Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Vince was frustrated.
Tex was still digging for info that the stubborn captain refused to disclose, but he’d been unable to find out anything more for the teams regarding the boat that the Water Wrestler was scheduled to meet.
The vessel was, for all intents and purposes, a ghost ship.
Tex hated being stymied, but he’d finally had to throw in the towel.
He’d searched months’ worth of satellite imagery, honing in specifically on the Fridays that the Water Wrestler had met with the unknown craft, and caught fleeting and grainy glimpses of what looked to be a seventy-foot wet fish trawler in the general vicinity.
But the captain was either smart enough to employ camouflage from satellite detection during their illegal transfers, or the weather—with a thick cloud cover overhead—had naturally blocked visuals.
Either way, any identifying infrastructure had been indiscernible.
And the boat in question was so ubiquitous amongst the many other trawlers plying their trade legally, it was almost impossible to pinpoint it as the rogue vessel at any other time.
So, there’d been hardly any help there.
Another factor that would make Diver Downeast and SWAT’s operation today a little more difficult, was that all the boats of the size and type Tex had ID’d, held large crews. Which made the upcoming encounter close to a one-on-one prospect; good guys vs. bad guys.
For those reasons, the SWAT team and Diver Downeast had needed to amend the plan they’d previously made, on the fly.
The original strategy had been for the dive team to pose as the Water Wrestler’s crew, and for SWAT to be waiting below to emerge, weapons ready, after they’d come alongside and tied off.
That’s when they’d figured on encountering, perhaps, a half dozen crew members who wouldn’t put up much of a fight.
Now, knowing how outmanned Vince, his brothers, and Jett alone would be once they were alongside, it had been decided that SWAT would be disguised as the crew; rigged out with weapons and tactical vests obscured by their yellow bibs; the more practiced team being first contact.
The divers would approach from a different, less volatile vector.
It was determined that they’d slip over the side of the Water Wrestler that was opposite to where they approached the ghost trawler, swim underwater undetected, then board the rogue vessel via the transom ladder.
They’d blind-side the black-marketeers, acting as back-up for the SWAT team, since the assholes would be focused on the threat in front of them.
Trask and Jett had somehow managed to supply Vince and his other diver brothers with not only weapons, but much needed shoot-through dry bags for the confrontation. That would allow them to be fully armed and ready when they emerged from the ocean.
The specialized equipment was nothing Vince wasn’t familiar with, having used the dry bags on many of his SEAL ops, but it certainly kicked ass that Trask and Jett had been able to procure them.
“Target spotted,” Mason barked over all their comms. “Divers get ready to slip over the side.”
The team was already geared up, and they’d previously rigged climbing nets over the starboard—the blind side of the Water Wrestler—where six of them, Vince, Trask, Jett, Spence, Buck, and Julian, would hang out. Literally.
Just before the “crew”—made up of SWAT personnel—sent out lines and bumpers between them and their meet-up, Mason would give the order for Vince’s team to slip under.
The divers would go deep and stay hidden beneath the waves, making their way to the stern of the black-market vessel, remaining hidden until Mase gave the word. They’d then board the boat via the transom ladder and lend a hand if SWAT needed it.
Everyone agreed that it might be overkill, considering SWAT’s talents, but reinforcement, especially from an unanticipated direction, would serve to confuse the larger than expected crew and make the take-down easier.
“Divers to the nets,” Mason clipped over the comms.
Two by two Vince and his team slipped over the rail and snugged themselves up against the hull, working together like they’d done this a million times.
Vince grinned. There was something to be said about operating alongside his brothers. Even though they’d been apart for years, there was a certain muscle-memory—brain and body—that they’d clearly never lost.
And Jett? Well, the woman was a quick study, a beast, and sure as shit fit right in.
Hell, she took orders and refuted them when necessary, like the pro she was.
As soon as Mason gave the signal to hit the water, it would be Vince’s operation. He’d be in charge of the divers.
Vince hadn’t hesitated when his brothers had asked him if he would call the shots. The rescue of Lace had somehow, amazingly, restored the majority of his confidence in his abilities to lead.
He wasn’t a hundred percent there, but…
It was pretty great to be back.
Vince would wait in the nets for the tell-tale thump of lines being thrown and Mason’s affirmative in his ear before giving the hand-signal that his team was to submerge.
It came not even a minute later.
“Deploy.”
They hit the water smoothly, without a sound, then five bodies followed Vince as he led aft, around the stern of the Water Wrestler, then across an expanse of no more than fifteen feet, where they positioned themselves, still underwater, at the transom of their quarry.
Luckily, their short supply of intel had assumed this type of vessel would be equipped with an emergency ladder next to the transom, and when Vince popped up briefly to ascertain if that advantage existed, thank god it was right where it was supposed to be.
Going back under, Vince, along with his team, quickly shed their fins, hanging them on their buoyance compensators with BCD D-rings, to be left in their water booties that would allow them to climb the ladder with ease.
Easy part over.
The toughest thing, Vince knew, would be breaching the deck.
If SWAT didn’t have things predominantly under control, the divers would be revealing themselves one-by-one as they popped up, putting themselves in possible jeopardy, and for that reason, Vince had insisted on going first.
If anyone was going to encounter a problem, he wanted it to be him.
Mason’s voice came through his ear-piece, loud and clear.
“Time,” he clipped. “We’ve been made.”
His voice emerged crisply and clearly, despite the adrenaline that had to be flooding his system right now.
The added, “they’ve opted to fight” gave efficacy to Vince’s thoughts.
There were shots being fired, heard even from Vince’s position under water.
Clearly, time was of the essence.
He gave the signal for his team to ascend, which they did quickly.
“Everyone ready?” Vince asked rhetorically.
They all nodded.
Putting one hand into his shoot-through dry bag and fingering the trigger of the Mk 25 that lay snugly inside, Vince used the other hand to grab the ladder, and began a fast crawl upward.
Chaos was erupting above.
Vince made it to the seventh rung from the top, nearly ready to breach, when a grizzled sailor appeared above him. Having thrown one leg over the gunwale, he was obviously trying to escape the carnage on deck.
“Don’t move,” Vince barked at the man who looked down, his face comically surprised at the appearance of the divers.
Vince raised his concealed weapon and aimed it at the would-be defector.
The crewman, clearly not knowing what Vince had in camo bag he raised, sneered, pulled his gun, and—
“Asshole,” Vince snarled, getting off the first shot.
He hit the man’s hip.
The sailor yelped, his gun fell from his fingers into the ocean, and the asshole was sent back over the rail to the deck where Vince knew he’d no longer be a problem.
“One down,” Spence chuckled from behind him.
Yeah. It was all part of the gig, being completely cool under fire but talking trash.
Still, it looked like this wasn’t going to be easy.
All indicators from the deck—if the sound of exchanged fire was anything to go by—said that the number of people SWAT faced, was significant.
Vince wasn’t about to wait another second to find out.
In two steps, his head and shoulders popped above the rail, and—
“Shit!”
White hot pain seared through his weapons arm, and he felt his grip on the ladder giving way.
“I’m hit,” he bit out.
Vince wasn’t a stranger to getting shot. He’d had a few bullets extracted from his body during his time in the Navy. But this…
He looked down.
Crap.
This was no bullet. It was a fucking bolt from a spear gun; the barb having gone all the way through his shoulder; the shaft still protruding from the front.
Spence quickly crawled up behind the swearing Vince, pinning him to the ladder with his bulk, while Jett, without hesitation, shimmied up the impossibly tight space between the hull and the ladder to gain the upper position.
As the asshole on deck reloaded his unconventional weapon, Jett popped up, took aim, and fired.
The man fell.
Jett wasn’t messing around
It had been a center mass kill shot, and Vince couldn’t conjure the least bit of sympathy for the victim.
Slinking over the rail, Jett joined the fight, with Trask cursing up a storm from somewhere below; furious that his wife was putting herself into the thick of things without him.
“Are you able to move to the side?” Spence asked Vince.
Vince nodded.
At least he thought he did, before inching his body over to the left.
He’d transcended his original anger, falling headlong into excruciating pain where clenching his teeth was his only option.
He detachedly watched as Trask clamored swiftly to the top beside them, followed by Julian and Buck, each of them giving a fast but concerned look at him on their way by.
Luckily, they all made it over the rail without incident.
They probably knew, as Vince did, that this operation needed to be finished quickly, before Vince went into shock.
Already, he was feeling a little lightheaded.
Vince did realize that if it hadn’t been for Spencer’s quick thinking, moving up behind him, he’d probably be in the drink right now.
He took a few, bone-jarring breaths, and manned up.
“Thanks, man. But… Let’s go,” Vince managed, and his voice came out stronger than he’d imagined.
“No. Stay put,” Mason’s voice barked over his comm, obviously knowing that Vince was shot…but pig-headed. “We’ve got this.”
“Like hell,” Vince gritted in response.
He’d be damned if he didn’t take out a few of these pricks after the havoc they’d wreaked in Lace’s life, and his.
Vince forced his feet to move, every step sending fire through his shoulder and down his arm, but he refused to give up. He finally got to a point where his weapon and Spence’s had full access to the deck.
They began firing, picking out members of the crew who unexpectedly all had the look of well-trained mercenaries.
It figured. These weren’t fishermen. They were black-market mobsters, armed to the teeth to protect their illegal booty. That was something Captain Swims-bad had neglected to disclose.
Vince got off two decent shots, one shattering a kneecap, the other blowing off a guy’s trigger finger, before…
Oh, shit.
The shakes were setting in, making him unreliable.
Goddammit.
Sweat dripped into Vince’s eyes, mingling with the salt from the seawater he’d been immersed in, so his vision also became compromised.
“I’m done, Spence,” he grunted to his brother behind him.
“Not done, done, asshole. You’re not dying,” Spencer admonished with a growl, getting off a few more shots. “I know that has to hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but as long as we keep the bolt in place, you won’t bleed out.”
Vince tried to chuckle. “Right. Not kicking the bucket. Not yet, anyway. I meant I can’t shoot anymore,” he clarified.
“That’s okay,” Spence grumbled, covering his ass. “It looks like our teams have it all under control now, anyway” he apprised.
Really?
Vince had been unaware of that. Probably because the percussion in his arm, beating like a fucking Naval Academy marching band’s base drum, had his focus all out of whack.
His arm hung limply at his side as his knees gave out and he slumped to the boards, never more thankful for Spence’s presence.
Kyle was the first to reach them after all the bad-guys were either dead, or face-down and zip-tied on the deck.
“Hang in there Vince. I’ve already called Obi-Wan for a medical evac. He was standing by, just in case, so his ETA is twenty minutes.”
Vince couldn’t help the groan that escaped as Kyle and Spence gently helped him up and laid him on a cushioned bench.
“Unfortunately,” Kyle continued, “that bolt is going to have to stay in, because if we pull it out, you’ll lose too much blood.”
“Know that, bro,” Vince nodded. “I’m good with leaving it for the surgeons,” he managed, because yes, he’d need surgery, no doubt.
“Just do me a favor,” he added.
“What do you need?” Kyle asked, his face as serious as Vince had ever seen.
This was the brother who’d always competed with Vince to be the funniest Sothard, but right now his concern was taking precedence.
“Please. Don’t tell Lace,” Vince gruffed out.
That’s when Kyle’s hundred-megawatt smile broke through.
“Sorry bro. Already done.”