by Evan Graver
Damian stepped behind Emily, his shotgun dangling on a sling. He seized her wrists and shoved them down, forcing her to bend backward while he nuzzled her neck. Emily gasped.
Ryan jerked the MP5 to his shoulder, cheek welding to the stock, eye squinting through the holographic sight centered on Damian’s forehead. “Let her go!”
Damian stared at Ryan while running his tongue along Emily’s neck. She shuddered and jerked her hands, trying desperately to get away from the Jamaican. The Jamaican grinned wickedly and snarled, “I not get to have my way with her.”
“Emily,” Ryan shouted, desperate to control the situation.
She looked up. Her cornflower blue eyes brimmed with tears when they met his.
In a calm voice, Ryan asked, “What did I teach you?”
Recognition lightened her countenance. Steel filled her eyes. Her knee came up, and she slammed her heel down on the inside of Damian’s bare foot. He howled with pain and hopped on one foot. Emily spun into him, bringing her knee up hard into his chest. The hand gripping his foot partially deflected the blow. Damian let go of his appendage and swung his arms up to grab Emily.
Ryan was afraid to kill Damian. Kilroy might renege on his deal and not release Emily. An eye for an eye. He was concentrating so hard on Kilroy, Damian, and Emily that he missed Stacey creeping to the rail.
Emily jumped back to avoid Damian’s vengeful hands. He clutched at nothing but air, and then he stood bolt upright, twin wires protruded from his chest, linking him to Stacey’s stun gun. Damian began to dance to the electricity surging through his body.
“Take that, asshole,” Stacey screamed. “You leave her alone!”
Ryan lowered his weapon but kept one hand on the pistol grip, finger straight along the receiver just above the trigger.
Kilroy stood with his hands behind his back, watching Damian writhe on the deck of his ship. Turning to Ryan, he said, “Are you done having fun?”
“If I was having fun, he would have a bullet in his head.”
“Touchy, touchy, Mr. Weller. You shouldn’t get so emotional.”
“Cut her loose and send her over,” Ryan demanded.
“No, the gold first.”
“We had a deal.”
“And I’m changing the terms. You can thank your friend with the Taser.”
“I’ll light you up too, Jimmy,” Stacey yelled.
Kilroy smiled. “Where’s your one-legged companion?” he called to Ryan.
“He’s not here.” Ryan had a sudden suspicion that Kilroy knew their plans and had somehow subverted them by doing something nasty to Mango and the others on Dark Water. “Send over the girl,” Ryan demanded again.
Stacey moved along Peggy Lynn’s railing, grabbed the crane guide wire, and reached a hand across the gap. “Come on, Emily.”
“The gold, Mr. Weller!”
“We had a deal.” Ryan wanted to just pull the trigger. He wanted to put a bullet into Kilroy’s brain and end this useless stalemate. He couldn’t count on Dennis; it had been a long time since the captain had fired a gun in combat. If he knew Mango had a clear shot of the guy on the bridge … No. Damnit, there’s too many of them. If I open fire, they’ll shred us.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Emily listened to Kilroy and Ryan scream back and forth. She’d seen the armed guards Kilroy had posted around his vessel, all of them ready to shoot on command. For twenty-five-million dollars in gold, she knew Kilroy was willing to eliminate Ryan, his crew, and anyone else in his way, including her.
When they’d come for her in her stateroom, Damian had cuffed her hands behind her back with a black plastic zip tie. Emily had made a fist with her right hand and wrapped the fingers of her left around it, tensing the muscles in both arms. The plastic had bit deep into her skin when Damian cinched it tight, but there was a small measure of slack in the plastic ring when she relaxed her muscles, just not enough to keep it from chafing her skin raw. Blood now mixed with sweat around her wrists. Sweat had soaked her shirt from standing in the sun, and her shoulders ached. The glare of the sunlight reflecting off the water caused her to squint.
Kilroy turned to face Ryan, his voice calmer. “Send the gold and I’ll release the girl.”
Emily backed into the shade of the giant Viking sportfishing yacht. It blocked the bridge guard’s view of her, and she was slightly behind Kilroy who still faced Ryan, discussing the terms of her release. She glanced at Stacey and shook her head, telegraphing to her not to watch what she was about to do. Stacey turned away and loaded another cartridge into the muzzle of her Taser.
In one motion, Emily drew her arms up as high as she could, bent forward, and slammed them down against the base of her spine. The cuffs bit deeper into her skin and more blood ran down her hands. She brought her arms up again, repeatedly slamming them into her hips and pulling her wrists apart at the same time. The third thrust snapped the plastic. She glanced down at her free hands. Blood from multiple lacerations coated her wrists and fingers, and she’d broken two nails. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Adrenaline mainlined through her veins.
Without thinking, she took two running steps, lowered her shoulder and slammed Kilroy in the back. She continued past him as he fell. Emily placed a foot on the rail of Northwest Passage and launched herself into space.
Time seemed to freeze during her flight, her left leg extended, arms spread for balance. She saw Ryan bring his gun up, heard the muted pop of automatic weapons. Spent casings arched through the air, twinkling as they caught the light. Her foot hit the deck of Peggy Lynn and time sped up again. She crumpled, rolling in a ball to slam against the recompression chamber.
A strong set of arms pulled her to her feet and half-dragged, half-carried her behind the shelter of the bridge. The roaring in her ears cleared and everything came back into focus just in time to hear desperate shouting from both ships. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The beat of helicopter rotors drew Rick Hayes from unconsciousness. His left eye had swollen shut and his right eye wasn’t much better. The taste of copper was heavy in his mouth. When he ran his tongue around his teeth, two were loose and one was missing. He tried to smile, but the pain was almost unbearable. At least he was alive and in a place that he knew like the back of his hand, the Bell 212.
After being knocked out in the hangar, he’d been awakened by hot water splashing on his face. It tasted salty on his lips, and he wondered if they’d moved him to the ocean. When he opened his eyes, he realized he was being pissed on. His arms and legs were bound, making it difficult to move, yet he rolled away from the stream of urine. “Shit, man, stop,” he yelled.
The laughing pisser walked with him, keeping Rick’s head under the golden shower.
When the man had finished and zipped himself up, his companions, who were also laughing at Rick, grabbed the bound man and shoved him into a chair. Before Rick could say a word, one of them hit him with a right cross and his head spun again. The stench of ammonia emanating from his piss-soaked clothes and hair helped to revive him.
For the next ten minutes, three men took turns pounding on him while a fourth man asked him questions about Ryan’s plan to rescue Emily. Rick gave them just enough information to stop the beating. He knew every man broke under torture. It was a matter of finding the right breaking point. By giving them information, he planned to stay conscious and position himself where he could still help his friends.
For Rick, waking up in the helicopter was like winning the lottery. Through the slit of his right eye, he could see the feet of two of his assailants. He tried to concentrate on what they looked like. He hadn’t seen any of them clearly after the first few blows. What he did remember was that they were dark-skinned and spoke with accents. He’d narrowed it down to Central America or Mexico. He closed his eye to think. It didn’t matter where they were from, if he had an opening, he would make them pay.
Rick opened his eye again and watched his captors.
They weren’t paying attention to him. He was lying on his right side on the aircraft’s deck, facing the aft cabin wall. To his back were the seats for the pilot and copilot. Being familiar with the layout, he knew the seats slid back and forth on tracks just like the seats in a car.
He rolled back, trying not to groan from the pain emanating from his abused head and torso. His hands met the sharp edges of the co-pilot’s U-shaped slide rail. His back hit the seat. Now he could see the men above him. Rick recognized their rifles as CZ 805 BRENs, a gun favored by the Mexican Federal Police. As a gun buff, he prided himself on being able to identify any firearm used in movies or, well, here in real life. You’re stupid, he chastised himself as he slowly sawed through the thick wrapping of duct tape around his wrists using the sharp edge of the U-shaped slide.
Chapter Forty
Ryan had moved to his left, putting the strong box of gold between himself and the wildly firing gunmen on Kilroy’s boat. He aimed the MP5 at the crane operator and pulled the trigger. A ragged trio of holes bloomed in the equipment operator’s chest. He dropped his AK and slumped over the rail. Ryan swung his gun toward the man on the bridge wing. Just as he lined up his shot, the man’s head snapped back and the window behind him became a Rorschach test pattern of crimson blood and gray brain matter. Ryan could only assume that Mango had joined the fight, sending a .338 boat tail hollow point from his overwatch position.
Ryan trained his MP5 on Kilroy. The arms dealer, while holding his pistol, wasn’t firing, which moved him to the bottom of the threat matrix. Even though he was the ringleader, and Ryan wanted to shoot him, Ryan had to take care of the more imminent threats first. He continued to scan for whoever was firing an AK at them while Kilroy shouted for a cease fire.
In the silence following the thunder of automatic fire, Kilroy said, “You have what you wanted, now send over my gold.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t have a choice, Mr. Weller.”
“Travis, Stacey, get the lines,” Ryan ordered.
“You demanded I keep my end of the bargain, Mr. Weller,” Kilroy shouted as he stepped to the rail. “I demand you keep yours. You have the girl.”
“Damian broke our deal.”
Kilroy raised a handheld VHF radio to his lips. “Now, Mr. Pinchina.”
Ryan recognized the name. It took him several seconds to process the information. Everything clicked into place when he heard the helicopter. Joulie’s pilot had flipped sides.
“What do we do?” Travis yelled.
“Get the lines,” Ryan ordered.
Kilroy countermanded, “Stand fast.”
The helicopter’s rotor noise increased as it drew closer.
“Ryan,” Emily shouted.
He didn’t turn to look at her, keeping Kilroy in the center of his holographic sight.
Emily moved up beside Ryan. “Give it to him,” she said quietly.
“Swing it,” Ryan shouted, knowing that in a matter of minutes, the gold and Kilroy’s ship would be at the bottom of the ocean. Kilroy bounded to the crane and used the controls to hoist the gold aboard his vessel.
Just as the box cleared the rail of the salvage boat, Dennis yelled, “Get the ropes.”
Travis and Stacey threw off the lines and Dennis eased the salvage vessel away from Northwest Passage. He threw the throttles open when they were clear, taking his boat to the west, away from the explosion area. Travis and Ryan watched Kilroy open the box. The gun dealer beamed, his face glowing gold in the reflected light.
Ryan glanced up at the helicopter. He wondered why Pinchina would keep coming when Kilroy had the gold.
“What do you think they want?” Travis asked.
The Bell 212 flashed past the salvage vessel and turned in a long graceful arch, rising through the middle to peak at the end of the turn, then diving toward the starboard side of the boat. It quickly closed the distance and came to a hover off the Peggy Lynn’s bow.
A loudspeaker boomed, “This is the Haitian Coast Guard. Shut down your engines and prepare to be boarded.”
“You got the wrong guy, asshole,” Stacey screamed. She waved the helicopter away and pointed frantically at Northwest Passage. “The bad guys are over there.”
The helicopter turned sideways, and the cargo door slid open. A man brandished an M60 machine gun. The bandolier of bullets trailed out of the gun’s action and draped on the floor. He triggered a burst, sending bullets and spent brass cartridges into the water in front of the boat. Stacey and Emily screamed.
Ryan bounded up the stairs to the bridge. He pulled off his MP5 and handed it to Don who was sitting at the computer terminal.
As he turned to Captain Dennis, Don grinned and said. “Want me to shoot down that helicopter?”
Ryan turned back, a quizzical look on his face.
“What?” Don asked. “I’m a good ole boy from Texas. I like to shoot stuff.”
“Maybe later,” Ryan said. “Dennis, shut it down.”
“What do they want?”
“I don’t know, Captain.” Ryan pulled the remote for the acoustical detonator from his pocket. “Flip this switch and then press the button. It’ll detonate the bomb on Kilroy’s boat. Get clear before you blow it though.”
Dennis took the detonator, put it in his pocket, and reached for the throttles. Peggy Lynn began to slow and dropped off plane, wallowing in the water as the wake, waves, and momentum caught up with her.
Stepping out to the bow, Ryan held up his hands. He had a feeling they were there for him. He braced his feet and stared up at the helicopter, squinting into the thrashing wind and fine mist kicked up by the rotor wash.
The pilot swung the bird around to the port side of the boat and a man pushed a rope ladder out the door. Ryan kept his eyes on Eduardo Sanchez, the cartel member he recognized from Kilroy’s table at Hotel Roi Christophe. He now understood the game Kilroy had played. Kilroy had double-dipped, getting the gold for Emily and trading Ryan for the two-million-dollar bounty offered by the Aztlán cartel. Kilroy had asked about Mango to send him to the cartel as well.
“Ryan Weller get in the helicopter,” the loudspeaker boomed.
Peggy Lynn had come to a dead stop, and the helicopter crabbed sideways to bring the rope ladder over her bow. After making two attempts to get close to the boat, the pilot found his sweet spot, the rotors just missing the steel poles of the crane tower with little room for error.
Ryan grabbed the dangling rope ladder and gave it a tug. This wasn’t the first time he’d boarded a helicopter from a ship. He planted a foot on the ladder and began to ascend. When he was four rungs up, the pilot shifted the chopper away from the salvage vessel. Ryan kept climbing as the ladder swayed. It reminded him of having to climb the rope in gym class. It required intense focus, and his muscles were like jelly from gripping the squirming rope. Besides everyone watching, he had to deal with whipping winds, water spray slicking the ropes and rungs, and the fact there were men waiting to do him harm at the other end of the ladder. He could let go and drop into the water right now, but the M60 gunner would surely have his way with the vessel below. He had to climb. Their survival depended on it.
Two men hauled his quivering body into the helicopter compartment. His arms were lead weights and his hands curved into claws from gripping the rungs. He lay on the cabin floor, breathing deeply despite the foot planted on his back. He rotated his head to look around, taking in the two Mexican men and Rick Hayes. Rick looked bad. He had multiple lacerations on his cheeks and forehead. Twin rivers of blood and snot had flowed from his nose and coated his chin and cheeks. His eyes were puffy sacks of black, blue, and yellow. The left one was swollen shut and the right one was …
Is he staring at me?
Ryan focused on Rick’s right eye. The swelling had almost closed it and the pupil was wide, even with all the light coming in through the open cabin doors. The man clearly had a concussion, yet a slight smile lifted the corner of his lips.
Ryan furrowed his brow in question.
“Get up,” the Mexican commanded, screaming into the gale force winds and grabbing the collar of Ryan’s shirt. Ryan came to his hands and knees, staring out the port side cabin door. He could see Northwest Passage and her long, spreading wake. The helicopter came in close to the ship, and Eduardo jerked Ryan to his feet.
Push the damn button, Dennis! Push. The. Button.
Kilroy stepped onto the bridge wing and waved at the helicopter. Ryan locked eyes with the arms dealer.
Then the sea exploded.
There was the sickening sound of metal shearing and screaming as the penetrator blasted from its tube and tore open Northwest Passage’s hull. The sea boiled as the steam void blossomed around the detonation site. When the C-4 detonated, it formed a hot bubble of gas which expanded outward. Northwest Passage seemed to give a small hop and Ryan saw the old girl break in the center, her keel shattered. Under the weight of the surrounding water, the pocket of super-heated air collapsed in on itself like a bursting balloon, leaving a void beneath the ship. Gravity pulled the ship down into the void, breaking it further.
Ryan kept his eyes on Kilroy, who had fallen to his knees and was now levering himself upright with the help of the railing. Karen ran onto the bridge wing to help her husband.
A second explosion blew out the ship’s stern, sending shards of metal and glass through the air. Kilroy and his wife flew off the catwalk, their bodies tumbling like rag dolls. When they landed in the water facedown, their backs were a mutilated mess from the shrapnel. Kilroy’s head was missing a large chunk of skull. Karen began to sink below the surface.
Chapter Forty-One
Mango Hulsey watched the scene play out through the tiny lens of the Nightforce scope as he lay sprawled on Dark Water’s bridge roof. He focused on the helicopter. The explosion’s shock wave interrupted the airflow around the blades and the pilot struggled to maintain control. It dropped rapidly toward the sea and just when Mango thought it would crash, the pilot straightened it out and regained altitude. Then it swung away from Kilroy’s boat and headed south, back toward Haiti.