Chapter Eighteen
Estación Naval de Porto Pí
Palma, Mallorca
Mia Hernandez didn’t touch the brakes of her moped as she cruised past the open gate of the Estación Naval de Porto Pí.
A single uniformed guard stood near the yellow security booth.
Mia was aware there might be more guards inside, but if the earlier shoot-out in Port de Sóller had raised any alarms, it wasn’t visible from the street.
The naval station, which sat quietly off Carretera Dic de l’Oest, was delimited by an eight-foot see-through iron fence.
From the street, Mia saw several low, functional sand-colored buildings with weatherworn facades.
Farther east she could see the Porto Pí lighthouse—one of the oldest operating lighthouses in the world—standing watch over the bay, its forty-one-meter-high tower casting a long silhouette against the clear night sky.
Not many of those lighthouses left. And that’s too bad.
She’d always found that there was something noble about lighthouses. They stood firm at the edge of the world, helping others find their way.
Just like the Fisherman once did for me.
She continued south, then veered left onto Castell de Sant Carles, coasting down the slope toward the parking lot outside the Museu Històric Militar.
The lot was deserted, and Mia backed the moped into a space near a squat pine.
She killed the engine and took off her helmet.
She took her small backpack out of the storage box attached to the back of the scooter, then stashed her helmet in the compartment beneath the seat.
She uncapped a bottle of water, swallowed two amphetamine tablets, then chased them down with a long drink.
She powered her encrypted phone, then read through the mission brief Operations had sent her one more time.
When she had committed all the information to memory, she deleted the file and made her way back to the main road.
Underneath her clothes—which consisted of a pair of black jeans, a black long-sleeved hoodie, and a pair of dark hiking shoes—she wore a thin 3/2 mm wet suit.
The night was warm, so the wet suit made her extra sweaty and uncomfortable, but if things went sideways and she ended up in the harbor’s black water, she’d be glad for it.
Water . . . Mia had been forged in it.
She often thought about the night her family’s migrant boat had capsized off the northern coast of Venezuela almost two decades ago.
She’d been eight years old, clutching her little brother’s hand as a towering wave flipped their overloaded vessel like it was nothing.
One moment she was screaming, the next, she was underwater, her arms thrashing in the darkness, her legs kicking blindly as tiny air bubbles raced past her face before disappearing into the void.
All she could hear was the distorted roar of the ocean in her ears.
She twisted, turning in the water, trying to find the surface.
Trying to find him. Her brother.
She tried to call out his name, but every time she did, water rushed into her mouth, choking her.
Panic bloomed in her chest, threatening to paralyze her, but she clamped her lips shut and forced herself to push upward.
But the ocean didn’t want to let her go.
Still, she kicked and clawed her way back to the overturned hull of the boat, her fingers slipping twice before finally finding purchase on the slick fiberglass.
Coughing and shivering, she pulled herself halfway out of the water.
Her brother never made it back to the boat. And neither did her parents.
Twelve hours later, sunburned, shaking, and barely conscious, she was about to let herself sink beneath the water when she was pulled from the sea by an American fisherman off the coast of Aruba.
The Fisherman’s boat was white and black and gigantic, larger than anything she’d ever imagined.
To Mia, it looked more like a floating city than a vessel.
Her rescuer, who was in his forties then, had strong, weathered hands, but he had the kindest eyes she’d ever seen.
He wrapped her in thick, impossibly soft towels and carried her below deck to the medical bay, where a nurse tended to her wounds.
Later, she was escorted to a small dining room, where she ate a simple but so delicious meal of rice, beans, and fresh-caught fish, and a warm slice of something sweet she couldn’t name at the time but later learned was apple pie.
The next morning, she woke up in the most comfortable bed she’d ever slept in.
A breakfast tray had been left on a table beside her bed.
She devoured the scrambled eggs, the slices of papaya, and the two golden toasts—with real butter—the chef prepared for her.
There was a folded napkin with a note tucked beneath it:
Descansa todo lo que necesites. Ya estás a salvo, Sirenita.
Rest as long as you need. You’re safe now, little mermaid.
It was then, in the quiet of her spacious stateroom, that she’d truly understood that she owed the Fisherman her life.
And she’d made a promise to herself. She wouldn’t just survive, she would live, and she would dedicate that life to something greater.
She would pledge her life to the man who had saved her, the Fisherman, and to the greater good he embodied.
So even though she was aware that tonight’s operation was risky, she knew she’d pull through.
Because I have to. Because there’s still so much to do.
Mia turned north onto Carretera Dic de l’Oest. The sidewalk was lined with tall trees planted every sixty feet.
Each tree created a pocket of darkness along the fence.
Mia slowed her pace as she neared the section of the fence she’d chosen earlier during her drive-by.
That section was one of the few stretches without barbed wire at the top.
A nearby tree provided the necessary shadow, and a line of thick, overgrown bushes on the other side of the fence would make for great concealment once she got over.
She glanced over her shoulder. There were no pedestrians, no headlights.
As she reached the spot she’d selected, she stepped up to the fence, planted her right foot on the fence’s midsection, and with a tight burst of speed, pushed with her left leg.
Her hands latched onto the horizontal rung, and she used her legs to push higher.
She positioned one foot over the top rung and brought her torso above the fence line.
She then swung her left leg over, pivoted sideways, and dropped down, absorbing the impact with bent knees.
Staying low, she dashed to the nearest tree and dropped to her stomach.
From there, she could see the patrol boat she’d been ordered to board docked to the north of the base, parallel to Avenida Gabriel Roca.
She noticed some lights were on in a few buildings, but she didn’t spot any movement.
She waited two full minutes to confirm nobody had been alerted by her presence and was trying to sneak up on her, then she moved.
She sprinted fifty yards across open space until she pressed her back against the western wall of a yellow two-story building.
She was still catching her breath when the door of the building creaked open and two uniformed Guardia Civil officers stepped out.
One was tall and thin, and he had a sharp nose and a buzzed haircut.
His uniform hung a little loose on his frame.
The other officer was shorter but thicker, with a solid neck and a broad chest. He had a round face and a short beard.
The smaller man pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and offered one to his colleague, who nodded his thanks. They lit up.
Mia didn’t move. But she did curse her bad luck.
She knew that the average time to smoke a cigarette was five minutes. If the two officers lingered longer than that, she’d have no choice but to strike. She had no doubt she could kill them both, but silently? She wasn’t so sure about that.
The two men were speaking Spanish, and Mia picked up fragments of their conversation. Apparently, the men’s teammates were prepping for a mission, syncing comms, and heading to the armory to draw weapons.
C’mon guys . . . go back inside.
The two officers had been out for just under five minutes when the tallest finally excused himself and went back inside. The other wished him good night and pulled out his phone. He began scrolling, the glow of his phone lighting up his face. Then, with a muttered sigh, he lit another cigarette.
Mia grimaced. That was it. She couldn’t wait any longer.
She reached slowly into the waistband of her jeans and drew her knife. The serrated blade was five inches long and made of blacked-out steel. Mia moved silently while scanning her surroundings, making sure she wasn’t about to be surprised by another one of the man’s colleagues.
They were alone.
The Guardia Civil officer, totally engrossed by whatever was on his phone, didn’t register her presence until she kicked him hard behind his left knee.
As he buckled, Mia clamped her left hand over his mouth and drove the tip of her knife deep into his neck.
The man dropped his phone, his body twisting in surprise.
But despite the knife in his neck and the kick to his knee, he didn’t fall.
Instead, he backpedaled desperately until he slammed Mia into the wall.
The impact knocked the air out of her lungs.
Even worse, something hard inside her backpack—most probably her flashlight—jabbed sharply into her spine, momentarily paralyzing her.