Approaching the last two hundred yards from the brightly lit Lady Celeste, the group held their breaths and descended to a depth that cleared the keel. They breast-stroked all the way to the stern, disengaged the scooter and floated in stasis to ascertain the threat condition above.

Movement -- a sentry stood in the lowered diving platform of the super-yacht, his outline blurred and warped when seen from below. Suddenly, a continuous stream of liquid broke the calm surface from above -- the man was peeing, the splashes right on top of them. The stream soon stopped.

Warchild let out bubbles from his mouth on purpose. The divers watched as the air globules wobbled up and burst. The guard bent low to check out the disturbance.

A hand exploded from the black water, grabbed him by the neck, and pulled him down. A minute later and fifty feet deep, Warchild let the body float away.

The group broke the surface without a sound, nostrils puffing out air.

The yacht above was lit up from bow to stern with exterior and underwater lights. The triple-decker was as large as a freighter. The Lady Celeste carried two 24' motor skiffs under tarp in dorsal cradles and she had ample space for other amenities, including a retractable helipad. Securely strapped onto the raised platform was a long-range Sikorsky tilt-rotor gyrodyne.

Cerberus sniffed the air -- there was company nearby. Two sentries patrolled a few yards away on the main deck, just above their sunken platform.

Alex nodded to her boys. They removed their leg daggers.

She unclasped her dive belt and tossed it into the water, creating a loud splash. At once, the conversation on the sun deck stopped. Footsteps grew louder, two sets, now just above the ledge over the bobbing marina platform.

Warchild and Rotter launched straight up, their blades skewering each sentry under his jaw, severing the brain stem -- silent death as the bodies were pulled down and released quietly into the depths.

"You two take the bridge," Alex whispered. "Papa and me are after the honcho of this ship. Clear?"

"And where is the damn bridge?" Warchild asked.

"I'm thinking it's the deck above this one, maybe two?"

"This will be fun," Rotter mumbled. "Just four of us."

"And Sister Surprise," Papa said.

Alex released her SMG from her chest harness and switched fire selector to three-shot burst. The others copied her.

Alex led the way, climbing the boarding ladder. Rotter was next in line, then Papa and Warchild. Their movements created no sound, not even from dripping water, the fluid draining through micro rivulets in the neoprene suits.

Twelve minutes remained.

Moving toward the bow on the main deck, they forked into two pairs, Alex and Papa port side, Warchild and Rotter starboard.

They moved on the deck lounge, coming upon midship.

Without warning, an outer door swung open almost hitting Alex in the face. A figure casually stepped through. A man. Functional clothes -- not the ship's crew. Armed security. In a split second, Alex had him by the collar, the SMG muzzle dug into his chest barely making a burp. He shuddered and collapsed forward. She flung the body over the rail and entered the midship gallery at the same time Warchild and Rotter appeared a few yards opposite them.

On the wall was the layout of the super-yacht. She traced her fingers along the diagram and memorized the design: Crew quarters -- fifteen rooms, lower and aft; master's chambers top floor; and the bridge occupied the middle deck with a clear sight of the bow.

Ten minutes ten seconds.

Warchild and Rotter headed for the bridge while Alex aimed to find the master of the ship. Grabbing the headman and getting him to disarm ship security would make finding Lockheart that much easier. And at this hour, the master had to be in his chamber.

Alex, followed by Papa, made for the uppermost deck, racing up a carpeted spiral stairwell wide enough for two. They ran headlong into a night steward station that serviced the master floor and the VIP rooms. Barreling into someone wearing a white uniform, Alex hugged him without meaning to.

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"Who owns this ship?" She recovered and held him at length.

"Regent -- Lemaire."

"Show me his cabin."

The frightened man hesitated.

"Talk!" she shook his Nehru jacket.

The steward stuttered and turned his face toward a closed set of oaken doors set in a cul de sac.

She passed him to Papa, who gave him a warning. "Find a hole and hide in there, if I were you."

Just then, a ship-wide alarm blared and whooped.

Alex cursed. "Those two dick heads below must have buggered something." Now it was imperative they grabbed this Lemaire.

No time to knock, she shot off the hinges and kicked in the heavy doors, which caved in easily. The Regent's chamber was immense with an attached living room suite. Beyond this wasteful space was the bedroom. The door was open. Two people were in bed, a girl pulling the sheets to her chin, the man going for his cotton robe.

"How dare you intrude my private sanctum." After tying his belt, he turned toward Alex, incensed. "You know who I am?"

"A rich prick," she replied without emotion. She hadn't forgotten about the girl. "Bitch, get out."

The party girl scrambled out of the room past Papa with her rear exposed. He looked but didn't laugh. Alex's murderous warpath was no joke.

"You have a guest here," Alex said calmly, returning to Lemaire. "Lockheart, where is he?"

"Get out of my bedroom or I'll have you whipped." The Regent came toward her, finger extended.

Alex hurled the butt of her submachine gun against his collarbone, hoping to break it. His torso collapsed like a reed in a strong gale. He curled on the floor, gasping in shock.

"Jesus, Lex," Papa said. "That's a Regent you smacked. We weren't supposed to touch him."

"You didn't see nothing."

She grabbed Lemaire's terry cloth robe and lifted him with one arm. His chicken legs wobbled. She knew the blow had numbed his left arm by the way it hung limp. The Regent's face turned purple, contorting in the most surprising expression -- pain, something a man of his station had never experienced, the pain of being beaten, of being humiliated. This was the kind of pain only little people knew, she wanted to say. And at this moment, she despised him and his kind. Powerful people did all this. Fat cats wheeled and dealt while Lilliputians got trampled.

Lemaire caught his breath and his wit, at last. "You're not part of this ship's crew." He tried swallowing to wet his throat. "If this is some kind of piracy, then take whatever you want and leave."

"I will repeat -- you have a guest here." Each word fell like hammer blows against his face causing him to squint. "His name is Milo Lockheart, don't fuck with me."

Lemaire gulped, his bravado running down his legs. His frog eyes told her that he knew at last why she was there.

As if to punctuate the point, automatic gunfire erupted downstairs.

"How many armed men on this ship?" She hissed at him, spittle sprinkling his face.

"Security isn't my concern. I am Louisiana Governor Regent Lemaire, senior Affiliate of Gulf-Con --"

"I don't give a shit." Alex slapped him across the face. "How many?"

Stunned, he stammered, "Twenty . . . Thirty men, I don't know."

"You come with me," she said and pulled him behind her. "Pops, cover our rear."

"On it," Papa sighed, bringing up the rear with his SMG.

She exchanged position with Lemaire, putting him in front of them. "First, you will stand your men down. Second, you're going to call Lockheart out. And if no one listens to you, then you die first."

"Jesus, let's talk this over --" His attempt to negotiate ended abruptly with a smack to the back of his head.

"Walk, Mr. Big Shot." She coughed, fighting the coming sickness, her face brown-gray, her skin losing its elasticity and shine. Visibly, she was deteriorating the fastest of the lot. Papa was also sick, but he was handling it better than her. So did Warchild. The puzzle was Rotter, chippered as ever, sanguine, and not a single visible legion.

They rounded the spiral stairs while Lemaire called below, "I'm coming down. Hold your fire."

The corridors had fresh holes and burn marks, precious Amazonian mahogany placard splintered and destroyed. Cordite was heavy but the air filtering system was drawing the smoke out just as fast.

Alex pulled the Regent back before he stepped into the crossfire.

"You alright, sir?" A voice Alex didn't recognize shouted from behind cover.

"Disarm now, your Regent is speaking," Lemaire said with authority.

"But sir."

"Obey me, dammit! These people don't mean us harm."

"Sure about that?" Alex breathed in his ear.

"You want Lockheart, don't you? You go once you have him, yes?"

"That's the plan."

"Eight minutes," Papa reminded her from behind.

Gulf-Con security men began to lay down their weapons and stepped back.

At the end of the corridor toward the bow, Warchild and Rotter emerged behind the bridge entrance. They had the bridge second in command as a hostage.

"Fine mess you made. What the hell happened?" Papa demanded.

"Silent alarm got tripped by one of these jerk offs," Warchild said, shoving the duty officer forward. "Then they came out of the woodwork and cornered us in there."

"But we disabled their comms," Rotter said with glee. "No outside interference for sure."

"Good, cause we have less than eight minutes to find Lockheart," Alex said.

"Slow down," Warchild said, grabbing her wrist. "You're not thinking right."

"Never been clearer." She jerked her arm back and growled at Lemaire. "Take me to Lockheart now!"

The Gulf-Con Regent gawked at her with a new fear, knowing there was no rational sense he could bargain with. There was only blind fury.

"He's in the Guest Rooms below this floor," Lemaire responded, then twisted to face her. "Wait, you got to know -- he has four men with him."

"Then you better pray he doesn't start shooting. Move it!"

The four Cerberus took their two hostages and descended to the Guest galley.

"They're in there," Lemaire said, pointing at a section of the compartment shaped like a U with doors along the wall. Several cabins were wide open. Rotter searched a chamber, Warchild another. They returned with vapid looks on their faces.

"They split," Warchild said.

"Topside now!" Alex pushed through Lemaire and ran up the nearest stairwell aft.

"Wait," Papa cried out.

"She's flipped," Rotter said.

"That wacko bitch is out of control," Warchild mumbled, shaking his head. "We need the chip to survive, dammit."

Papa ran after her. "Come on, you bastards."