FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN — CHAPTER TWELVE

​"The clock has struck three, the coffee is cold, and the shadows are beginning to speak. Welcome back to the desk of The Night Writer, where the stories are brewed in the dark. Tonight, we learn that sometimes the most important part of a conversation is knowing exactly when to stop talking and let the silence do the screaming."

​The spotlight was more than just light; it was a physical weight, pressing against the glass of the wheelhouse like a tidal wave. It stripped the world of its colors, turning the rusted deck of the Odyssey into a bleached, skeletal landscape. Through the glare, I could see the sleek, predatory prow of the interceptor cutting through the fog, its twin engines humming with a low, expensive vibration that mocked the rhythmic coughing of my dying diesel.

​I didn't reach for the radio. I didn't reach for a white flag. Instead, I picked up the flare gun, the heavy plastic grip cool against my palm.

​"Mikael, what are you doing?" Julian’s voice came from the hatch, a muffled rasp of terror. He hadn't gone down to the engine room yet. He was lingering, his eyes fixed on the encroaching wall of white light.

​"I’m editing the scene, Julian," I said, my voice eerily calm. "Now get Layla into that crawlspace. If they see two men on the bridge, they’ll open fire before they even ask for ID. If they see one man, they’ll think he’s a fisherman who’s lost his way. It gives us five minutes. Maybe six."

​"And then?"

​"And then I hope you’re a better swimmer than you are a liar."

​Julian stared at me for a heartbeat—a long, agonizing pause where everything we hadn't said to each other over the last three years seemed to hang in the salt-thick air. Then, he nodded once, a sharp, decisive movement, and vanished into the dark belly of the ship.

​I stood alone. The interceptor was fifty yards out now, a black ghost in a sea of artificial noon.

​"Odyssey, this is Commander Vane," a voice boomed over a long-range acoustic device, the sound waves vibrating the very marrow of my teeth. "We know who is on board. We know what you are carrying. Surrender the cargo and the girl, and the Crown may find a way to let you live. Resist, and we are authorized to treat this vessel as a hostile combatant."

​I smiled—a small, dangerous thing. They were desperate. If they were authorized to sink us, they would have done it from a mile away. They needed that blue folder. They needed the names. They needed to erase the evidence before it hit the mainland.

​I stepped out onto the narrow walkway of the bridge, the wind whipping my hair across my eyes. I held the flare gun at my side, hidden by my leg.

​"I'm alone!" I shouted, my voice swallowed by the roar of the sea. "The engine is dead! I’m just a hired hand! I don't know anything about a girl!"

​The spotlight shifted, focusing directly on my face. I squinted, my eyes stinging.

​"Lies are a poor currency at sea, Mr.," Vane replied. "Lower the ladder. We are boarding."

​As the interceptor drifted alongside, the gap between us closing to a mere twenty feet, I saw them. Six men in tactical gear, their faces obscured by matte-black helmets. They weren't coast guard. They were private security—Mansour’s personal cleaners.

​I waited until the lead man threw the grappling hook. I waited until the iron claw bit into the Odyssey’s railing. And then, I changed the punctuation of the night.

​I didn't fire at the men. I fired the flare gun directly into the open fuel vent of the Odyssey’s auxiliary tank—the one I’d intentionally left uncapped and leaking five minutes ago.

​The world didn't just explode; it tore open.

​A pillar of crimson fire erupted from the side of the ship, a scream of ignited gasoline that turned the fog into a bloody mist. The shockwave threw the boarding party backward, their tactical boots sliding on the wet deck of their own ship. The Odyssey lurched violently, the ancient wood groaning as the fire began to feast on the salt-dried timber.

​In the chaos, I dove. Not into the water, but back into the wheelhouse, grabbing the fire axe from the wall. With three frantic swings, I severed the mooring lines of the life-raft canister.

​"Julian! Now!" I roared toward the hatch.

​He emerged, clutching Layla to his chest. Her eyes were wide, reflecting the dancing flames, but she didn't scream. She had seen enough horror in the last twenty-four hours to turn a child into a statue.

​"Jump!" I commanded, pointing toward the black water on the side of the ship opposite the fire.

​We hit the water together—a shocking, bone-deep cold that felt like being slammed into a wall of needles. The ocean was a churning mess of oil and salt. Above us, the Odyssey was a funeral pyre, a brilliant, burning distraction that drew every eye on the interceptor.

​We swam. We swam until my lungs felt like they were filled with crushed glass, pulling the life-raft behind us into the dark. I didn't look back until we were a hundred yards away, bobbing in the swells.

​The Odyssey was gone. In its place was a scorched skeleton of fire, sinking slowly into the abyss. The interceptor was circling the wreckage, their searchlights frantic, cutting through the smoke in search of survivors who weren't there.

​Julian pulled himself onto the raft, then reached down to haul Layla up. I climbed in last, my body shaking with a violent, uncontrollable tremor.

​"The folder," Julian gasped, his voice cracking. "Mikael... tell me you have the folder."

​I reached into my waterproof vest and pulled out the blue plastic casing. It was wet, but the seal had held. The names of the traitors, the schematics of the coup—the grammar of a war—was still in our hands.

​"I have it," I whispered.

​Julian leaned back against the rubber side of the raft, looking up at the black, starless sky. A hysterical laugh bubbled up in his chest. "We’re in the middle of the ocean, in a rubber tub, with half the world’s most powerful men wanting us dead. What’s the plan now, Mr. Translator?"

​I looked at the horizon, where the first, faint bruise of purple was beginning to hint at a sunrise we weren't supposed to see.

​"Now," I said, "we stop translating their lies and start writing our own ending."

​"Daylight is coming to claim the quiet, but these words stay with you. The Odyssey has sunk, but the ghosts have survived the shipwreck. They are adrift in a world that has already declared them dead—which is, as any writer will tell you, the perfect place to start a revolution.

​If you enjoyed this journey into the midnight hours, leave a heart or a tip to keep the candles burning. The water is deep, but the ink is deeper.

​Sleep well—if you can.

​— The Night Writer."