head has always been chaos. But a smitten Jackson might act even more illogically ridiculous.

And I’m pretty sure my brother is smitten.

He practically admitted it, in his roundabout, gritted-teeth way.

Imagine … me with feelings for a girl is already a goddamn miracle.

A Jackson with feelings … is clearly unstable terrain. So … a Jackson losing his heart? That’s a natural disaster wrapped in leather and gasoline. Like watching fire fall in love with gasoline.

The car hums beneath us, low and steady, the kind of vibration that settles in my bones. I stare at him, trying to read the twitch of his jaw, the way his fingers tap against his thigh in some rhythm only he knows. His calm feels wrong — like a lion lying too still in the grass, waiting to pounce.

And I get the sinking feeling I don’t want to know the answer to my own question.

“Blown up … BOOM,” he groans, dragging the word out like he’s bored with it. His eyes flick, sharp and sly, toward his buddy seated on his left side. “Literally.” Axel lets out a low grunt, his frown deepening like his face is carved just to hold bad moods.

The sound alone makes my stomach twist.

Oh, hell.

“Have you done something illegal?” I ask carefully, my voice tighter than I want it to be. With Jackson, the odds are … not great. He’s got this bad habit of dipping one toe — or his whole damn body — into the gray areas of law.

“Constitutionally … yes.” He doesn’t even flinch. Just says it like he’s reading the weather report. Axel snorts, dry as sandpaper, and I feel the bottom drop out of my gut.

Fuck. What the hell did he do this time?

He’s barely done with his last disciplinary action for swimming in the fountain. He was supposed to serve a punishment — one week a month, for a whole year. Somehow, it got suspended after four months. I would like to know how he pulled that miracle off, but he’s not saying.

“Now stop the fucking interrogation.” Jackson suddenly lobs today’s newspaper at me. It smacks against my chest and slides into my lap. “Have you seen the latest?”

I freeze, fingers gripping the edge of the paper.

I am dead sure that a lot of things have happened these past few days. Things I was no part of. Things I know nothing about. And don’t want to. But should.

And I’m dead sure those things pissed off our already pissed tyrants. The kind of pissed where even the walls start sweating.

“No,” I admit, my voice dry. The truth? I’ve been dodging the press lately. Been a little preoccupied with something far more interesting — secretly dating Aria for real. Very secretly. Very real. And it’s been going pretty well, might I add.

“Well, get that fuck-face off and read it,” Jackson scolds.

I obey, partly to shut him up, partly to stop myself from smiling like an idiot with dirty thoughts about my girlfriend. Girlfriend … it has a nice ring to it.

I flip the paper up, the ink still smelling sharp, the pages cool against my fingertips. I look at the front page.

Warehouse of Secrets: Blast Exposes Hidden Horrors.
San Francisco — July 2.

I know about the explosion. Happened a little after Axel and I left with Aria. If it wasn’t for Jinx … and Alejandro … I wouldn’t have a twin anymore.

“Warehouse Blast Opens a Grave of Secrets. The dilapidated warehouse on the edge of the Bay Area, that has recently exploded, became the center of a growing and gruesome mystery. Officials believe the blast was intentional, timed, or remotely triggered, likely to destroy evidence,” I read out loud.

“They left out that my stupid brother almost died.” I get a snort and grunt as a response. Great company I’m keeping.

Jerking his chin toward the paper like I’m taking too long, Jackson says two actual words — “Go on.”

“Law enforcement sources discovered multiple corpses — some shattered by the blast, others alarmingly intact — sealed inside large wooden crates that was stacked inside the building. Among the victims was Amanda Dee, world-famous Victoria’s Secret model and rising actress, who disappeared from the public eye just three weeks ago.” She didn’t disappear — she was under house arrest — supposed to be with her parents. I sigh.

“In a disturbing twist, a fetus — believed to be Amanda’s unborn child — was found preserved inside a glass specimen jar, raising serious questions about the circumstances of her death and what took place inside the warehouse. Medical examiners are working to determine how far along the pregnancy was and whether the fetus was removed before or after death.”

The Chronicle article stares back at me, headline bold, pictures blurred just enough to keep the public guessing but sharp enough to punch me in the chest.

“Fuck!” I swear and suppress a gag. This was not supposed to become common knowledge.

“Yeah,” Jackson snobs grimly. “Go on, it gets even better.”

“Public speculation has intensified due to Amanda Dee’s high-profile status and the chilling nature of the discovery. Whispers in the entertainment world suggest her unborn child may have been fathered by actor and model Enrique Blackburn. Though the pair never confirmed a relationship, their on-screen chemistry — and a string of sightings earlier this year — fueled persistent rumors.”

Rage fires through me. I can’t very well prove that I’m not the daddy until this whole mess ends. The people who murdered Amanda still need to believe I was the father of that baby, or else they might come after Aria and Leyla.

I throw down the paper. The press has been reporting on Amanda since the day after the incident. Like, in mere hours after we found her. Someone leaked inside information — and it must be either the people who killed her, or the police. Cause it for sure as shit wasn’t one of us.

“How do they know about the baby in the bottle?” I ask, hoping my brother can clear it up.

“David’s rat, we presume,” Axel speaks for the first time. “Someone in the precinct is spoon-feeding them details like it’s open mic night.”

“There’s more,” Jackson sneers, and I pick up the paper again.

“While officials have released little to the public, The Chronicle has obtained exclusive information that the warehouse had clear signs of being used as a long-term drug storage facility. The bodies were disfigured to fit them into the crates, and carefully labeled in faded paint, with what could be the initials of the deceased and the date of death. The surviving crates, as well as the scattered pieces, will all undergo DNA testing, hoping to find their identities. No arrests have been made. The explosion has complicated the investigation, erasing key evidence and deepening suspicions that powerful individuals may be connected to the case. Law enforcement has not commented on any details, but the city waits for answers as this haunting case continues to unfold.”

I sigh and drop the paper. “Hell.” I rub a hand down my face.

Jackson doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe, far as I can tell.

“Don’t tell me you’re sad about Amanda,” Axel says from the opposite seat, slouched with his feet stretched out. “She had the personality of a ring light and the survival instincts of a goldfish.”

“I’m not sad,” I say. “I’m annoyed. She was dumb, but she didn’t deserve that.”

“I still can’t believe you dated that.” Axel is tense. I know this his coping mechanism is chatting when he’s edgy.

I groan. “I didn’t date her, I fucked her. There’s a difference.”

Jackson, sitting beside me, is quiet. His jaw is tight, hand resting on his thigh in that death-grip way he has when he is two seconds from shattering his own kneecap just to feel something.

“I can’t help that the girl got obsessed,” I smirk. “Sometimes these good looks are a curse.” That’s me … my defense … making jokes when I’m anxious.

“Only because you have a habit of making your rejections sound like proposals,” Axel banters.

I roll my eyes and give him a deadpan stare. “Says the man who once told a girl, ‘I’m emotionally unavailable, but my pants aren’t’.”

“She appreciated the honesty.”

“She pepper-sprayed you,” I chuckle.

“She missed.” His face lights up with a wide grin. Jackson doesn’t even seem to register.

“You’re just boosting with moral integrity,” I snap. “And look — Jackson’s still reflecting like someone told him he can’t kill people with his thoughts.” Jackson finally looks at me. A slow, bored stare.

“Sometimes I wonder where your mind is at,” he sneers. Oh, that’s easy … on Aria’s body … preferably naked.

“He’s just brooding. Some people brood very intensely,” Axel chirps. At least it gets a dramatic eye roll from my brother.

A tense silence falls again. The hum of the tires, the low roar of the wind outside. Every now and then, a sea breeze slaps the side of the car, smelling like salt and regret.

“I wonder if those really are initials,” I say on a more serious note. “Like someone wanted them tracked.”

Jackson sighs deeply.

“Think serial killer, maybe?” I want to know. Know what he knows. What he’s thinking.

“Not actual serial,” Axel says. “It seems more control-oriented than just random killings. And they knew exactly what went in and out.”

“So an organized psychopath … with a mob to do his bidding.” That’s fucking freaking me out.

“Two,” Jackson corrects me gruffly. Even worse.

“One —” Jackson’s voice blisters, “— is young, cocky … trying to make a point.”

“The other, older … precise … was cleaning up his mess.” Two opposing forces … two killers … and we’re in the middle. Fucking great.

I need him to explain. Need more. I look at him, waiting for more. None comes.

I tilt my head. “What kind of point?”

“That we’re not in control.” Not the information I am looking for. I want him to tell me that this is going to end. Soon. But he changes the topic.

“Did you see Graham’s Instagram?” My eyebrows shoot up so hard they practically crawl into my hairline. I didn’t even know Jackson knew what Instagram was.

He pulls it up on the 40” high-definition LED monitor mounted within the sliding privacy partition between the driving cabin and rear compartment.

These luxury Jeeps are built for men who prefer the world to bend to their comfort. Although they all look the same from the outside, the insides differ. Some, like this one, are customized with every fancy luxury detail an important person might need. Others, like the one following us, are built to carry as many guards and high-tech weapons as possible.

A photo pops onto the screen.

Romeo. Sitting on his bike, a trophy raised in one hand, a grin stretched wide across his face. I never really knew him, but I knew of him. He was fast. Almost as fast as Damion. Almost.

Behind him is a row of familiar faces — Darren, Lucinda, Chloe, Graham. And then one unknown — a brunette clinging to him like she belonged there, arms wrapped tight around his body, her chin hooked over his shoulder, smiling like her world was all roses and fat ponies.

And at the bottom, smeared across the image in fat, dripping red letters — ‘Who killed Romeo?’

The question claws straight down my spine.

“So you think this is about him?” I ask, my voice too sharp, too defensive.

Jackson doesn’t answer right away. Just grunts — low, guttural. “Hm.”

Then, after a beat — “Look at their shoes.”

I look. I lean in. Red. Bright, screaming red. My stomach knots. All three girls are wearing the same red heels. “So that’s Cindy?” I mutter.

“She doesn’t look familiar,” Axel cuts in, voice flat, his humor gone like it never existed. He’s right. She’s not someone we know.

Jackson exhales through his nose, a sound halfway between a scoff and a wheeze. “I need to find Graham. Talk to him.”

“Yeah, because that’ll work,” Axel says dryly. “Like he’s just dying to confess everything to the guy who broke his ribs.”

“Gmf,” Jackson’s lips twitch — almost a smile, but darker. He points toward the window, his finger cutting through the stale air. “We’re here.”

The Jeep slows, tires crunching over gravel. My pulse spikes, the photo still burning behind my eyes. Romeo’s grin. The red shoes.

Cuttings Wharf boat launch — the place the pin location points at. We stop next to a pinkish-orange building with a sign saying Moore’s Landing.

Except for us and the single SUV following us, the area seems to be deserted.

But we’re not here for the people … we’re here to find the result of Jackson’s choice. Probably to find the body of his alleged MIP.

I half-hope, half-dread what we might find. Lee. Or not Lee. A trap. A message. Or just more dead people stating a message.

Maybe the world is just collecting us now — one crate at a time.

The river is calm — unnaturally so. Not a ripple stirs the water, as if it itself is holding its breath. Overhead, seagulls wheel lazily through the cloudless sky.

No rusty warehouse this time.

Instead … an abandoned catamaran is floating in the Napa River, right in front of us, anchored just offshore. It looks perfectly ordinary — sail half-lowered, hiding most of the rear deck, a few crates stacked near the stern, someone’s towel tossed over the railing. The kind of lazy chaos you see after a long day at sea.

Nothing about it seems suspicious. Just sun, salt, and the faint creak of ropes in the wind.

Fuck.

“Graham’s?” I ask.

“Yep,” Jackson says. Opening the compartment next to his chair, Axel pulls out a pocket knife, a stress ball, and a half-eaten granola bar. He tosses the ball to me. “In case this gets emotional.” And opens the granola. I ignore him.

There’s something off. Something that slivers up my spine. Something weird about their behavior.

“Clever,” Jackson smirks, “They’ve covered up the hole.”

I look at the flapping sail. And I just know.

“You blew up a fucking ship?” I holler, watching my brother carefully. A better question would be ‘Why?’ or even ‘How?’ or ‘Where’s Lee?’.

“Oh, I did a tad more than that,” Jackson confesses, holding up his thumb and index finger, leaving a small gap between them. I don’t know if I want to know. Because if I know, I become an accomplice. And going to jail is not on my agenda.

“A fucking lot more,” Axel adds. As if that explains it all. I look at the yacht. It suddenly looks suspicious. Like a trap.

Jackson also silently locks his eyes on it, his jaw tight, like it has personally insulted his leather jacket. His silence means something is already off.

The name on the side reads Scott VII. Big … not huge, but very luxurious — made of money. White with personalized sails — a colorful sunset with a motorcycle silhouette. Not something your average man can afford.

“Did you kill someone?” I ask as calmly as possible. “Did you steal something? You two have that we-did-something-insane-and-stupid-and-no-one-can-know look.”

Jackson says nothing. Silence is his weapon. One he wields with precision.

Axel just stares out the windshield like he is watching the past rewind.

“It worked,” Jackson says finally. “That’s all that matters.”

“No, it’s not,” I snap. I open my mouth to ask the important questions and to yell at him some more, but a faint beep from the onboard intercom system interrupts.

“Diabo,” the driver, Miguel, cuts in through the hands-free system. “I think we have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” Jackson growls.

Miguel hesitates. “River is gone. Again.”

A collective groan moves through the vehicle like a thundercloud.

“That little fuck,” Jackson swears as he rushes out of the Jeep. I slowly follow Axel out. Miguel, as well as the other four guards, moves to surround us.

My brother opens the back compartment of our vehicle … a storage space where imperative essentials are stocked.

There she is. Curled up like a pissed-off kitten in her hoodie, arms crossed, eyes gleaming in the dark. “Hi, grumpy.”

My brother grabs her arm and sternly pulls her out. She moans while unfurling with sharp elbows and an even sharper attitude.

“What the fuck are …” he shouts, and Miguel coughs. He stops his tirade and glares at the guy. Miguel tilts his head and pulls a face. Jackson sighs deeply, closes his eyes, and stills for a moment. I swear he’s counting to ten. I smile. This kid is pushing all of his buttons, and I love it.

“What are you doing here, Gremlin?” he starts again in a much more controlled manner. I envy his constraint.

“Luke piss- … eh peed me off … AND you were going to leave me behind!” River hisses with the sharpest glare an nine-year-old can manufacture without bursting into flames.

I snicker softly at the look on my twin’s face — it looks something like a donkey that can’t believe a chicken stole its last carrot. And he seems tongue-tied. Jackson, although not a vivid talker, never lacks for words. He just chooses to use them sparingly.

Another black SUV races up to us … I recognize the make and model. It’s the same armored Blackburn Jeep we’re using these days.

Two guards jump out. I don’t recognize them.

“You had one job!” Miguel shouts out. He seems to know them.

“Sorry … eh …” a giant that resembles Jack Reacher mumbles at Jackson, “We’ve slipped up.” He then eyeballs the girl with a pouting, disgusted face, as if blaming his impending death on her.

“What happened this time, Joe?” Jackson asks with a sigh. Do they work for him, too? They’re clearly ordered to look after River.

“This one was supposedly going to take a shit but escaped through a window.”

Jackson glares at the little girl, who just shrugs her shoulders.

“Where’s Marco?” Jackson asks. Marco is Miguel’s younger brother.

“Eh … Mathias called —” the Reacher look-alike stumbles over his words. “Eh … he had some kind of crisis,” he finishes. Mathias is the oldest brother.

“ARGH!!!” Jackson hits the SUV with the side of his fist, leaving a dent.

“What bit you on the ass all of a sudden?” the little girl asks with huge eyes. He opens the back door of the vehicle.

“Get in.” He glares at River. It’s clearly not a request. The girl pushes out her chin in protest, but my twin has lost his patience. He grabs the little person, picks her up, and shoves her inside.

“Stay in this fucking car or else …” He doesn’t finish his sentence, and he doesn’t have to; his eyes say it all — the ‘or else’ won’t be pretty. She gasps but stays put. The guards go pale. All of them.

Jackson stares at a Joe. “Keep that gremlin inside, no fucking matter what. Use force if you have to.” He slams the door shut.

“And call Marco to hear if things are under control,” he snarls and starts walking to the small dock, kicking up stones as far as he goes. Guard Joe makes the phone call.

River opens the window.

“So dramatic,” she sniggers.

“You and … eh … you are going to get my bro’s killed,” Miguel sneers. The rest of them also don’t look too happy. “Why —” he starts but ends it with a snort.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “but Luke is really, really a pain. And I was bored.”

Miguel sighs and tells the others to guard the car before we follow my brother.

The wind is stronger here. The salt bites harder. The air smells like kelp and gasoline.

Jackson stops and looks at his phone. Then he jerks up his head.

**BOOM!!!**

A sound like the sky itself cracking open.

The explosion blooms from the center of the ship — fast and vicious. A blinding flash of white-gold.

The blast jolts everyone into frantic instinctive covering reactions — ducking down, shielding heads, and taking cover. Jackson is flung back from the force and lands on his ass.

River screams.

The hulls buckle outward as flames shoot into the air, tearing the sails to confetti and sending shreds spiraling into the sky like dying creatures.

Jackson quickly peeks at the car as if to make sure we are safe. Joe instantly opens the door and leaps to her defense, protecting the little one with his huge body.

**KABANG!!!**

The second explosion hits harder than the first.

Part of what could be a mast comes flying right over our heads to crash into a small outbuilding, catching it on fire.

Half the guards jolt into action, pulling out their guns while circling around us, dodging the debris. They frantically scan the area, ready for whatever is coming our way.

The other half rushes to pull back my brother. They seem to be perfectly trained for this kind of situation.

“Get off me, you buffoon,” River mumbles, pushing the guard away and getting out, eyes on the destroyed yacht a couple of meters from the shoreline. Engulfed in flames and black smoke, the Scott VII is no more.

Jackson hurries and hides River behind him, while three guards cover their rear.

**Pow! Boom!**

More small explosions. Flaming pieces of metal wheel through the sky.

“Holy fock,” River gawks in horror. I don’t know what to say. I’m just glad my ass is still in one piece here. We are all, however, covered in small superficial wounds where some debris cut us — but nothing serious.

“Was that supposed to happen?” River asks, peeping at the fire from behind Jackson.

“Not really. I dismantled it,” Jackson says. I’m shocked. “Honestly, it was not my fault.”

“You knew the whole time there was a fucking bomb on the boat?” I scold my brother. He coolly glares at me with a look like he is contemplating fratricide.

“A dismantled bomb,” he grunts. I stare at an equally shocked Miguel. Seems everyone was left in the dark.

“Clearly, it wasn’t dismantled enough,” Miss Smartypants gawks, pushing through the guards to stand next to my brother now.

**BOOM.**

Another explosion lights up the dock like a firework on cocaine. That was the final blow.

The white yacht is now a ball of fire and smoke. Bits of hull shoot into the air like confetti. Something pink and flaming spirals into the water.

A few minor explosions crack, snap, and shoot like discarded popcorn. Where there was white fiberglass, there is now a twisting column of smoke and blackened debris. One hull bobs once, splits open like a cracked egg, then sinks beneath the surface. The other — torn nearly in two — burns fiercely. Fuel and oil bleed across the water like ink.

And then — silence. Real silence. Not even the gulls are screaming anymore.

The flames climb higher, stretching into the sky like they’re desperate to escape the water’s pull. The hiss of burning fuel bites at my ears, the stench of smoke crawling up my nose until I taste it on my tongue — bitter, acrid, final.

None of us says a word. None of us can. We just stand there, frozen, watching something go up in flames that we’ll never be able to drag back out of the ashes.