Deep Shadow

by Nick Sullivan

  Ron passed him the monocular. Rick put it to his eye and Ron signed Yes. I see his feet. Can’t shoot from here. He peered through the moonlight and pointed toward a shack about thirty meters away. I’ll go there.

  Rick noted where his brother was pointing and thought that Ron would have the angle from that position. Rick looked around, then handed the monocular back. Tapping it, he signed You keep. Aim at him. I go… And here he pointed to the far side of the concrete building. When you shoot, I enter. Yes?

  Rick saw his brother’s fist bob down in the affirmative. Low and slow, he started to move.

  Boone reached the pier, having crossed the last hundred yards underwater. He rose near the stern of the boat and listened intently. He hadn’t seen anyone on the pier or the boat, the last time he’d popped his head up. Satisfied he was alone, he let his fins and the pony tank sink to the bottom before pulling himself onto the transom that extended between two enormous outboard motors. Moving quickly, he slid the multi-tool out of the heavy-duty zip lock seal of the drybag and extended a small knife from it. He knew any number of ways to sabotage the boat but he figured this situation didn’t call for finesse. Opening the cowling to one of the engines, he found the fuel line and cut it.

  One down, one to go.

  Omar’s stomach grumbled. “Where are those idiots.” The shots had been some time ago. “Tarik, go get them. Maybe they bagged a big one and need a hand.”

  Tarik rolled his eyes and grabbed his assault rifle. Opening the door, he took one step and froze. A man, crouched low, just behind the base of the lighthouse tower, moving to his right. From the sparse illumination of the room behind Tarik, he could tell the man was blond. “Intruder!” he yelled, raising the AK and firing a wild burst. Bullets spanged off of the girders of the tower. The shape dove to the ground and returned Tarik’s fire. The Filipino ducked back inside, leaning out to fire another burst.

  Ron saw the muzzle flashes at the door to the concrete building and saw his brother returning fire. The sniper would almost certainly have his attention focused there, so Ron bolted the rest of the way to the nearby shack, turned, and raised the assault rifle. The powerful LED bulbs of the lighthouse glared on…and off… and when it came on again, Ron saw a shape, a rifle at its shoulder, aiming down toward Rick. Breathing out, he squeezed the trigger. As the shape lurched, Ron was already lining up a second shot. He took it, and the shape fell forward over the rail of the lighthouse catwalk.

  “Abdul is down!” Tarik yelled, as he witnessed their sniper crash to the ground in a puff of sand.

  Omar watched Tarik spraying fire outside. Clutching his own rifle, he was about to join his comrade when a weight crashed into him from behind, sending him sprawling to the floor, his rifle clattering into a corner. He rolled on his back as Fernando Muñoz hurled himself on top of his captor, swinging his cuffed hands down at his face.

  “Hijo de puta! I’ll kill you!” The man was a whirlwind of rage, raining blows down on Omar. Without thinking about what it would mean for the mission, Omar drew a pistol he kept in a holster at his side and shot the cartel leader in the chest. The man’s eyes went wide and he let out a wet, rattling gasp before collapsing. Omar rolled the twitching man off and rose unsteadily to his feet. He saw bullets kicking up dust from the concrete outside the door and even against the back wall. Tarik was bleeding from an arm, and now he was firing at a new target off to the left.

  We are being overrun! I must flee! Omar bolted out the back door, heading for the pier.

  “Fuck!” yelled Rick. A bullet had struck a girder at the base of the lighthouse tower and he’d felt the sting of a splinter. At least the man inside was now forced to divide his fire. Once his brother had dropped the sniper, he’d started pouring fire on the door from his side. Ana had said there were five terrorists, so one was still unaccounted for. Unfortunately for the Claassen brothers, the building itself blocked their view of Omar’s escape.

  Boone heard the torrent of gunfire and quickly flipped up the cowling to the second engine, sawing through the fuel line to sever it. He closed the housing and looked back toward the compound. A man had just exited the larger building and was sprinting toward the pier. Boone quickly slipped over the gunwale into the water. As he did so, he felt a momentary sensation of weight lost. Oh, shit. He grabbed at the drybag over his shoulder. The Glock was gone! He must not have sealed it properly after taking the multi-tool out. The weight of the heavy pistol had probably pushed through when he hit the water. He grabbed for the dive light on the lanyard on his wrist but froze as he heard the man reach the boat, jumping onto it at a dead run. Wait. Breathe. Think. He’s going to try to start the engines, and when they don’t start… Securing his mask over his face, Boone slipped under the water and swam toward the stern of the boat, nestling himself against the side of the nearest outboard. He kept well clear of the propellers, knowing that some residual fuel might kick them into a short-lived spin. Sure enough, the engines started with an anemic half-roar before coughing into silence. A string of curses, equal parts Spanish and what sounded like Arabic. Boone moved a bit closer to the transom step, only his eyes above the water.

  Footsteps on the deck. A sensation of shifting weight, felt through the base of the engine Boone leaned against. A flashlight beam swept across his field of view. Pulling his right knee to his chest, Boone placed a foot on the anti-ventilation plate above the propeller. If he goes to the far engine, I’ll have a shot. If he checks the one I’m under, well… that’s going to be problematic. Employing a little positive thinking, Boone visualized the man approaching the further one, thus placing his back to him. The man came into view, and Boone’s vision was fulfilled. Boone took a slow, deep breath as the man stepped down to the transom, holstered a pistol, and opened the cowling. The man put the flashlight in his mouth, and when he leaned forward to look within the engine, Boone struck.

  His wiry muscles uncoiling like a spring, Boone extended his entire body, hurling himself up and out of the water and latching himself onto the man. He managed to pin the man’s right arm with his own, locking his left around the terrorist’s throat. At the same instant he threw his weight to the left, sucking in a lungful of air as he yanked the man off of the transom. Intertwined, the two men plunged into the water. Boone kicked hard for the bottom and wrapped his legs around the terrorist’s own. The man struggled mightily, but Boone’s training in Brazilian Jiu-jitsu paid off, allowing him to immobilize the man’s right arm entirely. When the terrorist managed to kick off the bottom, Boone felt his back strike something metal—a ladder at the end of the pier. Extending a leg, he contorted himself to the side, hooking his leg around the bottom ladder rung.

  Boone’s flexibility had always been uncanny—his double-jointed antics and controlled dislocations were a source of amusement to his old high school buddies—and with his recent interest in yoga, he was now even more limber. Still wrapped around his opponent, he contracted the leg and pulled himself back to the bottom of the ladder, clamping the terrorist and himself against it like a limpet. Though his freediving training allowed Boone to hold his breath for long periods, those breath-holds occurred under carefully controlled and much less strenuous conditions. The extra exertion from the struggle had already burned through much of his lungful of air. Though it was likely his opponent would black out long before he did, breath-holds were not an exact science—Boone focused and envisioned slowing his heart rate.

  The man’s left arm had been scrabbling at his side and now Boone realized why. The arm shifted direction and he saw a glint in the dark water, the moonlight meeting the blade of a knife. Boone instantly released the chokehold—not much point of that, since he was trying to drown the man—and as the man stabbed back at his face, Boone’s hand shot out to catch his wrist.

  Omar Hychami felt his vision graying. The man who grappled with him was inhumanly strong! He had tried to reach the surface, but his attacker had pulled them down ag
ainst something and now they seemed held in place. He right arm couldn’t move at all and he couldn’t reach far enough across himself with his left to reach his holster. My knife! He reached down to his left boot and managed to free the small blade. He stabbed back over his shoulder and, unfortunately, fell prey to instinct, one that many fanatical brothers were prone to in the heat of battle. “Allahu akbar!” he screamed, the shout distorting and gurgling. The battle cry voided his lungs and they swiftly filled with seawater.

  “I saw a flashlight!” Emily cried. “Come on! That must be Boone!”

  “It didn’t look like a signal,” Darcy said. He had seen a flashlight aboard the boat but it hadn’t been swinging back and forth in any kind of pattern.

  “But they’re shooting! Come on, they may need our help!”

  Darcy was torn. If the attack had failed, then roaring up in their boat might be a death sentence. Ana Muñoz decided the issue for him, pointing the Glock at his head.

  “Take us to the pier. Now.”

  Ron fired another pair of rounds into the doorway and saw a spurt of blood spray from a combat boot that was just visible in the doorframe. The man within braced his weapon against the jamb and sprayed a long burst in his direction, forcing him to the ground. The burst ended with a click. Rick had managed to move up on the left flank and when he heard this he rushed forward, swinging the Tavor to the left inside the doorway. A smallish man was just jamming a curved magazine into his rifle—Rick put two rounds in his head, then swung the barrel to the right. There was a man on his back, a bright bloom of blood across his white shirt and darker blood shining on his mustache. “Clear! Ron, the father is in here! He’s been shot!”

  Boone reached the shore at the edge of the pier, and dumped the terrorist he had over his shoulder into the sand. Standing on wobbly legs, he took a moment to regulate his breathing. After the man had drawn the knife and screamed, the fight had gone out of him very quickly. Boone had continued to grip the man but had suddenly realized that they needed a prisoner and this one might be their best chance. Throwing himself to his knees beside the terrorist, he dug the man’s pistol from the holster at his side and tossed it away, before clearing the man’s airway and beginning CPR. Behind him, he could hear a boat approaching at high speed.

  “Shit,” Ron said. The cartel leader’s face was pale, and each breath was accompanied by a frothy burble. Ron had been a volunteer EMT before joining the National Guard and had debated becoming a corpsman before deciding against it. Still, he had basic training and knew they had to act fast. He tore the man’s shirt open. “Rick! Get back in here!”

  Rick returned through the back door. Boone had the last terrorist down and was attempting CPR. Rick had tossed him the cuffs in case he was successful before returning to help his brother. As he ducked back inside, he heard Darcy’s boat pulling alongside the pier. He knelt beside Ron. “How bad is it?” he asked.

  “Sucking chest wound,” his brother replied. “Lungs filling with blood.” He pointed. “I see a first aid kit there. Put it beside me and open it.” He looked at Ana’s father, the man’s eyes wide with panic. “Stay with me Mr. Muñoz. Your daughter Ana sent us. She’s safe.”

  Through the fear in the man’s expression, a glimmer of relief shone through. Rick opened the kit. He grabbed a pouch and offered it up. “This looks like sterile dressings. A patch.”

  “Yes. Wait!” Ron yelled, stopping Rick before he tore it open. “Tear along the edge, carefully. I need the packaging.” While his brother did as instructed, Ron snatched a roll of tape from the kit and tore off numerous strips, lining them up on his forearm.

  “Here,” Rick said, holding out the packaging.

  “Press the pouch flat over the wound. I’m going to tape the edges. The dressings themselves are porous so we need to form a seal first.” Ron taped the pouch securely into place, blood seeping under the tape as he did so. He applied the sterile gauze patch over the packaging. “Fuck. He’s losing too much blood.”

  “Father!”

  Ana Muñoz had entered the room.

  “Boone! Are you alright?”

  Boone looked up from the terrorist he was trying to revive, as Emily came running up.

  “I’m fine, but he isn’t! And if we want to find out where that submarine is, we may need him. Do the chest compressions for me, I’ll focus on the breathing.” He leaned forward. “Where’s Darcy?” he asked between rescue breaths.

  “He’s calling his guy at the Coast Guard.”

  Working together, Emily and Boone continued their efforts and after a minute the man suddenly tensed, gagged, and spit up a stream of seawater.

  “Hurray… we saved a terrorist…” Emily said. “I’ll get the handcuffs.”

  “Father, speak to me!”

  Ana Muñoz, her eyes streaming tears, knelt beside her father. Fernando’s mouth and chin were coated with dark, shining blood. He managed to grip her arm, trying to speak.

  “Save him!” she shouted at Ron, her voice ringing with grief and anger.

  “I’ve done all I can, Miss,” he said softly.

  “Ana…” her father rasped. “You… must lead… cartel.”

  “You are not going to die today!”

  Fernando gave a rueful chuckle that ended in a tiny cough of fresh blood. He looked at Rick, who was standing over them. “You… kill them all?” he asked, wet wheezes punctuating his speech.

  “Yes sir,” Rick said. “I think so. Four dead, and we’re trying to revive one that may have drowned.” Fernando nodded with wordless satisfaction and Rick continued. “Sir, this is very important—do you know where the submarine is headed? The one they stole from you?”

  The man grimaced in pain, but then his eyes cleared. “The sub… ten tons of Semtex. They are going north. They spoke in Arabic but I understood two words: Charlotte Amalie.”

  Rick felt a chill run up his spine. “Saint Thomas. The US Virgin Islands.” The chill grew as he made an intuitive leap. “The cruise ship piers.”

  “The frigate… Mariscal Sucre. They are escorting her but they… they don’t know.” He turned to his daughter, blood seeping through gritted teeth. “The commander… Eduardo Moreno. He is one of ours. Order him to sink the bastards…” Suddenly, the humanity faded from his eyes and Fernando Muñoz left this world.

  Ana Muñoz screamed, her face a mask of rage and pain. She rose to her feet and lurched out the door.

  “I can tell from how you’re looking at me that you speak English,” Boone said. Their prisoner was sitting up now, staring sullenly at Boone who was crouched in front of him. “We just saved your life, you know. Least you can do is talk to us.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “And yet, you just did. Come on. Tell us what we need to know, maybe we give you to the Dutch instead of the cartel. You know, I hear the cartel does this thing where they pull your tongue through a slit in your throat—”

  “Jesus, Boone…” Emily said.

  Boone turned to look back at her, noting the look of revulsion on her face. He mouthed, “Sorry”, then returned to staring at the terrorist. “Look, we know about the submarine, we know you’re using Ana’s father to fool the Venezuelans…” He looked up, seeing the cartel leader’s daughter striding with purpose to the beach. “Speak of the devil. Señorita Muñoz, come meet our new friend.” He leaned in close to his prisoner. “He hasn’t given me his name yet, but…”

  “Boone…” Emily began.

  Noting the unease in her voice, he looked back up just as Ana reached them, drew Martin’s Glock from her waistband, and shot the terrorist through the forehead. The gun was quite near Boone’s own head when she fired, and droplets of blood sprayed across his face. Emily shrieked in horror, shocked at the sudden violence. Ears ringing and too stunned to react, Boone fell back, sitting down hard in the sand as the young woman proceeded to empty
the pistol into the man’s corpse. The moment the gun clicked empty she tossed it onto the beach beside the man, before turning and striding back to the main building.

  Beside him, Emily burst into tears. Boone could hear her hysterical sobbing, and she was angrily shrieking something at Ana’s retreating form, but her voice was muffled—Boone’s hearing still battling a high-pitched tone. By then, Rick had reached them. He looked at the ruined mess of the terrorist and breathed out a sigh, shaking his head with resignation. He said something and Emily leaned in close to his ear, her voice shaky, her cheeks streaked with tears. “Rick says her father just died.” She helped Boone up, her arm tight around his waist.

  Boone felt his knees almost give way—the exertion of his underwater fight and the effort to resurrect his opponent had caught up with him. And having the man I just saved killed in front of my face wasn’t exactly good for my psyche, he thought, as Emily helped him toward the concrete building where the others were. He felt another supporting arm grip him from his left side. Darcy had joined them. By the time they reached the rear door of the blocky building, Boone’s hearing had returned enough to make out what Rick was saying.

  “We won’t be calling that frigate from this,” he said, gesturing to the bullet riddled radio gear sparking on a nearby table.

  An hour later, a small Venezuelan Coast Guard vessel approached the dock. Darcy DaSilva waited at the end of the pier, calling out to them. The Yachty McYachtface was now moored across from the terrorist’s boat and there was no room for the new arrival.