CHAPTER 52
Atlantic Ocean
Meg, Oliver, and JP were forty-five seconds ahead as Wolf and I launched from the yacht we had just searched.
I briefly considered the possibility that this could be another dry hole. But with time ticking, I had to believe this was our only chance. It was all too random to be a hoax. The other ship was the one.
“Roger, I see it,” Tommy Lopez said, as calm as if he was ordering a cup of coffee at Starbucks. “I’m staying right and will circle your starboard side toward the bow, just like before.”
From my position on the right bench, I could see the lights of the target ship in the distance. Had we missed the mark entirely? Did another helicopter fly Harrison away? Was he aboard yet a third boat? Shit, if they took that option we were screwed.
I felt the centrifugal force pushing my ass tightly against the seat as Falcon 4 banked hard to the right. I didn’t know how high we were above the ocean, but in a nanosecond saltwater mist was splashing against my face.
Tommy deftly juked his course back to level and started to climb abruptly. “Troops in contact,” he said in that same voice fit for the Starbucks line.
As Falcon 3 started its assault roughly fifty meters from the stern of the yacht, someone with an AK-47 walked onto the deck and started to spray the little bird.
Felix Green—yes, we called him “the Cat”—was flight lead on Falcon 3.
Just as ballsy and calm a pilot as Tommy Lopez, Felix was tracking movement on the main deck aft and on the second deck as well.
He knew Tommy was banking in the opposite direction, which gave him plenty of airspace to work some of the pilot kung fu for which he was known.
I was on the wrong side of the aircraft to see any of the battle. As a leader, not knowing what was going on was worse than the havoc of the engagement itself. I wasn’t quite in panic mode, but the pucker factor skyrocketed and I had to talk myself back to calmness.
As soon as Felix identified a weapon on the second deck, he banked left and started to climb, giving the Rhino passengers the heads-up that the shit show was about to begin.
While Felix was on evasive maneuvers, Wolf on the right pod squeezed a dozen rounds toward the terrorist. Before he could assess his accuracy, Felix made a hard right—almost an aerial U-turn—and started a daring dive toward the stern of the yacht.
By the time Oliver and Meg were able to scan the deck, all they saw was a body on the teak.
“Second deck, movement!” Meg shouted.
“Roger—I saw it,” Oliver yelled. “Hold fast till he comes out again. The senator is in there somewhere.”
“Change in plans, Tommy,” the Cat radioed from Falcon 3. “You guys better hit from the bow ASAP, or this dude is toast.”
“Roger, good copy, I’m ten seconds from target,” Tommy said. “Nat—you good, brother?”
I gave him a thumbs-up and without Wolf having to say a word, I knew he was prepared to execute this contingency. I just hoped they hadn’t killed Harrison already.
The target was at least 150 feet long. It had three decks and what looked like a speedboat stored on the second deck. The first target with the Russian had been nothing to laugh at, but this beast was huge. I just hoped I could get onto the deck without bouncing my noggin off the floor again.
The good news: The boat lights were on, illuminating our targets.
The bad news: The boat lights were on, making us sitting ducks.
I gave my gun a quick check to make sure I had a round chambered and looked up just in time to see the skid of Falcon 4 nearly touching the bow. Nothing but deck below me, so I jumped.
So far, so good. Wolf was on a knee, weapon armed and ready, scanning for threats. Lopez was off in orbit in no time, with not a shot fired his way.
“We gotta find Harrison. Any other action is a threat. You take point, Wolf. Get us inside pronto.”
He nodded and moved to the port side. I could see movement in the pilothouse, but the lights from inside were too bright. Those assholes from the first yacht must have called to warn them. Shit.
“Come on, Wolf. We gotta go.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
We were crouched just below the pilothouse when I looked up and saw someone scanning the side of the boat, obviously looking for us. One hand held a pistol and the other was shielding his eyes, trying to block the light.
“Got one right above us, pistol,” I whispered to Wolf.
Without a sound, Wolf spun slightly from his crouch and shot the guy right in the face. We immediately raced toward the stern, seeking a breach point before things got messy.
Now under cover, we found a stairway leading to the second deck. As Wolf darted up the stairs, I scanned the rear for signs of Falcon 3. I couldn’t see anything past the light on the deck.
“Meg, Oliver, JP, are you in? Over.”
No response. Nothing. Fuck. For all I knew, they could be in the drink. We had to keep going. I rushed to catch up to Wolf and join him in looking for any signs of Harrison.
Wolf was in a careful hurry, heading back toward the bow of the ship.
From behind, I saw him point toward the pilothouse door with his non-firing hand.
As I moved toward him, I pulled a flash-bang from my kit and prepared to toss it.
I held it off to Wolf’s right so he could see, pulled the triggering cord, and tossed it hard into the room.
We turned and halfway covered our eyes and ears as the eruption of brilliant white light and deafening explosion announced our arrival.
Wolf rushed in with me right in his hip pocket.
The guy with his face shot off was slumped on the floor.
Two idiots were dazed where they stood, covering their ears.
They both had holsters, but their weapons had dropped to the floor, either when their buddy got iced or when the bang hit them.
I drop-kicked the first mate. Wolf took the guy on the left, maybe the captain. I guess the Russians forgot to tell them about the flex-cuffing part, because nine seconds later they too were flex-cuffed and lying on the floor.
While Wolf searched for phones and documents, I tried the radio again. No luck. Then I heard a voice yelling, “Friendlies down below!”
As I made my way down the steps to what must have been the main deck, I saw Oliver, Meg, and JP stepping over a dead body, clearing the rooms left and right as they moved.
It was great to see them safe, of course, but my first words were, “What the fuck is up with your comms?”
“Hey man, the comms went to shit as soon as we got inside,” Oliver replied. “I couldn’t hear anything except for the flash-bang. Who knows?”
“Harrison?”
“Haven’t found him, Nat. Meg stitched this dude as we breached, but so far nothing. The floor below this one is crew quarters. Or the engine room back there, maybe.”
I told them to clear the crew berth; JP and I would take the engine room.
This whole exchange lasted about five seconds. Then we literally passed each other in the hallway as they moved forward and we moved aft. JP was already pulling security on the engine-room entry door when I heard shots fired down below. The boys and Meg were in contact.
I didn’t call anything on the radio; instead I looked at JP and nodded for him to continue. If Oliver needed anything, he would call me. Or at least yell really loud.
With the sound of sporadic gunfire continuing below us, JP pushed through to the right and I buttonhooked to the left in the tight confines of the room. We scanned for about two seconds before realizing it was another dry hole. No way could the injured senator be in here.
As we moved out of the engine room and made our way toward Oliver and his team, I heard the words I loved to hear: Jackpot! We’re good—you can stay up there!
In this case, Jackpot meant Senator Coleman R. Harrison. What a relief. The second part of the message was odd, but I gave JP the nod to move on.
As we descended to the crew deck, I could smell freshly burned gunpowder from the firefight. Brass casings littered the floor, while the yacht’s interior walls were paneled in splintered wood. Four dead bodies lay scattered around the stateroom.
“Senator Harrison is alive,” Meg reported. “But just barely. Blunt-force trauma to the head and chest. His left hand has been amputated, and he’s lost a lot of blood. We’ve got to get him to a surgeon ASAP.”
Then I saw Oliver, his left arm drenched in blood, propped against a wall and facing an open door. As JP and I moved toward him, he spoke very clearly, enunciating each word for impact.
“As I said, I’m okay, just don’t move. I’m serious: Don’t. Fucking. Move. Harrison’s wired.”