Chapter 5 #2
Ham was talking. Something about getting everyone off the boat, into the life rafts, in case—
In case West failed?
In case the bomb exploded?
Oh…no…
She glanced at the doorway.
West—come back!
Around them, attackers went down, more were wrestling with Ham’s team—North and Skeet bloody.
West didn’t emerge.
The yacht rocked on the waves. Sunset painted everything in shades of gold and orange—as if the evening were still going to go the way it was supposed to.
While terrorists attacked the wedding boat.
And Britta stood there. Watching. Waiting.
Unable to do anything except hope the man who’d asked her to dance was as good at defusing bombs as he claimed to be.
West had defused nearly two hundred explosive devices in his Marine Corps career.
Every single one of them had ended the same way—him walking away alive, device neutralized, mission accomplished. Perfect record. Zero failures.
Thank You, God. The thought surfaced before he could stop it—an old reflex he’d thought long dead.
Tonight might break that streak.
He moved through the smoke belowdecks, filtering out the chaos above—screaming, running footsteps, Ham’s deep voice lifting above the fray, directing people off the boat.
For the love, Britta, go with him.
Martinez had probably already grabbed her, was hurtling her to safety.
The smoke billowed out from a small incendiary device wedged behind a storage locker. Distraction. Not the main event.
Which meant the real threat was somewhere else.
And right then, a burly operative came at him from the galley entrance—big, trained, armed with a knife. West didn’t slow down. He grabbed the man’s wrist, shot a hand to his trachea and, while the man wheezed, turned his back into his and disarmed him with a slam of his fist to the counter.
Then West rolled back, punched him twice in the solar plexus, sent a knee to his gut, and the man dropped.
Three seconds, maybe four.
West kept moving.
His instincts screamed.
The attack felt wrong. Too visible. Too loud. And if these people were who he thought they were—the Petrov Bratva—they didn’t execute operations this sloppy unless it was cover for something else.
That thought had him scrambling back on deck. He scanned for—
There. A crew member, one of the servers from earlier. Standing near the stern, not helping with the chaos, not engaging, just…watching. Checking his watch every few seconds. Sweating despite the ocean breeze.
Bomber.
West’s gut recognized him before his brain caught up.
The body language of a man waiting for his work to be done.
And then West spotted Britta. What was she doing still on the yacht?
Ham had deployed a rescue tender, was helping people into it. Another one drifted not far away. And on deck, Ham’s guys were still fighting with the attackers.
But Britta—she stood at the bow, behind a table—as if people had forgotten her?
What the—
“Britta—get off the boat!”
His gut said time was running out.
West moved, sprinting for the stern.
The bomber saw him coming. Reached for something in his pocket. West launched himself at him, tackled him before he could trigger whatever he was reaching for.
They slammed into the deck. West reared up, hit the man, then went for the man’s pocket.
Phone. A timer ticked down on the screen.
“Where’s the bomb?”
The bomber smiled, blood on his teeth. “Too late. You’ll never find it in time.”
West believed him.
“Britta!” He jumped up, scrambled down the gangway.
“Get off the boat! Get off the boat!”
Ham glanced up at him, then physically grabbed Selah, next up, and plunked her into the tender. Chloe and West ran past them. “Jump, jump!”
Signe grabbed Aggie, and Ham threw them both over the side.
West scanned again for Britta.
She wasn’t at the table.
Wasn’t in the protected group.
Where—
There.
Thirty yards toward the bow on the other side. Struggling. An operative—one West hadn’t seen before—had her, weapon pressed against her side. Dragging her away from the evacuation, toward the stern.
And he got it.
High-value hostage.
Whoever had attacked didn’t just want to blow up the yacht. They wanted her.
Nope.
He threw out the tactical approach. No negotiation. He simply took off.
The operative saw him. Raised his weapon toward West.
Mistake.
West didn’t slow. He dropped, combat roll, came up inside the man’s guard. West broke his wrist taking the gun, followed with strikes to the throat and temple. The operative crumpled.
West didn’t stop to check if he was breathing.
He grabbed Britta, who stared at him, eyes so wide he knew he’d shocked her.
Better shocked and alive than dead.
“Hold your breath,” he said.
“What—”
He picked her up. She weighed nothing.
And then he threw her overboard.
His name in her scream cut off when she hit the water twenty feet below.
West vaulted the railing. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t look back at the yacht or the team or the mission he was abandoning.
Just jumped.
The shock of the impact sucked the air from his lungs. He plunged deeper into the sea. Dark. Disorienting.
Focus.
He fought toward the surface, broke through, scanned.
There—Britta. Ten feet away. Thrashing. Shouting.
“West!”
West closed the distance in four strokes. She was choking, coughing, going under.
He reached for her and she rounded, and just like that—bam! A fist to his face. Not a hard hit, but it still rocked him, and he reared back, caught her hand. “It’s me! It’s West.”
She stopped struggling, just for a second, and started to sink.
“I’ve got you.” He pulled her up, kept her head above water. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”
“West!” She clung to him, her body racking. Shaking. Eyes wide with terror.
The waves grabbed them, churning them in the water, driving them away from the yacht, maybe twenty yards now. Already, the guys had helmed the rescue boats, picking up people in the water. Ham finally exfilled the yacht, swimming hard to one of the rafts, still shouting.
Please, God, let everyone be off!
The prayer bubbled up even as he grabbed Britta and kicked them away from the chaos. “Can you swim? We need to get farther away from the yacht. Can you do that?”
She nodded.
“Stay with me. I’ll help you.”
He shifted his grip. One arm around her torso, keeping her afloat, he used his combat sidestroke, towing her, not fast, but steady.
Away from the yacht.
Away from the bomb.