Chapter 9
NINE
Archer still had the taste of Jolie on his tongue when Cannon led them straight into the next mission.
The chopper debrief en route ended with more questions than answers, and before the rotors had fully spun down they were loading into a black tactical van and tearing down a dark stretch of coastal highway. The tires chewed up the asphalt while the ocean churned beyond the blackness.
Inside the van, the dashboard lights glowed over Cannon and Rome’s faces, highlighting the grim lines. They were all running on adrenaline and caffeine.
And the missions were starting to bleed together into one giant arrow pointing back to Echo team—and in turn, the terrorist who eliminated them. Cipher.
They rounded a bend and moonlight flashed across the windshield, throwing the cabin into sharp relief before darkness crashed in again.
Cannon twisted in his seat and began to brief them. “We just received orders.”
The van silenced. Behind the wheel, Rome turned his head and looked at their CO. “What do you mean just received…”
Cannon gave a swift nod. “Intel came in. At first, I didn’t think it would amount to much. Then I saw things were stirring, and I made the executive decision to deploy before the command came down from above.”
Archer had heard of a lot of things in his military career, but jumping the gun on an op was new.
“What would we do if the command never came?” he asked.
“Turn back. But it’s never happened yet.”
Yet meant Sierra had seen this before.
Cannon went on, “A fishing vessel offshore is believed to be carrying a cargo load of weapons possibly tied to the same stolen stores from Echo. If it does, this is connected to the last two ops.”
They digested that in silence but none of them took it lightly. Any mention of SEAL Team Blackout Echo was like probing a deep wound. Cipher had wiped out the entire team, save for a few. Though Archer hadn’t been Blackout at the time it happened, he was in the trenches when the fallout hit.
“Our job,” Cannon continued, “is to intercept before the handoff is completed. We secure the vessel, secure the crew, secure the cargo. Coast Guard takes possession after.”
Rome rolled his shoulders. “So we’re pirates now.”
The van took another hard turn, and the scent of salt filtered through the vents. The Pacific was close.
Townie nudged Archer. “We’ve got Mountain Monk…”
Rome picked up the thread immediately. “And now Monk at Sea.”
A few guys chuckled, and Archer shook his head, amused by the nickname that was starting to feel like his own…in a team that was beginning to feel like a brotherhood.
As they approached the marina, Rome killed the headlights. They came to a stop behind a building and threw open the doors. They rolled out fast, grabbing gear. The surf thudded against the dock and the harbor smelled of diesel and salt and fish.
Cannon made a hand gesture at the water where a ship sat three-quarters of a mile out.
Their target.
This was what they’d trained for—a short swim to a ship in the black water, then a silent climb onto a deck filled with hostiles before anyone aboard knew Sierra had come to visit.
The vessel rode low in the water, its running lights as dark as their reason for being there. Whoever was on board wanted to be ignored.
The team crouched behind stacked crates near the dock while they made final checks.
Cannon’s gaze slid to Archer. “Let’s see what you can do, Monk.”
Cold wind bit into his face, the only part of him left exposed. He welcomed it. “I got this.”
He stepped into the Pacific wearing black swim gear and fins, his rifle sealed in a gun rubber. The water was numbingly cold, but his body adjusted fast. Behind him, the others slipped in one by one, each disappearing like they’d never been there at all.
They moved in an efficient line, cutting through the swells with practiced strokes. Archer had always been a strong swimmer, winning all the awards on his high school and college swim teams. A Navy recruiter had given him a reason to continue using his skill.
With every yard he swam, the ship grew larger, a looming wall of steel rising from the sea. Archer reached it first.
Flattening himself against the cold metal, he looked up at the long climb to the rail above. Water streamed from his face as he glanced at his teammates bobbing on the waves beside him.
He gripped his line and waited for the right opening. He had to time his throw with some noise on the ship so the clank of metal on metal wouldn’t alert the crew.
For endless minutes, he waited in the cold water. Then it came—some loud grating sounds of things being moved around on the deck above.
“Now!” came Cannon’s order in his comms.
In one smooth cast he hooked the rail above. He tested the tension once, found it solid and began to climb.
Wet cable and gloved hands didn’t make it easy, but his boots found purchase against rivets and seams on the side of the craft. The ocean swelled below him, and the wind was a challenge. One slip or a clang of metal and they’d be detected.
At the rail, he paused and listened. Footsteps aft.
Low voices starboard side. He signaled to his team clinging to the line below him.
Then he swung his body over the rail and landed in a crouch without a sound.
Rome came next, and then they were all rushing across the deck, shadows moving within the shadows.
A cigarette glowed orange, then dropped as the owner turned.
Too late.
Archer closed the gap in three strides, clamped his hand around the guy’s jaw and drove him back into the bulkhead, knocking him out before he could shout.
Rome was already handling another with the same stealth.
Through the comms came two tapping noises, letting them know the other guys were in position.
On Cannon’s signal, Archer moved for the wheelhouse. The deck pitched gently under him, slick with spray, but he adjusted instinctively.
He hit the narrow stairs two at a time and picked up movement through the grimy glass—a man lunging for the radio.
He drove his shoulder into the door. It burst inward hard enough to rattle the frame. The man spun, one hand still in motion, reaching for the mic.
In a blink, Archer crossed the cramped space and caught his wrist, slamming him face-first across the console. The radio squealed once before Archer ripped the cord free.
The man fought his grasp, and Archer twisted his arm behind his back. In one efficient motion, he zip-tied his wrists and shoved him to the floor.
He touched his comm. “Wheelhouse secure.”
A muffled shout rose from the deck below, followed by a crash and the unmistakable sound of Townie enjoying himself.
Archer swept the wheelhouse once, finding charts and an open logbook beside the controls, the routes marked in black lines.
He dragged his prisoner out onto the deck to join the one Rivers had down, a knee pinning his spine. O stood over another, weapon trained on his chest, and Cannon was already at the cargo stacks, slicing through shrink wrap with a knife.
Wooden crates sat in rows beneath tarps marked BAIT SUPPLY and COMMERCIAL NETTING.
Cannon ripped back the first tarp and issued a low whistle. “Doesn’t look like fishing gear.”
“Christ. They must be dumber than we thought. Just like drugs coming in disguised as kids’ toys and athletic shoes,” Archer muttered.
Archer ran a gloved hand over faded stenciling on the can. Old military markings, the numbers partially painted over.
“Could be ours,” he said.
“Could also be made to look like ours,” Cannon countered. He moved to the next crate and pried it open. Foam packing surrounded disassembled rifles.
Townie popped up over Archer’s shoulder to peer down at the find. “Hell of a catch.”
Archer strode back to the man he’d captured in the wheelhouse. He grabbed him by the collar and hauled him halfway upright. “Who loaded this vessel?”
The man shook his head. “No English.”
Archer switched to Spanish. “Who loaded the cargo?”
Fear flickered in the man’s eyes, but still he didn’t answer.
Archer shoved him back down.
“I got something.” Cannon’s tone made them all freeze. Their CO reached inside a crate and picked up a grenade packed in rock salt.
No one spoke for a second.
Cannon looked to O. “Signal the Coast Guard. We got what we came for.”
Over the water came the distant thrum of approaching engines. Blue lights flashed across the craft as the Coast Guard approached and the operation became an official seizure.
Sierra faded back out, once again ghosts. Wherever these weapons came from, they were important. Whether from Echo’s missing armory or another source, somebody had built a pipeline, and tonight they’d stopped one of the leaks.
The question was who was behind it. He was no longer certain it felt like Cipher himself. More that it was, on some level, connected to the terrorist.
This was Cipher’s kind of damage—but not his kind of control. Cipher liked noise. Whoever hit the Echo armory went in quiet and almost cleaned up after themselves.
Rome stepped up beside him. “Anybody else starving again?”
Jolie surfaced in Archer’s mind. Her in that thermal shirt. Her smile when the team walked into the kitchen.
And the way her eyes went soft when they were alone.
They might have seized illegal weapons on that ship, but Jolie had seized every other thought he had.
* * * * *
Whether this place was a military base, underground alien lab or cult bunker, the silence was getting on Jolie’s nerves. An hour after the guys left, she couldn’t stand it anymore.
First, she’d napped in Archer’s bed, because apparently exhaustion could overpower anxiety if given enough time. Then she’d wandered the halls again, book in hand, reading only every third page because her mind kept leaping to more ominous things.
She had found an old transistor radio tucked on a shelf in the common room and after fifteen minutes of tuning the dial and adjusting metal rabbit ears, the thing had finally…thankfully…stuttered to life.