SHADOWS OVER THE FORGOTTEN ISLE

CHAPTER ONE

 

Stephen stood on the seashore, gazing at the horizon where the ocean’s color shifted abruptly, marking the edge of a sheer drop into a 1,200-fathom abyss. The ocean was magnificent, its waves crashing against the soft, white sandy shore. The sight was both mesmerizing and terrifying—a plunge into the unknown depths. He couldn’t resist the temptation any longer.

 

“I have to see what the edge of the cliff looks like,” Stephen muttered to himself.

 

Soon, a native boatman sailed closer. Stephen waved him over, and after a brief exchange, a deal was struck. He glanced at the boat, his diving helmet resting just a few feet from the cliff’s edge. The ocean floor seemed impossibly far below, but with a mix of curiosity and trepidation, he donned the helmet and slid into the blue abyss.

 

Within seconds, he was submerged, acutely aware of the immense pressure surrounding him. A heavy weight seemed to press against his back, and a dark, indistinct line blurred into the distance. Even the boat above became a faint, shadowy outline. He leaned into the water, feeling the cold seep through his suit—a gentle chill that hinted at the vast, silent world beneath.

 

The deep ocean was eerily quiet, save for the faint whistling of air as he pumped it into his helmet. Below him lay nothing but darkness—empty, cold, and infinite. Suddenly, a devil fish, as it was fondly called, appeared, its remora clinging to its side, fins flapping like rudders. Stephen watched in awe before fearlessly tugging the line tied to the boat and emerging from the water. He sat on the shore, cold and wet, water dripping down his body.

 

As he caught his breath, he noticed a group of men in military khaki uniforms driving a black Chevy truck. They were from the naval base, but their faces were unfamiliar, obscured by black sunglasses and hoods. Stephen was about to approach them when a deafening explosion rocked the base. He yelled as his office was engulfed in flames, windows shattering and debris scattering everywhere. The once-elegant building collapsed in a cloud of smoke and chaos.

 

“What the hell?” Stephen shouted, his voice drowned out by the roaring flames.

 

The firemen arrived quickly, their red trucks rushing to the scene. Stephen watched as they worked tirelessly to extinguish the blaze. Once the smoke cleared, he ventured into the ruins of his office. The room was a mess, but miraculously, his laptop and external drive were intact. He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he surveyed the damage.

 

As he sat in his car, the memory of the hooded men resurfaced. Sweat prickled on his forehead. “I knew it. Those sons of bitches burned down my office,” he muttered angrily. He slammed the steering wheel, igniting the engine. At first, it sputtered, as if sharing his frustration, but after a few tries, it roared to life, and he sped off.

 

That week, there was no news from the NYPD about the bombing. Frustrated, Stephen drove to their office, a few miles from the naval base. He was greeted warmly and offered a seat in a room cooled by air conditioning. The space was illuminated by a chandelier, its light reflecting off the Italian tiles on the floor.

 

“What happened?” Stephen asked abruptly.

 

“The state department hasn’t given us the go-ahead to investigate the bombings,” Walker replied.

 

Stephen slammed his fist on the desk, causing a pen to jump into the air. Walker flinched but said nothing. Without another word, Stephen stood, nodded, and left.

 

Meanwhile, pandemonium erupted at home. Laura, Stephen’s wife, was with their twin children when they saw the news on TV. “Mom! Mom! Look, it’s Dad!” the kids shouted.

 

Laura’s heart sank as she saw the footage of the explosion. She tried calling Stephen but got no response. Panicked, she locked the kids inside and drove to his workplace. The scene was chaotic—firefighters, police, and onlookers crowded the area. Tears filled her eyes as she learned that Stephen was missing, his car completely destroyed.

 

“Is he dead?” Laura asked, her voice trembling.

 

“No, ma’am, but…” the officer hesitated. “We didn’t find any traces of his body in the car. Captain Stephen is missing.”

 

Laura stared at the charred remains of the car, her heart heavy. The seats, the steering wheel—everything she had admired about the vehicle was now reduced to ashes. “Where could he be?” she whispered.

 

The news spread quickly, and soon the entire town was searching for Stephen. Posters and flyers were distributed, and the police scoured every corner of the city. But as the sun set, there was still no sign of him. Laura returned home, her eyes swollen from crying.

 

That night, Eric, a close friend of Stephen’s, noticed a beam of light outside his window. He wasn’t expecting anyone, so he grabbed his jackknife and pistol, ready for anything. To his surprise, it was Laura.

 

“Eric, Stephen is missing,” she said, her voice breaking. “He went to the NYPD to investigate the bombing and had a car explosion on his way back.”

 

Eric’s jaw tightened. “Stephen’s a fighter. He’s not gone.”

 

“You and Stallone need to find him. You’re the only ones I can trust,” Laura pleaded.

 

Stallone, another friend, arrived shortly after. His once-slim frame had filled out, and his hair had grayed, but his determination was as strong as ever. The three of them sat together, the kids quietly watching the news on TV. The aroma of a delicious meal wafted from the kitchen, where Lamela, their cook, was preparing dinner.

 

The next morning, they headed to the NYPD’s office for answers. On the way, Stallone noticed a suspicious man in a hood entering a car with no license plates. He signaled Eric to follow the vehicle. After a few minutes, the car stopped, and the man, now wearing a round-neck shirt and blue jeans, entered a nearby mart with two others.

 

“What’s going on?” Stallone asked.

 

Eric and Stallone hid nearby, waiting for the men to reappear. When they did, the duo confronted them, but the men bolted. Eric and Stallone managed to catch one, but the others escaped.

 

Eric didn’t hold back. He kicked the man, spat in his face, and landed several blows. They tied him to a chair, gagged him, and demanded answers.

 

“Where is Stephen?” Eric growled.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man spat back.

 

Stallone stepped forward, a club in hand. “You’re going to talk, or this will get ugly.”

 

The man remained silent, sweat dripping down his face. Eric’s frustration boiled over, and he struck the man with the club, drawing blood.

 

“Tell us now, or you’re dead,” Stallone threatened.

 

Stallone left the room and returned with a heated iron. He held it close to the man’s face, the heat radiating ominously.

 

“I’ll talk,” the man finally said, his voice trembling.

 

“We’re listening.”

 

“Rainforest,” he muttered.

 

“Where the hell is that?” Stallone demanded.

 

Eric’s eyes narrowed. He knew the place. But before they could act, Lamela noticed a tracking device on the captive.

 

“We’re being tracked. He’s got a tracker on him,” Lamela warned.

 

“Shit,” Stallone cursed.