Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Dark clouds rolled across the concrete pier as low-lying scud shrouded the derelict vessel in a gloomy gray.
A navigational buoy clanged somewhere in the channel, the bell echoing across the black, choppy water like a mournful cry.
Up ahead, a grimy, seventy-five-foot shrimp trawler listed against its moor lines, rust streaks running down its stained white hull.
Riven sat low at the bow of their silent skiff, the wind whipping her hair in the strong breeze. Cold, spitting rain needled against her skin, the incoming squall line dimming the sodium lights dancing along the distant wharf.
She glanced at McGuire, tiller in one hand, his face calm, unreadable.
He met her gaze, a tentative smile easing the hard lines for a moment before he focused on the horizon.
He looked strong, imposing, just like that night in Colombia.
A familiar silhouette that eased the nervous roil of her stomach.
She still couldn’t believe he was the voice she’d directed that night.
The ghost who’d drawn her attention and refused to let go.
Knowing that he’d been thinking about her — had worried if she’d escaped — had shifted something inside.
Softened a part of her she’d steeled against the pain.
The loss. She only hoped this wasn’t their last mission together.
Stone’s voice rang through her comms a moment later, his deep voice calm and quiet. “Two on the aft rail, one smoking in the wheelhouse. Maintain your line, then swing into that shadow along the stern.”
She scanned the deck, night-vision scope pressed against her cheek as she marked the men’s position. How they swayed with each incoming swell. They’d take the two at the stern out first — work their way to the main stateroom next.
She glanced at Patch. Head bent low, he checked their gear one more time — wedge and spreader, compact jammer for the safe in case it was wired, and enough firepower to infiltrate a fully staffed cartel outpost. More than she’d ever carried, and yet, it might not be enough.
Martillo wasn’t just Herrera’s logistics guy.
He was an enforcer. Had earned the position through blood and violence — an unyielding, explosive force with zero subtleties.
The reason he’d garnered the nickname, The Hammer.
McGuire slowed as the hulking trawler rose up in front of them like a monolith, eventually cutting the skiff’s engine and gliding the last several meters.
He angled the boat toward the Santa Rina’s stern’s shadow, gently nosing the bow against the hull where the curve of the boat created a dark void.
The skiff rocked with the next wave, the sound muffled as Patch snagged a rear line, kept the boat from swinging into the side.
Patch waited for the next lull, then secured a magnetic grappling hook around the upper ledge, the end snapping to the lip with a dull thump.
They held their ground, weapons at the ready, the rain starting to soak through their clothes, until the low echo of metal on metal faded, no hint of movement above.
Cross called through their comms. “Exterior jammer’s going hot as soon as I end this call. Sixty-meter bubble. No cell, no VHF, no sat inside the hull. I’ll disengage temporarily if I need to communicate.”
McGuire acknowledged with a curt, “Roger,” then moved to the bow, holding the boat still as Patch tied off a couple lines.
McGuire tugged on the rope, then climbed up the side, slipping over the gunwale like a wraith.
Patch gave Riven a leg up next, the slick nylon slipping through her hands until she wedged her foot on the rubber bumper strip circling the hull — hauled her body over the edge.
She landed feather-soft on the deck, McGuire off to one side, when a deckhand appeared out of the mist, eyes wide, cigarette hanging on his lip.
He inhaled as Riven stepped forward, thumb jammed under his jaw, forearm braced across his chest. She took a few lunging strides, slammed him into a winch post, riding his head against the metal all the way to the deck, her other hand clamped around his mouth.
He twitched, stilling a moment later from an elbow across his temple.
McGuire darted to her shoulder, smiled, then dragged the guy behind a bait bin — half-covered him in a hunk of netting mounded on the deck. Patch came up behind them, motioned toward the main wheelhouse, the patter of rain and the constant strum of the generators masking their hushed footfalls.
They crept along the railing, blending with the deep shadows lining the edge as the main cabin loomed ahead, strips of paint peeling off the walls. A foggy porthole glowed yellow in the dark, the odd silhouette passing inside.
McGuire stopped at the galley door, showed the countdown on his hand, then eased the door open. The scent of fried peppers and sausage wafted through the opening, a couple voices murmuring in Spanish somewhere in the distance.
They slipped inside, boots quiet along a series of wet rubber mats, when footsteps tapped near the T-junction off to their left.
They hit the floor, guns at the ready, as two men crossed the opening, rifles slung over their shoulders, gazes focused down the corridor.
McGuire waited until the sounds faded into the clatter of pans mixed with a low-level hum that seemed to vibrate through the entire boat before giving the all clear.
He straightened, took lead through the junction, then left.
They passed three closed doors before reaching the main stateroom, hints of old cigar and stale coffee carrying through the razor-thin gap around the frame.
He listened, then eased it open, a low-metallic groan damn near stopping her heart.
Riven’s eye twitched as the sound lingered on the musty air before McGuire waved them inside — closed out the rest of the trawler, the door still slivered open.
A couple charts curled over the edge of a small table on the port side, two mugs holding them in place. A bolted safe had been tucked into the wall above a ratty bunk, the metal oddly polished compared to the dust-layered surfaces around the cabin.
Patch moved silently toward the safe, tools spread out across the bunk.
He attached the jammer to the door, sent a signal through the metal, killing any kind of triggered alarm, then popped the door open with the wedge and spreader.
McGuire had their six, suppressed carbine at the ready as the rain kicked up outside, tapping an angry rhythm on the roof.
Less than thirty seconds, and Patch had the safe spread wide, the ledger in her hands.
She placed it on the bunk, flipped to the last couple of written pages.
Her heart caught, hesitated for a few seconds before sprinting ahead, pounding against her ribs like a drum as she stared at the code scribbled in cursive.
She tamped down the rush of adrenaline, snapping multiple shots of the phrase, along with the unique watermark stamped in the upper corner, with her red-filtered burner cell. Patch whispered his thanks when she returned it, then slipped the book back in place.
He started jerryrigging the door enough it would still look intact, when the damn trawler rumbled to life. The deck shifted beneath their feet, tipping left and right as steam hissed outside, the boat’s horn calling out a short warning.
Stone’s voice crackled in their comms as he killed the jammer for a moment. “Bow lines just went slack. The whole damn thing’s moving.”
McGuire cursed under his breath as he stepped over to the porthole, looked out. “Wheelhouse. Now.”
Patch grunted out a breath. “I need thirty seconds or Martillo will know he’s screwed the second he steps inside.”
The small window on the door lit up with a crimson glow as red light filled the adjoining corridor, the door creaking open a second later. A large silhouette filled the entrance, rain slicker layered over a black shirt, the outline of a pistol low on his hip.
The man’s eyes widened as his gaze swung from the men over to her, a sense of recognition creasing his forehead. “Cinder.”
McGuire moved, fired two shots, the rounds just missing Martillo’s shoulder as the entire boat listed hard to starboard, tumbling them across the room and against the wall. They hit hard, the air wheezing out of her lungs as Martillo’s voice rose in the corridor.
A klaxon screamed as the trawler lurched forward, dipping to port and starboard as it picked up a bit of speed, trees moving past the porthole with steady purpose. Footsteps pounded the passageway as they regained their balance, readied for the inevitable assault.
Cross cut through the jammer, again, voice edgier. “Multiple tangos heading your way. Spotlight on you in three… two…”
The light punched through the stateroom window a second before a crack rose above the other noise. Low. Exacting. Glass broke in the distance, the beam winking off.
Cross, again, voice clipped tight. “McGuire? Brother I can only jam their tech if I’ve got eyes on you. I can adjust the trajectory, but if that trawler leaves the harbor…”
There’d be nothing stopping Martillo from calling in reinforcements — putting the location of the shadow ledger on full lockdown. Blowing their op right out of the water.
“Also, your skiff’s adrift. Stern line tie-off got shredded.” Cross paused for a moment. “Stone’s on it. Get the hell out, and we’ll pick you up.”
McGuire grunted as he tripped his way to the door, every roll nearly taking them to the floor. “Time to call an audible. We hit the engine room, cripple this bitch, then exfil via the wheelhouse — leave them deaf and blind.”
Voices shouting out in Spanish at the end of the corridor got them all moving. Along the passageway, through an adjoining hatch, then down two floors. Diesel growl bellowed up from a nearby hatch, heat jacking the temp up by several degrees.