by John Sneeden
Pushing those thoughts aside, Igor set his rifle against the rail and fished a pack of unfiltered Camels from his shirt pocket. He tapped out one of the smokes and slid it into his mouth. If Botha was going to be late, Igor might as well make good use of the time. He was scheduled to be on watch until four in the morning, and he sensed that nicotine was going to be his constant friend.
Igor had taken his second draw when he heard the distant hum of a boat motor. Letting the smoke drift out of his mouth, he stared in the direction of the sound. Although he couldn’t quite make it out, the craft seemed to be coming in and not passing by.
He swore softly. He should have known the bastard would arrive as soon as he tried to get in a smoke. After tossing the cigarette overboard, he retrieved his rifle and slung the strap over his shoulder. He took the steps down to the lower aft deck platform, where the smaller boat would be moored.
A half minute later, the boat’s white hull appeared out of the darkness. The craft was moving slowly, even more slowly than it normally would on approach. Igor guessed that Marko, the Serbian captain of Petrov’s fleet, was keeping his speed down to avoid the attention of the Maritime Gendarmerie.
Soon, the smaller boat came inside the glow of the yacht’s running lights. Igor was surprised to see only one person on board. It was a man, and he was sitting at the helm. Marko. Even from thirty yards away, Igor recognized the shape of his head. But where were the others? He hadn’t been notified of any problems. They must have decided to take two boats.
Igor grabbed a nearby docking rope and waved the boat in. The normally talkative Marko still hadn’t said a word. He was probably exhausted. As captain of Petrov’s nautical fleet, he was asked to work around the clock, keeping the yacht running and ferrying the men back and forth to Nice.
The boat continued its approach. It was moving slowly but not quite slowly enough.
Igor held up a hand. “Easy.”
Marko stared straight ahead without answering.
“Slow down, you idiot!” Igor called out. “You’re gonna bump the boss’s boat. He won’t like that.”
Hearing no response, Igor looked at Marko again. There was something strange about the way he was sitting. His head was tilted back, and his hands weren’t on the wheel.
Igor felt the first tightening of his stomach. “Is everything okay?”
The boat was ten yards out. Igor’s eyes narrowed as the details of Marko’s face came into view. The flesh on one cheek seemed twisted out of shape and smeared with something that looked like dark paint.
His pulse racing, Igor slid the rifle off his shoulder, stepped to the edge of the deck, and aimed his weapon at the incoming craft. He heard something moving in the water at his feet. He looked down just in time to see someone explode upward. He tried to step back but was too late. A hand grabbed his ankle and yanked his leg out from under him. He landed hard on his back before being pulled into the cold sea.
He tried to push back toward the surface, but the attacker was able to loop a rope around his neck and apply pressure to his windpipe. Given few options, he focused on pulling the rope far enough off to breathe. But it was an exercise in futility. Deprived of oxygen, his muscles were weakening by the second. He could tell the attacker was wrapping the rope around their hands several times, giving them a more powerful hold.
It was a battle he wasn’t going to win.
As he thrashed about wildly, Igor suddenly realized who was behind him. The chill that ran down his spine was colder than the water around him.
It was her.
She had come to take her revenge.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
After the guard’s body went limp, Drenna let him go then swam over to the motorboat, which was bumping against the back of the yacht. Realizing the vibrations might draw unwanted attention, she climbed aboard the smaller craft and killed the engine. She retrieved the pistol she had taken from Jacques Botha and slipped it into her waistband. She also put on the dry shoes she had left on board when she dove into the water on approach.
Once ready, she turned and studied the yacht’s aft. As far as she could tell, no one was in sight. If anyone had heard what had taken place, surely they would have responded by now. Still, she needed to be careful. It was well past the time for Botha’s arrival, which meant someone would be reaching out to the South African soon. And when they didn’t get a response, alarms would be raised.
Drenna retrieved a coiled rope and hopped onto the yacht. She then tied the smaller boat to a cleat that was affixed to the transom. It was imperative she have a way to get to shore once her business was finished.
After making sure the knot was secure, she made her way quietly up the steps. Nikita Petrov’s yacht was massive, something Drenna had realized when approaching it a few minutes before. She estimated the craft was well over a hundred feet long, and she had counted four decks.
At the top of the stairs was an outdoor lounge filled with cushioned couches and tables. On the far side of the lounge was a set of sliding glass doors. The glass was tinted, but Drenna could see the soft glow of light inside. Having spent some time on a few luxury yachts, she knew the doors probably operated on a pneumatic system, which meant they would open automatically if she got within a few feet.
Not wanting to be exposed to whoever might be on the other side of the doors, she looked around for other ways to explore the boat. A set of stairs flanked either side of the lounge. The set on the left went up to the bridge, while the set on the right went down to the lower decks. Drenna considered her options. Her goal was to find Petrov, so she immediately ruled out going up to the bridge. The boat was anchored, so there was zero chance anyone would be there at this hour. She shifted her gaze to the steps on the right. The lower decks likely contained the crew’s living quarters, the galley, and the engine compartment.
She doubted Petrov had already retired to his cabin, so she decided to search the deck that she was on first. That meant she would need to pass through the sliding glass doors. She approached them slowly, her pistol lifted with both hands. She didn’t want a gunfight but needed to be ready to defend herself in case someone was waiting on the other side.
She closed to within two feet, but the doors remained closed. She stuck one of her hands out and waved it around to trigger a response. Nothing. Apparently, the doors weren’t set to automatic after all. Looking around, she saw a button to the left. She pressed it, and the glass panels hissed apart.
The sound of distant conversation and music came out of the interior. Drenna moved forward with her gun up, but no one was in sight. She was standing in another lounge that was a carbon copy of the one outside. The rich had all their bases covered. If there was bad weather, they simply moved the party indoors.
As she stepped farther into the room, Drenna realized the noises came from somewhere down the hall that started on the other side of the room. Before moving in that direction, she glanced around the space. Her eyes were immediately drawn to a large locker to her right. She stepped over and opened the door. Much to her satisfaction, the locker contained a large stash of weapons, from semi-automatic rifles to handguns and knives. She set the pistol she was carrying on one of the shelves and picked up a Heckler & Koch VP9 that was tipped with a matte black suppressor. Stealth would be the key to finding and capturing Petrov. She also grabbed a folding tactical knife and tucked it into her pants pocket.
After closing the locker, Drenna crossed the lounge and entered the darkened hall. At the far end, light spilled from a half-open door. “Another One Bites the Dust” was booming from a set of low-quality speakers, and men spoke in excited tones. Idiots. A dangerous prisoner was being brought to the yacht, and it sounded like the guards were throwing a party.
At the end of the hall, she crept up to the partially opened door and peered inside. A small table sat in the center of the room. Three men sat around it, drinking beer and playing poker. They spoke in a language Drenna didn’t recognize. Two men were on either
side of the near end, while the third sat facing Drenna on the far side. The music came from an old-school boom box sitting on top of a wet bar at the far end of the room.
Drenna’s eyes returned to the poker table. A pistol lay in front of each of the two men sitting closest to her. There wasn’t a gun in front of the third man, but she had to assume he had one somewhere on his person.
She carefully examined each man’s appearance. She had seen a few photos of Petrov and was certain he wasn’t sitting at the table. Not unless he had gone under the knife at some point. But even if he had changed his appearance, she doubted he would be sitting there with those useless thugs.
Unless he’s in a part of the room I can’t see from where I’m standing.
Even though there was little chance he was in the room, Drenna decided it couldn’t hurt to take a quick look. If she didn’t find him elsewhere, she’d be forced to come back.
She waited until all three men were focused on their cards then stepped forward and put her head into the gap. The floor groaned loudly.
Drenna cursed under her breath as all three men turned in her direction. The two closest guards reached for their guns, but before they could touch them, she lifted the suppressed VP9 and fired twice, striking one man in the back and the other in the chest.
Not wanting to be shot, the third man raised his hands in surrender.
“Keep those hands up!” Drenna shouted over the music.
“I have no gun.”
Drenna stepped farther into the room. “Sorry, but I don’t believe you.”
He nodded at the table. “You can see I have no gun.”
“Where is Petrov?”
“Who?”
Drenna was about to ask the question again when the man ducked underneath the table. It was something she knew he might do, so the minute he began to move, she dove to the floor. The man crouched under the table, his hand fishing inside his jacket for a gun. Drenna aimed at the man’s chest and fired once. As he wobbled, she fired again, this time at his head. The second shot knocked him flat.
Fittingly, Freddie Mercury had just begun to sing the chorus to “Another One Bites the Dust.”
Drenna didn’t bother to go over and check to see if the man was still alive. She had seen the red splash appear on his forehead immediately after the second shot. He was dead before hitting the floor.
As she stood up, Drenna cursed herself for sticking her head inside the room. She should have known Petrov would never hang out with those three stooges while an important operation was underway.
Concerned that someone below might have heard her hit the floor, Drenna quickly ran back through the lounge and out the sliding glass doors. She took the stairs down to the deck below. At the bottom, a long dark corridor ran all the way to the bow. Doors lined either side, and Drenna guessed they led to the crew’s living quarters.
At the far end of the hall, light spilled from a partially open door. Unlike the other doors, that one faced her, which suggested it was a larger suite.
Petrov.
Maybe it was his cabin.
Drenna walked slowly in that direction, letting the thump of music from the floor above mask her steps. She noticed light coming out from underneath several doors along the way, but she passed on the opportunity to look inside. If Petrov’s cabin was on this hall, it would be the one at the far end.
A minute later, she arrived at the door. Keeping her pistol ready, she peeked through the opening. A short hallway ran for about ten or fifteen yards before opening into a larger room at the end. On the right side of the hall was one doorway, which she guessed led to the bathroom.
After shouldering the door open all the way, she slipped inside. The cabin was just below the room where the men had been playing poker, so the music sounded louder through the ceiling. Confident the noise would mask her steps, she continued down the hall. From her position, she could see only the left side of the room. A couch was positioned against the wall, but no one was sitting on it.
She eased up to the corner then stopped. What should she do? If Petrov was in the room, she would need to enter with her gun up. She would use the element of surprise to catch the Russian off guard. If he went for a weapon, she would shoot him. But she hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She needed to take him alive. Yes, her ultimate plan was to kill him, but she also needed the name of the person he had been working with in the US government.
Before going in, Drenna reminded herself who she was dealing with. Nikita Petrov was one of the cagiest men she had ever come up against. There were probably cameras all over the yacht, which meant he might have been watching everything play out from the safety of his room. And if that was the case, he might be trying to lure her in by cracking his door open.
Gripping her pistol with two hands, Drenna counted to three then stepped into the room. Immediately, her eyes were drawn to a desk at the far end. She saw the dark silhouette of a man sitting behind a lighted lamp, but before she could react, he turned the lamp off, plunging the room into darkness. He had reacted with the speed of a cat.
Footsteps thumped in her direction. Unable to see her attacker, she fired twice in the direction of the approaching sound. A second later, the man’s shoulder drove into her chest, knocking her to the floor. She heard footsteps running down the hall, followed by the sound of a door slamming shut.
Gasping for air, Drenna managed to sit up. Her gun was somewhere on the floor, but she didn’t have time to look for it. Instead, she ran to the door and opened it just in time to see the man running down the hall. He moved awkwardly, which seemed to indicate one of the bullets had hit his leg.
Drenna sprinted after him. Before she could reach the other end, the man disappeared into the stairwell. Seconds later, she entered behind him and went up the twisting steps. She guessed he would attempt to reach the weapons locker. If he managed to get his hands on a gun, she would be forced to slip off to another place and hope to outwit him with stealth.
After emerging at the top, Drenna looked across the outside lounge. There was no movement behind the sliding glass doors. That was a good thing. The man—who she assumed was Petrov—had made the calculation that he couldn’t reach the gun locker in time. That meant he was probably hiding somewhere close by.
As if on cue, Drenna felt something drive into her back, knocking her forward onto the deck. A heavy body came down on top of her, knocking the breath out of her lungs. Strong hands flipped her over and encircled her neck.
Drenna looked up at her attacker. Although it was dark, she could tell that the right side of the man’s face was covered with burn scars. Nikita Petrov. The man she thought they had killed in Montenegro was now choking the life out of her.
She tried to squirm free, but the Russian was sitting on her arms. She had no doubt she could beat him senseless if they were fighting from a standing position, but there was very little she could do with a much heavier man on top of her.
Petrov squeezed her neck even harder, flattening her windpipe and cutting off her ability to breathe. If she didn’t do something quickly, she would die.
Slowly, Drenna noticed the world around her was beginning to blur. It would be a humiliating death. The same man who had ordered the attack that killed Trevor was about to take her life as well.
Knife.
The word pushed its way into her thoughts. But what did it mean?
Knife.
The word flashed in her mind again. Then she remembered she had taken one from the weapons locker earlier. If she could somehow get her hands on it before she passed out, she might be able to get Petrov off of her. And if she could do that, she might have a chance of surviving.
Turning slightly to create room, she managed to pull her right hand up and slipped it into her pants pocket. Her fingers closed on the knife. Yes. She removed it from the pocket and used her other hand to flick it open.
The fog that preceded death was slowly overtaking her. She had only seconds.
Don’t g
ive up.
Drawing on the last of her remaining strength, she pushed the blade into Petrov’s left buttock. Howling, he lightened his grip on her neck. Oxygen streamed into Drenna’s lungs, giving her strength that she didn’t have just moments before. But she also knew the move had bought her only a few seconds.
Moving quickly, she twisted her right arm free. Petrov realized what she was doing and let go of her neck in an attempt to stop her. But he was too late. As he lifted his hand to deflect the blow, she drove the point of the blade directly into his eye.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Nikita Petrov let loose a bloodcurdling scream. Drenna shoved him off her and rolled away. Despite being free of the Russian’s clutches, she immediately regretted sticking the knife in his eye. Targeting his abdomen would have been a better choice. It would have succeeded in getting him off her while at the same time giving him a chance to survive. It was imperative that she keep him alive in order to get the information she needed.
As Petrov writhed on the deck, Drenna quickly scrambled to her feet and went through the sliding glass doors. Once there, she opened the locker and retrieved another pistol. She might not have much time to question the Russian, but she couldn’t risk someone else showing up with a gun. Survival took precedence over everything.
When she returned, Petrov had reached up and grabbed the handle of the knife. He seemed to be contemplating whether to pull it out or leave it in. Drenna noted the blade’s position and realized she had actually stabbed him at an upward angle. Instead of going directly through the eye and into the brain, the blade had gone up inside the frontal bone. That was fortunate because it meant death might come more slowly.
Petrov’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the knife more tightly. He seemed to have made his decision.
She rushed toward him. “Don’t do it.”
Ignoring her warning, he slid it out then screamed in agony.
Drenna kicked the knife away to prevent him from picking it up later. “I told you not to do that. You only made it worse.”