by CW Browning
Michael sighed imperceptibly and came to a stop, holding up his hands. Turning his head slightly, he looked behind him. A man was moving toward him, a Glock in his hand and a radio clipped to his belt. Taking a deep breath, Michael waited for the man to draw closer. He really wasn’t having the best luck so far.
The man closed the gap between them and Michael waited, perfectly still, until he felt a hand touch his arm to turn him around. Moving swiftly, he reached behind him as he spun and grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the gun to his back. He wrenched it upward at the same time that his foot kicked the inside of the man’s opposite knee. A sickening crack sounded and the man let out a howl of pain as his leg buckled at an odd angle. Michael moved behind him quickly and, a second later, the howling abruptly stopped as he twisted his neck. The man sank to the floor and Michael lifted the gun from his slack hand before stepping over the body.
He tucked the weapon into one of the pockets on his drysuit, annoyed to find his hands shaking. The long-forgotten movements from his active service days had come as second nature to him, but the adrenaline was something he hadn’t had to deal with for a few years. It was rushing through him and he shook his head, taking a deep, calming breath.
He was just exhaling when his phone vibrated, making him start. Frowning, he pulled it out and swiped the screen, glancing at the brief message.
Target is in last cabin on second level.
Michael raised his eyebrows and looked around. Now how the hell had Damon discovered where they were keeping Angela? Putting the phone away, he moved along the corridor until he came to a narrow stairwell. Hearing heavy footsteps clatterring down, Michael looked around frantically and opened the door closest to him. Ducking inside, he just had time to note that it was a small powder room before he closed the door quietly. The door had just clicked shut when what sounded like two men emerged from the stairwell.
“Head aft!” one yelled in Spanish. “¡Prisa!”
The men ran down the corridor, their shoes echoing on the hardwood. Michael waited a second, then cracked the door open. The hallway was empty again, but he knew that wouldn’t last. He could hear yelling outside and knew the gunfire had alerted the ship to Viper’s presence.
Sorry, Lina, he thought, moving out of the powder room and into the stairwell. Here they come.
He went up the steps quickly and paused at the top, listening. He could still hear crew calling to each other outside, but the interior seemed eerily quiet. Peering around the corner, Michael looked left, then right before emerging from the stairs. He was on the second level. Now he just had to figure out which end was the end.
The corridor to the left was clear and seemed to lead into a larger recreational room. He could see flickering not unlike that of a large TV. He turned right and started down the hall. It curved to the left at the end and he stayed near the wall, moving as quickly and quietly as possible. When he reached the corner, he stopped and took a deep breath, peering around the curve. There, at the end, two men were on their feet with guns in their hands, looking as if they would rather be anywhere but where they were.
Michael pulled out the 1911 Viper had handed him on the beach and quickly attached the suppressor. The two guards were about to be even more unhappy with their babysitting duty.
Taking a deep, calming breath, he peered around the corner again, gauging the distance and height of the guard closest to him. Then, without thinking twice, he rounded the corner as he aimed and fired. The guard cried out and grabbed his side where the bullet had torn through his ribs. Before he could do anything more, another bullet entered his skull. The second guard raised his gun and got a shot off in Michael’s general direction, causing Michael to move to his right as he fired. His shot went through the guard’s chest, throwing him backwards a pace. He followed up immediately with another shot to his head and the guard went down.
Michael strode quickly down the long corridor, impressed with the gun in his hands. Viper hadn’t been exaggerating. The 1911 was one of the most superior pistols he’d ever fired. Tucking it into the holster on his leg, he reached the door, stepping over the body of the first guard. He tested the handle and raised an eyebrow when it opened easily. They hadn’t bothered to lock her in?
He entered the room and closed the door behind him quietly, looking across the small room. Angela was sprawled across the bed, fast asleep and oblivious to the drama unfolding on the yacht. She was still dressed in the clothes she had been wearing the morning they took her, but they were the worse for wear. Blood stained her shirt and one look at her swollen bottom lip and scraped face was explanation enough. Her jeans were torn and crusted with blood where she had obviously fallen. The honey colored hair that was always so perfect lay tangled and matted, the hair tie that had held it in a ponytail that fateful morning long gone.
Irrational rage coursed through him at the sight of her and he strode forward quickly. She was a mess, but he had to get her up and out of here. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he leaned over her and shook her gently by the shoulder.
Angela came awake with a howl of pain and surged up, her eyes bulging open and staring at him in terror.
“Hey! It’s me!” he exclaimed, raising his hands. “It’s Michael!”
Angela gazed at him in glazed stupor then, to his consternation, her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh Michael!” she gasped, throwing herself into his arms. “I prayed someone would come!”
“Ssshhh...” Michael wrapped his arms around her and felt the violent tremors going through her body. “It’s okay. We’re here. I’m going to get you off this boat.”
Angela pulled away and looked into his face. “We? Is Stephanie here?”
Michael shook his head and stood up.
“No. Alina and Damon are with me,” he said, reaching for her hands, “but we have to move. Come on.”
Before she could react, he grasped her hands and tried to pull her up. When she cried out again in pain, he dropped her hands and stared at her.
“What?” he demanded, his heart pounding. “What’s wrong?”
Tears were streaming down her face and she shook her head.
“My shoulder,” she gasped. “It’s dislocated.”
Michael dropped his gaze to her shoulders. Her left arm was hanging at strange angle and he exhaled, running hand over his hair.
“Oh my God, I didn’t even see it,” he said. “I’m so sorry. We’re going to have to get it back in.”
Angela shook her head violently and actually began backing across the bed away from him.
“No!” she cried. “It won’t go back in! The doctor said it needs surgery.”
Michael scowled. “What? What doctor?”
“The one who’s been coming in here and dosing me with morphine for the pain.”
“Morphine?” he repeated, feeling supremely out of his depth. “Well, that explains why you were dead to the world when I came in.”
“I can’t move my arm,” she said, stopping in the middle of the bed now that he was no longer talking about forcing her shoulder back in. “I don’t know if I can make it off the boat!”
Michael pressed his lips together grimly.
“Oh, you’ll make it,” he promised her, turning to look around the small room. Spotting the bathroom door, he strode toward it. “Hang on.”
He went into the bathroom and looked around. The shower stall had glass doors, so there was no shower curtain that he could cut into strips. It would have to be towels. Grabbing two full-sized bath towels, he carried them out into the bedroom and pulled out a utility knife. With Angela watching from the bed, he made a cut and then tore one of the towels into strips.
“What are you doing?” she finally asked.
“Making a sling.”
She fell silent again and watched as he fashioned a sling out of the second towel. Using the knife, he managed to make two holes on either side of the towel to feed the strips through.
“It’s not pretty, but i
t should work for as long as we need it to,” he finally said, walking over to the side of the bed. “Come here.”
Angela moved off the bed to stand in front of him. As gently as he could, Michael lifted the bad arm and placed it across her sternum. Angela lifted her right hand to hold it steady while he carefully arranged the makeshift sling around her arm, hooking two of the long strips of towel over her good shoulder and the other two around her neck. He shifted behind her and tied them into tight knots, then stepped back.
“How is that?”
Angela looked up at him. “I don’t know how long it will hold, but it seems to be working.”
He nodded and turned toward the door.
“All right. Let’s go.” Michael moved to the door with Angela close behind. When he reached the door, he paused and looked down at her. “Don’t look.”
“Don’t look at what?”
He opened the door and heard a soft gasp as she caught sight of the two dead men in the corridor.
“D-D-id you do that?” she stammered.
“Yes. It was necessary. Come on.”
Michael grabbed her right hand and pulled her out of the cabin, stepping over the one in front of the door. He turned in time to see Angela’s face as she made a choking noise, stepping gingerly over the man, her eyes huge and glued to the bullet hole in his head.
“Hey,” he said softly, reaching out and lifting her chin so her eyes were on his instead of the gruesome sight. “I told you not to look.”
“How can I not look?!” she exclaimed in a hushed voice. “He’s dead!”
“And that’s what will happen to us if we don’t get moving,” he said, turning to go down the corridor. “Stay close to me and, for God’s sake, don’t scream.”
“Why would I scream?”
“Because I’m sure there’ll be a lot more dead people before we make it out of here.”
Angela gulped and nodded, gripping his hand tightly. “Ok.”
Michael glanced at her pale and resolute face and felt compassion roll over him. She was a civilian, a banker for heaven’s sake. She hadn’t asked for any of this. She’d been thrown into a maelstrom of Colonel Shore’s making without any warning, gaining a severely messed up shoulder along the way. His jaw tightened when he thought of the amount of pain she had been in for two days. He’d known grown men who couldn’t handle the pain of a dislocated shoulder for more than a few minutes, let alone days. And now he was asking her to face death as well.
They reached the corner and Michael stopped, pulling his own Beretta from the pocket at his waist. He would save the 1911 for when it was absolutely necessary. He had more clips for the Beretta than he did the loaner, and he had a feeling he was going to be doing a lot of shooting. With Angela next to useless, it fell solely on him to get them both out of here alive.
He glanced at her and she met his gaze, nodding slightly. He nodded back and looked around the corner. The stairwell was halfway down, centered between them and the large recreational room he had seen when he came up. The corridor was empty, but he could see shadows moving in the larger room and knew there was no way he and Angela would make it to the stairwell before the shadows made it to the corridor. There was one door between them and the stairwell and Michael took a deep breath.
He pulled Angela behind him as he swiftly moved to the door. Reaching it, he shoved her inside just as the first man came out of the room on the other end of the hall. He caught sight of him immediately, but Michael was already locked and loaded. The gunshot was deafening in the narrow corridor, but his aim was true, and the man fell back with blood spreading across his chest. As he did so, the automatic weapon in his hand fell with a clatter.
“Stay!” he said over his shoulder to Angela before charging down the hallway as another man emerged from the room.
Michael heard the shot and inwardly cringed, waiting for excruciating pain from some part of his anatomy, but there was none. The shot had gone wide, and he raised his Beretta and fired, catching the shooter in his shoulder. He stumbled back as Michael fired again, this time hitting him in the chest. He was just falling backwards into the recreational room as Michael reached the first body and grabbed the automatic weapon from the floor. Two more shadows moved, charging across the large room toward the door, and they were met with a stream of bullets.
Without stopping to see if there were more, Michael ran back to the room where he’d shoved Angela.
“Come on. We just lost the element of surprise,” he gasped, grabbing her hand and pulling her down the hallway to the stairwell.
They clattered down the stairs to the lower level and Angela gasped at the sound of gunfire on the outside walkway. Michael tightened his fingers around hers and they ran down the corridor toward the stern. More gunfire erupted above them and Angela let out a choked sob.
“Oh my God, is that for Alina?”
Michael didn’t answer. Seeing men running for the upper levels, he ducked into a galley-style bar area, pulling Angela in behind him and closing the door until it was open just a crack. He watched as two men with automatic rifles ran past, heading for the stairwell to go up. His lips tightened as frustration threatened to choke him. It was either Alina or Damon up there, and he couldn’t help either of them. Instead, he was hiding in a galley, waiting for the area to clear so he could run away. Instead of running to the fight, he was escaping from it.
What kind of Marine was he?
Cold fingers stirred in his and Michael glanced down into Angela’s brown eyes, wide in a white face. In that instant, he knew that his battle was getting her to safety. Lina was counting on him. If he failed, they all failed. He wasn’t running away. He following a different path, and it was the path chosen for him by Alina.
Once the men had disappeared into the stairwell, Michael pushed the door open and got them moving again. They were almost there. Just a few more feet and they could move outside onto the stern where he could access the garage. Just a few more feet.
Angela called out a warning as they reached the end of the corridor and Michael swung around, shoving her behind him to trap her between him and the wall. He fired at the same time as a dark-skinned man with a gold front tooth who had come down the stairwell they just passed. Michael’s bullet went into the man’s forehead just as he felt searing pain streak down his right arm. Sucking in his breath, he glanced down and saw a hole in the arm of the drysuit.
Flexing his right arm, he grit his teeth at another flash of pain. The bullet had hit his bicep, but Michael didn’t think it was that bad. He could still move his arm. He’d only been winged.
Turning, he pushed open the door to the back deck using the wounded arm, refusing to release Angela’s hand with his other. They stepped outside and he moved to the right, pressing them up against the wall under the overhang from the upper deck. The sound of fighting above them was clear, and he kept them pressed along the wall and out of sight. Angela gripped his hand and pressed up against his side as if she could crawl behind him and Michael glanced down at her. She was listening, as he was, to the deadly scuffle taking place directly above them. A decidedly female grunt and moan was followed suddenly by a sharp crack and deeper howl of pain. Michael winced when the howl was cut short by a muffled pop. A thud above them left no doubt as to the result of the suppressed gunshot.
“Aaaggghh!”
A man let out what sounded like a battle cry and the sound of a fist hitting skin made its way to the pair in the shadows below. More hits, another female grunt, and then a sudden cry of pain cut through the night. Michael pulled out his Beretta, fear coursing through him. Alina was getting her ass kicked up there. He couldn’t just stand here and do nothing.
Before he could move, a man bellowed in agony and, suddenly, a large figure dropped from above to hit the deck in front of them with a sickening thud.
Angela jumped and Michael clapped his hand over her mouth just as she let out an involuntary cry. He shook his head, willing her to stay quiet, then turned
his eyes to the man on the deck before them. His leg was bent at an impossible angle and he could just see the white of a bone sticking through the canvas of his pant leg. Before he could react, the sound of a muffled shot came from above and the man jerked on the deck as a bullet went into his throat. Immediately, a second pop preceded another bullet in the middle of his forehead.
Michael turned Angela into his shoulder, pressing her face against him to shield her from the gruesome sight. Silence fell above, and Michael knew the dead man in front of him was the last of that fight. He took a deep breath and moved them along to the end of the wall. Letting go of Angela’s hand, he turned and opened an electrical box set into the wood. After studying the buttons inside for a second, he pressed one and looked at the flat deck that stretched to the railing. Nothing happened.
He frowned and turned back to the panel, pressing another button. A low hum started in the bowels of the stern and Angela gasped.
“Michael!”
He turned and watched as the flat deck slowly began to move. It was raising upward and he pulled Angela away from the wall as that also began to move. They both stared as the deck lifted up like a platform, exposing the ocean beneath. The wall they had been pressed against moments before was shifting and sliding to the side, disappearing into itself almost like the old pocket doors of years past.
“What on earth...?” Angela breathed. “What is it?”
“A boat garage.”
The deck reached its full height and stopped, the low hum ceasing as the walls also finished sliding. Behind the wall, in the cavern now exposed, bobbed a speed boat.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured. “She said it was here, but I don’t think I really believed her.”
“Who said?”
“Lina.”
He took her hand again and they moved into the garage, walking along a narrow walkway that ran parallel with the boat. He stopped and looked down at her.
“Hold on.”
Releasing her hand, he gripped her around the waist and swung her effortlessly into the boat. As soon as her feet hit the floor, he released her and turned to untie the mooring at the back of the boat. Tossing it onto the platform, he jumped in and moved around her to the helm. Angela sat down in one of the leather bucket seats and cradled her arm in her lap, watching as he checked the instrument panel.