As Terry treated Corey to an early meal at the yacht club, he anticipated a long evening ahead on the yacht. People were beginning to enter the bar as couples for a sunset drink. He allowed the bartender to go about his business serving them, which gave Corey time to look out across the bay as the sun dropped lower in the sky. While he was wary of anyone entering who may have been following or continued the surveillance of him, he noticed no one who seemed suspicious. The spaghetti and salad dinner were a comforting change to the fast food he had been eating for days. His new partner even brought him a couple of glasses of red wine, which Corey knew having a third might settle his nerves to handle the unknown events ahead.

But his respite there in in the clubhouse also allowed him time to think. Sitting at a window with an eye on the entrance to remain vigilant, Corey began to self-examine why he had made such a capricious decision, putting himself directly in harm's way that evening. He clearly could be leaving the club for the airport at that very hour, he thought. But instead, once again he was feeling that sensation which had come to him only a few times in his young career—that he would be walking out on a tightrope without a net.

* * *

Not allowing Mattingly to call back and talk him out of his decision, was a further commitment Corey had made to find his way onboard the yacht and get as much intelligence as he could about the girl's condition and the ship's future destination. At that point the Coast Guard would be notified for a seizure and decisive boarding of the craft. He realized the frustration that Henley Marlow was only a hundred meters offshore and at least for now, remained in great peril.

Waiting for the evening to progress only further allowed Corey to seriously ask himself why he had taken this case above all others so much to heart. Why it had become so important for him to solve. Was it the immediate hostility he received from the FBI agents, and his reaction to the competition between them and his department? Was it the racial angle? That he being a black man would not tolerate taking a back seat to the all-white federal agents? Or was it merely the mystery of why an innocent young female, through no fault of her own, could be so abruptly pulled into some clandestine governmental project? The answer was at the heart of it all and what he had learned had been hijacked at Hopkins—a governmentally-funded program attempting to weaponize psychological research and turn it into mind control.

Nevertheless, as the several hours of waiting passed, following an evening of patrons arriving and departing the club, Corey suddenly heard Terry announce from the bar a last call as the club was planning to close early that evening.

"You ready to go to work pretty soon?" he asked quietly, as he passed by his table to put out a "Bar Closed" sign and deliver his last glass of wine.

"Ready as ever," Corey answered, downing what was left of his second glass.

In a matter of minutes, while Terri was tabulating the receipts for the night, the barman's cell phone rang, and he heard him greet George the chef again.

"Alright . . . we'll meet you down at the dock." Hanging up, he looked over at Corey. "I've got our uniforms in the backroom, Larry. I'll be changing into mine too. George will have the truck with food and drinks down on the service road in about ten."

"Cool. Lead the way, partner. I'll leave my clothes with yours."

Putting on the white service uniform--cotton lacks, a pressed dress shirt and an accompanying black bow tie, Corey felt he at least looked the part. He had not lied to Terry that he had done some restaurant time in his younger years and felt bringing back the skill set would not be too difficult.

Walking down to the water's edge in the cool air, the two men joined George who had just arrived, backing the van up to the dock. Corey could see the motor-powered boat with its green lights approaching them at high speed from the Morpheus. He took a deep breath and began unloading the aluminum food containers and crates of bottles and dishes onto the quay, all to be loaded and ferried across.

"The guys on the skiff will take the load over first," Terry informed. "Then they'll come back to pick us up."

"Got it," Corey replied, lifting a box with bottles of whiskey, Vodka and Rum out of the truck and onto the wooden deck.

George locked his vehicle and stood next to the stack of boxes, waiting to deliver the party goods to members of the crew. The large rubber Zodiac boat pulled up along the dock, its twin engines abruptly shutting off. The craft was secured tightly against the structure while a thirtyish-looking crew member, nicely dressed for the evening's festivities, got out to help with the loading.

"How you guys doing this evening," he said looking closely at Corey, obviously not recognizing him.

"This here is Lawrence," Terry said, handing him a crate. "He's standing in for a sick worker tonight"

"OK . . . Taking the place of . . ."

"Jim," Terry answered.

"Yeah, Jim . . . the tall kid last time. Well, Alright. So can we call you Larry. Lawrence?

"Not a problem," Corey answered smiling in the dim light. "Been called worse."

"Yeah, I hear you, pal." He laughed.

After the goods were on the skiff, taking up most of the small deck space, the crew member climbed back in, untied the lines, and gave the signal for his partner to speed away back to the yacht. It was just after ten-thirty PM as the three men waited under the dock light for the transport to return.

"You sure you're up to this, tonight, Larry?" George asked Corey, a little nervously.

"Relax, George. I've done this gig many times."

"OK, Bud . . . thank the Lord. We're count 'in on ya."

"So look," Terry added, using the waiting time to fill Corey in. "We have about sixteen ready-made meals in those containers. George just needs to reheat the courses while we put out the Hors d'oeuvres and serve drinks first. Last time there were seven guys on board. The captain contracted seven girls from Baltimore. All escorts . . . yeah, hookers, to help with the . . . celebration. They'll be served dinner with the guys after drinks and after that . . . the dancing and carrying on starts."

Corey just nodded. Hailing from Las Vegas he knew the party economy well. The call-girl protocol sadly was a mainstay to most male events there.

Terry lit a cigarette and continued. "When the meals are over and the fooling around gets serious, we collect the service ware, leave the booze onboard, they pay us, and they take us back to shore. End of the gig."

"OK. Fair enough."

"The party last time I was told went on into the early hours. The girls got sent home around four or five AM. That's probably when the Morpheus will pull anchor and head out to sea."

Terry, already looking physically tired, took a long drag on his cigarette. "These yacht people . . . when they go long distances . . . they like to travel at night."

"Yeah, I get that," Corey answered, feeling in his pocket for the new "burner" cellphone which was fully charged, shut off and on "silent" as a tracer beacon. It was his plan that the yacht would later that night or next day be definitely tracked and intercepted by the authorities. It all depended on Mattingly's earlier report to the chief of this bold, and hopefully not lethal plan.

After ten to fifteen minutes the green lights of the Zodiac were seen jetting back across the bay to collect the three for their catering job. As the sleek boat pulled up again with a roar to the dock, Corey looked at the man holding the rope closely to see if he had any remaining suspicion about him. It was the same deck hand who addressed him as Larry while he stepped aboard. As the craft sped off on the dark water, he was amazed at how quickly it brought them to the Morpheus. Its boarding stairs were lowered automatically at the stern, ushering them onboard.

As the three were welcomed by members of the crew, they were escorted to the superyacht's stainless-steel galley where their supplies awaited them. It seemed everything on the craft that Corey observed looked more like a world-class hotel than a ship. He also detected the steady hum of the powerful engines far below the decks, running the electric generators. Perhaps those engines were always on also, he thought, for an immediate exit to any port in the world.

The three once in the galley, met a tall, lean man with a trimmed moustache. He looked fiftyish and introduced himself as the captain. He wore a black paramilitary uniform and addressed them formally. He encouraged a smooth operation for the evening and told them any questions they had while providing the evening's refreshments should be addressed to him. Another older man entered the kitchen looking for the captain. He was overweight, short, with a beard and a completely bald head. He wore a disheveled white suit and spoke to the captain in what Corey easily detected as a foreign accent.

"Sorry for the interruption," the captain said, slightly annoyed. "This is Dr. Hazan, our science advisor and project coordinator."

Corey nodded to them both, knowing full well what kind of "project" Hazan was coordinating, somewhere onboard the massive yacht. The Science Advisor did not speak to them, nor did he make any eye contact while he waited for the captain to finish. He then accompanied the captain out of the galley, looking at his watch and deep in conversation. This left George, Terry and himself to begin opening the crates and boxes for the night's refreshments and meals.

As he was unpacking the plates, silverware and glasses, Corey could hear the voices of a few men rise in excitement as the sound of the Zodiac once throttled up left the yacht.

"They're going across to the city," Terry whispered to him. "To pick up the girls. It should be about thirty minutes and they'll be here."

"Hey! Let's go guys!" George commanded. "Don't talk, let's get that wet bar stocked!"

Both Corey and Terry carried bottles of spirits and ice buckets out to the main dining area. It was in the center of the yacht's observation deck. The walls were all glass, curving up and including most of the ceiling. Surrounding these seamless windows were plush leather seats where guests could take in the oceanic views outside. Whether dining by day, watching the skylines of cities or green islands, or later while at night, with the black star-studded vista above, it all came with jaw-dropping beauty. While still very mindful of why he was there, Corey could not help but wonder what people did in this world to afford one of those magnificent high-tech pleasure ships.

Working diligently to set up the bar with Terry, and carrying the Hors d'oeuvres to the tables, he heard the Zodiac roar up to the stern again and the sound of female laughter and excited shrill voices. The men escorted the young women into the dining room. Wearing their short skirts and high heels, Corey could see them up close, noticing they all looked to be not much older than college girls.

Once inside and in the company of the seven males onboard, the hypnotic sound of clubbing music began to blare from a quad system somewhere hidden in the walls. As Corey circulated around, taking orders for drinks and carrying trays of party food, he hoped the now more dynamic atmosphere would give him a few moments to break away and search the ship for Henley.

* * *