Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
COURTYARD
The wind started to rise by the time Ford stepped outside. Palm fronds rattled above the floodlit courtyard, their long leaves snapping against each other in uneven bursts. Along the far fence line, white medical tents strained against their anchor ropes, canvas pulling tight, then snapping back.
Ford paused at the clinic door and pulled his respirator down around his neck. The air pressing in was thick.
Three figures waited near the supply trucks. Two more stepped out of the shadows.
Adrian Rourke stood at the center, one hand resting on a crate. Around him, Davis and Marino were already geared, checking straps and seals, medical kits clipped to their belts and secured.
Garcia leaned against the truck, tightening his gloves. Michaels stood a step back, finishing a weapons check before securing it low. Hill adjusted his vest, rolling his shoulder once. All of them stood ready.
Rourke looked up as Ford approached. “Cox.”
Ford gave a short nod. “We ready?”
Rourke gestured around him. “You met Davis and Marino.”
Both men gave brief nods. “Evening.”
Ford returned it. “Good to have you.”
Rourke shifted slightly. “Garcia. Michaels. Hill.”
Each acknowledged him, “Sir.”
Hill gave a faint grin. “Let’s get moving.”
Garcia didn’t smile. “Weather’s turning.”
Ford glanced once toward the horizon. “Yeah, I see it.”
Rourke tapped the crate and flipped the lid open. “We kept it light.”
Inside were multi-dose antiviral kits and boxes of acetaminophen and ibuprofen. Masks. Gloves. Compact field med kits and additional sealed packs.
Marino leaned in slightly. “OB kits?”
Rourke nodded. “Basic obstetric supplies. Cord clamps, sterile drapes, suction bulbs.”
Davis added, “Magnesium sulfate—limited supply. IV fluids. A couple of emergency hemorrhage kits.”
Ford’s eyes moved across the contents. “Good.”
Rourke continued, “Not enough for a ward. Enough to stabilize.”
“That’s all we need tonight,” Ford said.
Rourke unfolded a laminated map across the hood of the truck. The floodlight cast sharp shadows over the island chain. Kasavoa was at the center. Cordon Noir. Arudon. And north of all of them was Tevenne.
Rourke tapped the southern shoreline. “Dock’s here. That’s where the skiffs land.”
Ford leaned in. “That’s where Petrov came from.”
“Exactly.”
Marino stepped closer. “Security?”
“Unknown,” Ford said. “Assume it’s there.”
Davis asked, “Rules of engagement?”
Rourke answered, “Defensive only. Unless Cox says otherwise—or it turns.”
Ford nodded. “This is not a combat operation.”
Hill huffed. “They never are.”
Rourke glanced at him. “Until they are.”
Ford pointed to the eastern side of the island. “What about the medical clinic?”
Rourke traced it. “Here. Resort structures above. Lab access below.”
“Underground?” Marino asked.
Ford nodded. “Shared ventilation.”
Garcia’s expression tightened. “So, if it’s in there…”
“It’s everywhere,” Ford finished.
Michaels added, “We’re all on prophylaxis.”
“Yeah,” Ford said. “We are.”
Davis tapped the map. “Extraction?”
Ford looked past them toward the road leading down to the harbor. “We’re not extracting tonight.”
Hill straightened. “What are we doing?”
“Recon,” Ford said. “We confirm numbers, assess conditions, establish contact with anyone inside who can help prepare them.”
“Eyes on,” Garcia murmured to himself.
“Exactly.”
Rourke folded the map, sliding it back into its sleeve. “Boat’s ready.”
Ford glanced toward the harbor. “How long a trip?”
“Twenty minutes,” Rourke said. “Maybe twenty-five if the wind keeps building.”
“We better move now.” Ford clipped the respirator to his vest. “Channel?”
“Three.” Rourke handed him a compact satellite radio. Ford secured it as Rourke studied him for a moment. “You sure about this?”
Ford answered plainly, “No.”
A faint smile touched Rourke’s eyes. “Good.” He lifted one of the medical supply cases, passing another to Davis while Marino grabbed the OB kits. “Let’s go see what’s waiting on Tevenne.”
Ford turned toward the Defender, and the team moved out.
HARBOR ROAD
The Defender’s headlights cut a narrow path through the jungle road as it wound down toward the harbor.
Ford sat in the passenger seat, watching the darkness ahead as the high beams flashed across thick vegetation and uneven ground.
Rourke drove with both hands steady on the wheel, guiding the vehicle over the rough track without slowing.
In the back, Davis and Marino sat with the medical crate secured between them.
Garcia sat opposite, elbows on his knees, eyes moving constantly from the mirrors to the road and the tree line.
Michaels sat beside him, finishing a final check of his weapon before locking it down and clipping his respirator within reach.
Hill leaned back slightly, one hand braced against the frame as the vehicle jolted, rolling his shoulder once like he was keeping himself loose.
The Defender hit a rut. No one complained. No one spoke.
Ford listened to the rhythm of the vehicle and the wind through the jungle, running through the same list in his head.
Security unknown.
Patient count unknown.
Layout incomplete.
“Doctor running Tevenne is William Blake,” Ford said. “On paper, he’s solid. In practice, he only works where he controls everything.”
Rourke glanced over. “Meaning?”
“Meaning, if something’s wrong on that island,” Ford said, “he already knows. And he’s choosing how much of it anyone else sees. He doesn’t miss things. He filters them.” The engine cut through the water, steady and relentless.
“So don’t expect transparency,” he said. “Expect resistance.”
Only one thing confirmed: there were pregnant girls and newborns still on Tevenne. And they were alive. For now.
After a few minutes, Marino leaned forward slightly. “You done entries like this before?”
Ford glanced back. “Different locations. Different problems.”
Marino nodded once.
Davis rested an arm along the back of the seat. “Best case when we get there?”
“Minimal security,” he said finally. “Contained infection. Staff that want help.”
“And worst?” Marino asked.
Ford’s tone didn’t change. “Outbreak’s already loose. Someone who doesn’t want us there.”
Rourke spoke without looking away from the road. “That’s the one we plan for.”
“Respirators on inside,” Davis added.
“Agreed,” Ford said.
The vehicle dipped again as the road curved downhill.
“Boss,” Marino said after a moment.
Rourke glanced at him in the mirror. “Yeah?”
Marino tilted his head toward Ford. “Who’s running point?”
Rourke blinked once. “You weren’t briefed?”
Marino shook his head. “Word went out, and we were on a plane.”
Rourke laughed. “That’s on them.” He gestured toward Ford.
“SEAL Team 3.”
Marino blinked.
“Former,” Ford said. “Rourke, you’re enjoying playing my greatest hits.”
“Yeah, I am,” Rourke continued. “Private sector followed.”
Garcia glanced up at that, interested but not surprised.
“Chase Security like you mutts,” Rourke added.
Marino raised his eyebrows slightly. “And now?”
“Founder, Chase Security Executive Board, Deputy Commanding Officer, D.C.” Ford stared straight ahead.
Marino studied him for a second. After a moment, his chin hit his chest then rose. “Good to know.”
Davis grinned faintly. “Yeah, that helps.”
Hill smirked. “Explains why we’re moving fast.”
Garcia didn’t comment. He just kept watching the road.
“Marino, who handled the briefing?” Ford asked.
“Mr. Dupart, sir,” Marino said.
Ford huffed a short laugh. “Cajun bastard. I’ll deal with him later.”
A few chuckles moved through the vehicle. Even Michaels cracked a faint smile.
As the Defender rolled out of the jungle, the harbor opened below them. Lights reflected off dark water, shifting with the movement of the tide. The dock stretched out into it, and their skiff waited, tied off near the end.
Rourke parked cleanly. The engine turned off. Doors opened. The team moved. There was no wasted motion.
Two level-three operators were watching the boat. One looked up. “Fuel’s full. Navigation set.”
“Good,” Rourke said.
Marino and Davis grabbed the medical crates. Garcia and Michaels moved ahead, stepping onto the pier, checking spacing and sightlines out of habit. Hill followed, adjusting his gloves.
Everyone boarded, and the engines roared to life. Lines were cast off. The skiff pushed away from the dock and cut into open water. Kasavoa faded into darkness.
OPEN WATER
Ford sat forward near the rail with one hand gripping the metal, his eyes fixed on the horizon ahead, where the sky and the ocean blended into one dark line.
Behind them, the harbor lights of Kasavoa shrank steadily until they were little more than faint points of light. Ahead there was only black water.
Marino tightened his grip on the rail as the boat dropped into another trough. “Damn.”
Davis laughed. “It gets worse.”
Garcia glanced toward Ford. “You weren’t exaggerating about different problems.”
Ford kept watching the horizon. “The storm is still far out. These are only the outer wind bands.”
Rourke remained focused on the water. “The wind will climb another ten knots before we reach the island.”
Michaels stared ahead. “You really think those girls are still there?”
Ford didn’t answer immediately. The Somali Sea remained dark and empty. “Yes.”
Hill frowned slightly. “How can you be sure?”
Ford turned his head enough to look back at him. “Because the clients left. They always leave first.”
Davis nodded in agreement. “Every time.”
Another swell lifted the skiff sharply and dropped it again. Spray washed across the deck, and Rourke wiped water from the console with the back of his glove. “Fifteen more minutes if the water behaves.”
Marino leaned forward to look at the display. “What happens when we get there?”
“We locate security positions and identify the medical wing entrance.” Ford added, “And confirm the girls are still alive.”
Each man on the boat understood the other possibility without needing to say it aloud.
Michaels scanned the water behind them. “No patrol boats. No aircraft.”