Ruthless

Chapter 20

Score one for the home team

April 11

Thursday night

Helmets weren’t my style,but Donovan and I couldn’t afford to be recognized when we made the bust. We were camped out in the darkness in the yacht club in Charlestown, in the old Navy Shipyard. The next wharf over was the USS Constitution.

The irony—a symbol of freedom docked next to the place where women were being taken out of the country to be used as sex slaves.

Hidden throughout the area were the rest of the RED raid teams, waiting for that private yacht named Sweet Cherry.

Ha ha. Funny.

Not.

We’d done our research on the Cherry. It was enormous, and could easily hide women in cargo holds that were probably laced with chemicals that made it difficult for even K-9s to locate them.

We’d also done recon on the area, but couldn’t locate the women, wherever they were being held, before the transfer was even made. Of course, it couldn’t be that simple, now could it?

No way was I going to miss this bust, no matter what my ASAC said. I needed to feel like I was doing something productive other than getting my butt whipped. Otherwise, all I had was the sick feeling in my belly at the thought of those girls being auctioned off.

Auctioned off.

The welt across my breasts burned as sweat dampened my skin beneath my T-shirt. Maybe Schilling would be here, and I could shoot him.

What a gold mine the information on and pictures of Schilling had been. Over the past few days our agents had been able to dissect his life down to his penchant for visiting porno sites. How’s that for in-depth research? Plenty of money being funneled to Swiss accounts. Ah, the trails one does leave when one isn”t careful enough.

And he owned the Sweet Cherry.

The now constant burning of the welt, but more importantly the fact that he was the scum of the earth for auctioning those girls, made me want to pop his head between my hands like a giant zit.

Jason Strong—still clean. Like Tarantino, nothing was on his hard drive to implicate him in anything illegal. Strong’s records weren’t as well kept as Tarantino’s—it looked like Strong needed a better assistant or accountant. That was if he didn’t already have an assistant whom he kept tied up. Literally.

I pushed aside thoughts of Strong and narrowed my gaze, hoping to see some sign of the Sweet Cherry.

My skin crawled as I tried to shake off last night’s dream. It always changed, morphed. It was never the same. But it left me feeling exhausted, battered, almost hopeless.

Hopelessness was something I would never accept into my life.

If I’d ever allowed hopelessness to enter my mind, how would I have made it through those years as an assassin? Watching people die? Killing them?

The thought of not even knowing who I was killing, or why, made my stomach churn. At least as a sniper in the Army I knew why we were taking out certain targets that were a danger to the US.

Even as a RED agent I’d been forced to take a life to defend my own or that of another agent.

I could live with that.

It was so much harder to accept the fact that I’d killed in order to save myself from mutilation and death.

That was something I’d have to live with the rest of my life, and sometimes I understood why people turned to drugs or alcohol to forget their pain and mistakes.

But I refused to feel helpless, refused to waste my life, because now I could save others.

By taking down the sonsofbitches auctioning off these women.

I swallowed. Like that made my past sins any better.

Flashes of moonlight and ripples of water in the harbor reminded me of shards of broken glass, like the pieces that had scattered over my hand when I took the bat to Gary’s truck. My stomach tightened as I thought of what he’d done. But then I thought of Donovan, and suddenly Gary seemed like a part of my distant past.

Cool, salty air reached me under my helmet’s shield. My M40 sniper’s rifle felt good and solid in my hands as I crouched next to Donovan, one of my many evil twins decked out in black raid gear, as we held our places. I had the added comfort of my Glock in my utility belt, along with my dagger.

I kept my head perfectly still as I glanced at Donovan from the corner of my eye. Even in shadow and wearing a helmet, so much power emanated from him straight to me.

My belly tingled. Saturday’s adventure had turned into something hot that made me ravenous for the real thing.

How could I want him so much, even now?

Somehow, he made me feel safe, untouchable.

Feelings like that were dangerous. No one was untouchable, and if anyone was going to protect my ass it would be me.

I glanced at Donovan again in the darkness, sensing even more darkness around him from his anger and fear for his sister.

My chest ached as I swallowed and gripped my rifle tighter.

I wanted to take off the helmet and swipe my hand over my damp scalp. Instead, I settled for wiping away a bead of sweat rolling down my cheek.

Two times large yachts glided into the harbor and the thrumming of my heart vibrated through me. Neither had been the Sweet Cherry. They hadn’t even come close to matching the description, in case the name had been painted over.

Every now and then Donovan or I would break the silence, keeping our voices low as we spoke into the comms and gave status reports to the other teams—the status reports were basically nothing. It wasn’t necessary to tell anyone to maintain position because not a RED agent would move until the order was given. Even the K-9s wouldn’t twitch a muscle.

Tonight, we’d taken out most of the lights when we arrived, so our teams were even more difficult to see in the darkness.

Three friggin’ hours and the yacht still wasn’t here. Donovan and I knew our information was good. What we’d overheard at the Glass House—we had no doubt that tonight Schilling and his cohorts were shipping the women out.

Right?

Using the yacht—an interesting way to move the “merchandise.” And a swinging, exclusive party above deck—high-class human trafficking.

I gritted my teeth.

One of the RED agents constantly monitored the Coast Guard’s communications to make sure they hadn’t gotten to the yacht before us. Hadn’t heard a thing, though, and we would have.

The ache in my legs and lower back begged me to move so I could stretch. Hell if I’d break position.

A brilliant spot in the distance, diamond-bright on the water. Adrenaline made my muscles sing, chasing away aches and fatigue.

“Target in range,” came Special Agent Fowler’s voice. The high-powered scope Fowler used was designed by RED’s technology department.

“Target name confirmed by Coast Guard,” Fowler said. “Sweet Cherry.”

About damned time.

We still didn’t move. Donovan and I didn’t even look at each other.

My blood pumped double-time as the yacht sliced through the water. Closer. Closer. White lights looped in long strands above the deck, so bright it seemed like stars had converged in that one place.

The closer the yacht came toward us, the tighter my grip on my sniper’s rifle, and the more adrenaline flowed through me. I was so ready to hurt these pricks.

Soon the decorations, smorgasbords of food, and even a five-piece band were easy to spot. Yeah, a party. Smart. Wonder if the partyers would have a clue what the bad guys intended to store belowdecks?

Where were those partyers? Where were the girls?

I flicked my gaze around the dock and didn’t see the silhouette of a single agent. We were a part of the night. Every one of our agents came from branches of the military or government or clandestine agencies, and every agent was trained to be invisible.

RED had men and women who were former Special Ops, Navy SEALS, Secret Service, government spies, or trained assassins like me. RED recruited only the best.

The yacht slid through the water like a cutter through glass, almost ready to dock.

Hurry. I was going to start blowing shit up with my M40 if my body got any hotter. No one could accuse me of patience being one of my virtues. I only practiced it out of necessity.

I thought the yacht would never come to a stop, and my chest ached when I finally let air out in a rush. The scraping sounds of the Sweet Cherry docking made my spine crawl, but better that than all the waiting.

A man aboard the Cherry shouted orders in Swedish. I squinted and got a good look at him. Other men scurried to follow his orders as they secured the yacht.

“Limos arriving and parking near the yacht club,” Fowler said through the comm. “Looks like the party’s about to start.”

Were the girls in those limos with the partyers? Maybe hidden in the trunks, drugged and kept in enclosed crates with only airholes to breathe through?

The burn in my gut nearly sent acid washing up my throat.

“Civilians out of the limos and approaching target,” Fowler said. “No sign of any cargo.”

Donovan growled loud enough for me to hear. I knew he was thinking about his sister being among the “cargo.”

Male laughter and female giggles broke the silence. It wasn’t long before eleven couples approached the yacht. Most of the women leaned against the men they were with as if for support. A few of the women stumbled like they were already drunk. But the giggling didn’t stop. It was as if laughing gas had been given to every woman.

Then I saw the guns in the bright lighting cast from the strings of lights. The men on deck were armed with weapons in holsters—which didn’t really surprise me.

But the male partygoers—they wore holsters, too. Why would the men need to be armed?

Something crawled down my spine.

I frowned. Not right. The whole party setup wasn’t right.

The women kept giggling and it was obvious the men were keeping them on their feet.

More armed men appeared on deck and started gesturing and talking.

The women’s slightly dazed expressions as they giggled made everything snap perfectly into place.

The female partyers were the auctioned women.

When I looked at Donovan, I saw he’d pushed his helmet back. By his expression when he looked at me, it was obvious he was on the same mental path as me. His gaze snapped back to the couples on board, and for a moment I saw hope and fear mixed with fury on his features.

He was searching for Kristin.

I murmured into the comm, “Yellow Team, when you take everyone on deck into custody, separate the men from the women. Don’t allow any couples to stay together.”

Without pause, Fowler said, “Acknowledged. Yellow Team out.”

“Orange Team,” I said. “Hold back the K-9s until Yellow Team has secured the deck.”

“Ready on your order,” Quincy said. “Orange Team out.”

“All teams, most of the men are armed.” Donovan said into his comm.

The five team leaders came back with their cool acknowledgments. These agents never made apologies for what they had to do, no matter what it might mean.

“All teams, green light,” Donovan commanded. “Go!”

“Police!” Smithe shouted the universal word for law enforcement as RED agents poured from every hiding place they’d been stationed in.

On the deck of the Sweet Cherry, everything became complete chaos. Screams. Shouts. Cries.

The RED special agents on the other hand performed their jobs with cool efficiency.

Using the high-powered telescope on my M40, I sighted my first target. The asshole was shooting into the darkness with a fierce expression. Not for long. He crumpled the moment my bullet pierced his forehead.

Sharp retorts from weaponry tore through the night as men on board shot at agents converging on the yacht. The bad guys dropped so fast they didn’t get off many rounds.

Screams and shouts came from the former partyers.

My hands remained steady as I took down two more targets. I never missed. I never made mistakes—at least in marksmanship—when it came to my former profession as an assassin. That was one part of my life where I’d had no problem keeping calm and not losing my temper. I’d had to in order to make it through every assignment.

Would the gunfire never end? Would assholes with weapons ever stop appearing from the lower decks?

No sirens pierced a night that was also empty of flashing emergency lights. RED had ways of warning off other law enforcement agencies when we made a bust.

RED agents systematically took care of business. All of the men who’d been guarding the dock were down.

Ah, there, on the deck. One shot of my M40. Former last man standing was history. The rest of the men cowered on the deck. Believe me, our agents still had weapons trained on every person on board.

I swung my rifle over my shoulder. Time to take care of business.

I kept my Glock in a two-handed grip as I skirted dead men and walked through splatters of blood while I hurried onto the yacht. I had to put bullets into two men who were down but not totally out and who tried to go for their guns.

Yellow Team was already on deck and they had the situation under control, the men and women separated in moments. Green Team remained in place on the dock, prepared to take out any more armed opponents.

When I gave the signal, Orange Team converged on the deck with the K-9s to start searching for humans in places they didn’t belong—like hidden compartments—-just in case.

Red Team started at the top while Blue Team headed below with Orange Team. All team leaders checked in on the comms as they searched the yacht from top to bottom in a predetermined plan, even though we were certain the “merchandise” was right on deck.

Occasionally gunfire would break the silence as our agents covered the yacht. As always, I hoped none of our agents were down, but as professionals we went on. We did our job.

Donovan threw his helmet aside and rushed straight for the women. I’d never seen him look frantic as he did as he checked every one of the women.

And then I’d never seen him look so vulnerable, so full of anguish, as when he finished.

“She’s not here.” Donovan cleared his throat after he returned to me, and he looked into the distance. “Kristin must have been one of the two domestic—‘sales.’” I was sure I heard a crack in his voice.

I rubbed my chest, over the Kevlar that covered the ache in my heart. That meant Kristin’s nightmare had already begun. These others—their buyers were waiting for delivery, and the girls probably hadn’t been touched. I hoped.

But if Kristin had been delivered…

Dear God.

Donovan and I stood side by side on the deck, watching Yellow Team finish separating, disarming, and cuffing all of the men who’d been escorting the women. The men who’d survived, that was.

The eleven women looked dazed yet still giggled at one end of the yacht, clearly still under the influence of whatever drug they’d been given.

Donovan and I moved closer to the restrained men. The kidnappers. I could feel Donovan’s rage and desire to kill them all for what they were doing to countless young women, including his sister.

My gaze slid over one of the cuffed men who was staring at Donovan, who’d taken his helmet off. The catch in my breath hurt my throat when I realized it was Schilling.

Did he recognize Donovan? Did he recognize me?

No way he’d ID me. Puff Cheeks wouldn’t know. I was unrecognizable in my gear.

Wasn’t I?

Schilling stared at Donovan.

“So, it’s ‘Sire Dunning.’” Then he looked from Donovan to me. “And I’d bet behind that helmet and under those clothes is the supposed ‘slave Alexi.’”

Oh, crap.

Donovan made a low growl as he gripped his Beretta in one hand and stepped across the bloody deck. He headed straight for Puff Cheeks, who recoiled.

Donovan clipped Schilling in the head with the grip of the Beretta.

I should have thought of that.

Schilling slumped onto his side.

When Donovan returned to me, I looked at him through my helmet’s shield. “I understand him recognizing you. But me?”

Donovan scowled as he stared at the man he had just knocked the crap out of. “Hate to break it to you, Steele, but you have the kind of body a man doesn’t forget easily.”

My jaw dropped as I looked up at him. Say what?

He folded his arms over his chest. “I think it was a natural guess, judging by your height and the fact that you’re with me.”

I gestured toward the out-cold Puff Cheeks. “We’re in deep, aren’t we?”

“Nah.” Donovan stared at the man. “We can keep him restrained.”

“How about dead?” I tested the weight of my Glock in my hand. “Can’t identify me if he’s in the big porn house on the other side.”

“Bloodthirsty little thing, aren’t you, Steele?” Donovan shook his head. “He might just be the break we need to get to the top.”

“Yeah.” I holstered my Glock and immediately missed the feel of it in my palm. “I can put a bullet in his balls, followed by one in his brain, after we get the man we’re really going after.”

I glanced at the women. “Time to do a little interviewing.” I sighed. It was going to be a friggin’ long night. “I’ll take the girls, you go after the dickheads.”

Donovan stared at the women for a moment and I could sense how badly he wished his sister was one of those girls we’d saved.

Then he seemed relieved to not have to talk with the women, like it would be too painful. He started toward the men. “You got it, Steele.”

The women looked pitiful as they slumped on the deck. It wasn’t going to be easy interviewing them when they were so obviously high and dazed. More than likely we’d do our interviewing after they’d been in RED’s infirmary for a while. I’d bet a box of Dixie’s treats and face the cat’s wrath if I was wrong.

I went to a woman who looked like she was coming down from the drug. Her chest rose and fell as she took harsh breaths. Fear sparked in her gaze and she tried to scrabble away until I took off my helmet and she saw I was female.

“You okay?” I asked, keeping my voice low and trying to sound comforting.

The terror in her brown eyes made me feel like someone had jerked my guts straight through my belly button.

“We’ll get you all someplace safe,” I said, “and then we”ll talk, okay?”

She didn’t say anything. I didn’t expect her to. It wasn’t the drug that had her scared out of her mind. I was positive she’d been threatened with any number of punishments if she talked.

Yeah, we’d have to work on her and the other women later, once they’d had a chance to realize they were okay.

This job really sucked sometimes. Most of the time. Even when we saved the women from captivity, we couldn’t save them from their fear.

One thing that kept me going on this assignment was the fact that I would help countless women once I got to the top of that awful ladder and found out who was the scumbag running the entire show, the major player calling the shots.

The other things that kept the fire burning inside me were finding Kristin Donovan, and killing every asshole involved in murdering Randolph.