Damage Control

by Amy J. Fetzer

“Just need one, Davey-boy.” At least he could give Gerardo something to chew on besides his ass. He closed his console and headed for the steel elevators. “And now you have a time frame. Check North Atlantic, Eastern Europe first. Listen for Russian in Chechen dialects.”

  As the elevator doors swept closed, Mitch realized that Anna Mills had been assigned to a Eastern Europe listening post. He looked down at the printout of the photograph, enlarged and detailed. “Oh shit.” Right around the time the sub would have been launched.

  Off the coast of Ireland

  Thirty-five feet beneath the water covered their approach. Night diving wasn’t the norm in Ireland, too damn cold, and Sebastian felt every inch of the icy water flowing through his neoprene suit as the diver propulsion device dragged him along. Max had amped them up, and their increased speed brought them to the Scarab in under an hour. His buddies kept in tight formation with him, visibility a decent fifty feet if it were daylight. In the dark, twenty feet, tops. His mask gave him an advantage with night vision as Riley cut away from them to spot any approach. He and Max circled the thirty-foot Scarab to the stern. From underwater, the hull of the boat looked like a dull brown whale, and he tagged the Sea Scooter with a chemlight and secured it to the anchor line. Max’s equipment joined it, Riley staying back and armed with a harpoon. Making a racket with guns wasn’t going to keep them under the wire.

  Sebastian inflated his buoyancy converter and rose slowly to the surface. He shallowed his breathing, then climbed onto the vessel. He stepped out of his fins.

  This was a long shot, but he had to be sure.

  He drew his Glock, advancing to the pilothouse. The keys were in the ignition, swinging with the chop. Not good, he thought, and felt the boat list as Max boarded. The deck was wet and he moved between the pair of captain’s chairs and below to the Scarab’s version of a stateroom, a miniaturized kitchen, a lavatory, and bunks. He didn’t have to go far to find evidence. Two bodies were sprawled across the larger bed, stacked like flour sacks. Missing fingertips looked as if dipped in acid, and inspecting closer, he realized molars were gone as well. The head injuries were a nasty mess. Killed playing chicken, he thought when he recognized the face of one corpse. It was bloated, the clothing wet, but the bulging tattoo on the neck gave him chills. They did this to their own.

  “Bad guys are sweepers. There’s got to be a reason for that shit,” Max said, then opened a drawer, a cabinet. Then he froze, scowling. “Smell that?”

  Sebastian sniffed. Over the scent of the sea, he caught the intense odor of ammonia. “They just left.” Max backed out, and topside, Sebastian fitted his mask, the night vision lens showing the chop of sea.

  Then Riley appeared, hanging on the massive outboard. “Something out there, I can hear it.”

  It was an anxious moment before he spotted the white churn in the water. “Fifty yards out. I want prisoners.” He shoved on his fins.

  “Oh shit, more company.”

  Sebastian twisted, saw the lights of a vessel in the distance. Police? He tapped Max and went over the side. Ahead, jumpy light speared the black water. He unhooked the Sea Scooter and hit it, finning hard, lights off. Black on black shapes moved in the water, and he spotted two separate beams of light. Flotsam floated in the current as he finned toward them, drawing his knife. They were heading out to sea, and he counted three men, the scooter pulling them along a helluva lot faster than theirs. Max shot up alongside, lights off.

  Sebastian was less than five feet from the last man when he twisted, immediately reaching for his regulator. He blocked, and the diver slashed up with a knife. Sebastian cut his air hose line. The man struggled to reach the surface as Sebastian switched on his light and went for the others. The second aimed a gun and fired. The bullets left a current, missing, and he slammed the scooter into his side, then gripped his face mask, tearing it off with the regulator. The gun sank.

  He filled the other’s buoyancy converter, driving him up to the surface.

  The man choked and coughed, spitting water. Sebastian dunked him again, disarming him, then let him surface. He gripped the BC, the knife to his throat. He spit out his reg. “Give me Noble and I won’t kill you.”

  “Kill me and you never see him.”

  Russian. The guy worked his neck against the blade, as if he wanted him to cut his throat. He adjusted the blade so it wouldn’t.

  “I got plans for you.” It involved pounding the stupid out of him for Noble’s location. But the guy’s underwater escape said there was another ship farther out, waiting for him. He heard the chirp of Riley’s signal and knew police sailed closer. Then he heard a motor, and saw the swell of a small boat side-winding toward him. He almost didn’t see the man aiming an AK-47. Machine gun fire ripped across the surface toward him and he ducked under, taking his target with him. More gunfire followed him as the guy pounded his arm, tried for his regulator, then kicked him in the stomach. He jerked back, but managed to keep his grip, looping his hose with the knife. The man went still. Fight or lose air, he thought.

  Then he heard five short chinks of metal to metal. D-1’s SOS.

  He spun them both. Bullets rained down on them as he realized Max wasn’t around. Then he saw him floating, barely a trail of bubbles. Immediately he cut the bastard’s hose and punctured his BC, then finned toward Max. Riley was closing in. He speared himself deeper, finning hard. Max was suspended like a ghost, blood coloring the water. His reg floated useless. Jesus. He grabbed his weight belt, gave him air, then pumped up his BC, and rose to the surface.

  He came to halfway up and Sebastian held his regulator until they broke the surface.

  Max coughed and spat, fresh blood blooming on his temple. “Jesus, where are these guys coming from?” He coughed more.

  Sebastian added air to his BC. “They have a RIB. They must be idling somewhere,” he said, looking around for the rigid inflatable boat. Not a wave in the water.

  “Sorry, man, he’s getting away.” A pause, and Max said, “While we go to jail.”

  Sebastian spun. “Well, shit.” The spotlight hit him a few seconds before he heard the loud speaker declaring Interpol. No amount of shouting for them to go west got them to move. From the deck, the agents made them targets.

  Riley scootered near. “McGill’s not going to be happy.”

  “Tell me about it.” With mangled bodies aboard the Scarab, this was going to take some fast talking.

  EIGHT

  Dimitri felt himself sinking underwater, the rush of bubbles around his head. He experienced a strange softness in his limbs, water quickly replacing his last breath. He sank deeper, his heart slowed. The jolt to his body barely registered and as he felt a pull, he sought the tranquility trying to take him. His head broke the surface, hands dragging him aboard. The sudden thumping pressure on his chest was excruciating and in an instant, the reality of pain crushed his lungs struggling to find air. At once, he shoved Rastoff back and rolled to his side to vomit up water. He gasped for air.

  “You were ordered to leave!” he blasted and his body racked with violent coughing again. Someone pushed a regulator into his mouth.

  “We did not all have to die today,” Rastoff said, tucked low in the boat and breathing hard. He pulled off his mask, then shouldered off his tanks. Blood streamed from his nose, from the corner of his mouth, and he turned his head to spit.

  Dimitri yanked out the regulator for a fit of coughing, his chest wheezing as he drew in clean dry air. He sank to the floor of the rubber craft, swiped water off his face, then worked off his buoyancy converter and weight belt. Cold air whipped off the water and spun around them. Someone tossed a thermal blanket over him. He started to give it back, then wrapped it tightly. Failing to obtain the diary and now this? His adversary was far more skilled than he anticipated, and he accepted his mistake. He had further duties to complete and keeping them invisible till she was ready to reveal herself was essential. Traveling underwater was a flawless plan till the Americans interfered.
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br />   He smothered a cough and peered over the rim of the rubber boat. The docks were lit with lights of the police cars and he smiled to himself, sinking back down. The trail had to die in Ireland. There was nothing left except the bodies of two men who had accepted the challenge and their fate in it willingly. It would be difficult to identify them, regardless. He’d seen to that himself. He sank into the hull.

  Dimitri didn’t realize he’d dozed until he felt the lulling vibration lessen. He sat up, and saw the vague outline of the ship, the small yellow lights along the bow glowing brighter as they neared. He climbed to his feet, and as the small boat swept alongside, he reached for the ladder and climbed. He felt incredibly weak when he dropped onto the deck, then stepped back as men hoisted gear with nylon lines, then the outboard engine. The boat followed, plopping noisily on the deck. He moved to the rail and faced the distant shore, then jerked to attention, lifted his chin, and saluted his dead comrades. The others joined him. After a moment, he stepped back, struggling against the roll of nausea and dizziness to stay upright.

  He walked toward the bridge. The engines rumbled to life, vibrating under his boots as he stepped inside. He strode to the communications console tucked in the far left. A radioman sat beside it. Dimitri waved him away. He did not want to speak with her, not now, but she was waiting. Impatiently, he knew. The satellite link connected and she responded in seconds.

  He gave his report, sparing her the details. “Elan and Mika are dead.” He hesitated, then said, “They have seen my face, commander.”

  From a thousand miles away, he heard the little burst of anger, quickly smothered as she’d done for three long years. “Da. Evidence?”

  “Nyet. They search for the old man.” How they knew he had him still confused him. He had erased any trail, but knew the American would not relent, and that they were in the water with them warned Dimitri. His foe was not simply law enforcement. He’d fought men like this before.

  “Then we will see them again, da?” she said. “If they are willing to die to find him, let us give them the chance.”

  The line went dead, and Dimitri returned the microphone to its cradle. He stared at the radar winding continuously in glowing green. She had a bloodthirst even he could not match. “Stop all electronics.” They could be tracked by them. “We travel silent.” The captain looked at him, scowling, and started to speak, but Dimitri’s expression silenced him. “Show us your skill, Captain. Navigate by a compass and the stars.”

  He turned away and walked the empty passageway to his cabin. Remaining covert was essential, and while his new adversary would continue his hunt for the old man, he would find nothing. Veta had seen to every detail and contingency, leaving enough trails to confuse. He admired her precision, for the historian, he thought with a glance at his watch, was already a thousand miles away.

  Svalbard, Norway

  Twenty-four hours earlier

  Veta Nevolin stood on the forward deck of her ship, her legs braced against the wind as she watched the plain white truck roll to a stop on the dock. Two uniformed men jumped out, looking toward the ship, searching the decks, and she flicked her hand for notice. Androv nodded, waved back, then, with Geld, he went to the rear of the truck and began unloading. She looked away, to the sea, snuggling into her jacket. The temperatures still held the warmth of summer, the breeze laced with a fresh, earthy scent rolling off the land. It tasted crisp. It told her the snow was coming, the first signs of summer’s death. It would grow darker soon and her purpose had to be done before the freeze of winter could bite them.

  She glanced at the truck, then turned fully when she saw Androv on the gangway. He held one end of a platform housing a large container, Geld at the other end as they smoothly transferred it to the deck. She’d inspect the equipment later, but was satisfied her backer was good to his word. He’d provided all she’d requested, including the massive vessel capable of extraordinary scientific research.

  But more was necessary and she was impatient for Dimitri to join them. His failures had far greater ramifications than she’d expected. He must not bring more notice, she thought, walking to the rail, her palm barely covering the wide surface designed to repel the adhesion of ice. The gathering of forces under her command were prepared for every contingency. She would take the blame for not snatching the diary sooner, but she would not be swayed. She’d worked too long for her mission to fail on poor timing. Now she would make up for it.

  Her men returned to the truck, and after letting a laundry vehicle pass, they helped the old man down from the bed. He did not look well, she thought, and they’d at least clothed him for the climate. He was not difficult to transport, sedated and packaged as cargo for most of the journey and only woken to respond to his body and eat. His confusion would only help her cause. She didn’t want to come to this, involving anyone outside her most trusted, but he had cleverly disposed of the translation and without it, she fed her impatience with how she would use this man. Revealing her possession with a ransom request wasn’t a consideration until she knew what he could offer. It would take a little time to understand the perfect way to treat this man and get him to divulge the information she needed. Men were easy to manipulate, she thought, and she’d done it a thousand times in the last three years. There was no risk when you had nothing left to lose. Until now. The efforts of her sacrifices were so close she could taste victory on her tongue as she watched the scholarly historian walk up the gangway. She crossed to the ramp. He stopped, stared, and in his eyes, she saw bright intelligence and outrage. His temperament wasn’t a concern. His mind held the key. If he did not give her what she needed, she would destroy his body.

  “Who are you people?” he asked, then cleared his throat.

  “I am Lizveta Nevolin, commander of this expedition.”

  His brows rose with surprise. “Expedition for what?”

  She did not answer. He had no reason to know the truth.

  “You’ve put yourself as far away from the diary as possible.”

  She smiled, slow and thin. She enjoyed his reaction; his skin pricked with cold paling further, the slackness of his features. “I do not think so.”

  A fire truck, ambulance, and about two dozen police officers filled the end of the pier. Headlights and flashing cruiser lights lit the area. Traffic on the road a couple hundred yards back was already bottlenecking. Just wasn’t his week, he thought. Riley paced in front of him, his dive boots squishing with each step.

  Sebastian turned down his wet suit to his waist, the evening air prickling a chill across his skin. He grabbed a blanket from the ambulance and sat on the bumper, watching their equipment being confiscated and grouped. All Max did was bitch about how they were treating his new ultra light tanks. His forehead was bandaged neatly, the blood trail down his throat drying. There was plenty of evidence they’d met trouble on the water, including cuts in his wet suit. Two officers stood guard a few feet away. Neither looked older than high school. Lots of fidgeting. Sebastian was tempted to bark to see if they’d jump. Interpol had scanned their prints and were checking them out, but he couldn’t convince them the bad guys were escaping. Radar would tell them that much. McGill’s touch hadn’t reached them yet and the wheels of bureaucracy weren’t turning fast enough.

  Sebastian’s gaze followed three officers as they boarded the boat towed from a half mile out. A photographer and a stretcher followed a minute later.

  “See, told you so,” Max said as if the cops could hear him.

  Sebastian slid him a glance, arched a brow. “Want to call your mama and whine a little more?”

  Max chuckled. “It’s just so obvious now. If we could spot them fifty yards out, so could Interpol. They suck at surveillance.”

  Or were bribed to delay, Sebastian thought. Then Riley leaned in to say, “We’ll be charged for boarding it, and probably evidence tampering, or being vigilantes. Just pick one.”

  He was right and Sebastian didn’t think it would all come out in the
wash, though they offered plenty of motivation for the attacks. Not that the average criminal needed one, but D-1’s background gave them enough suspicions to warrant a deeper look. The police had the truth, that they were following the man who attacked Olivia and a possible lead to Noble’s location. But with the looks the police tossed their way, they were going to lose valuable trails by sitting in a holding cell somewhere.

  Sebastian’s gaze followed the bodies being passed from the Scarab to shore. The EMTs laid the bodies on the ground and the coroner examined them again, holding up a mangled hand. A detective motioned to a uniformed officer, and the guys slipped out his handcuffs and started toward them. Shit.

  “Guess we should have waited for those credentials,” Sebastian said.

  “Jesus. Someone’s in a hurry.” Max nudged him, and Sebastian saw a dark SUV barreling down the docks. A red light pulsed from the dash and the truck maneuvered around the fish shacks and deserted vendor shops. He could feel the vibration from here and stood, pushing his arms into the sleeves of his dive suit.

  The truck stopped, the light still flashing, and from the passenger side, a woman slipped out. The driver stood by the front of the vehicle, dressed in a dark suit and staring straight ahead. His gaze shot to the woman striding toward the police, carrying a briefcase. “It’s Olivia.”

  Max frowned, taking hit of oxygen. “Doesn’t look like her.”

  Yeah, but he’d know that tight behind anywhere, he thought as she walked briskly past, not sparing them a glance. Her deep red hair was swept back in a barrette and she wore a simple gray jacket and skirt, but her legs in heels twisted with muscle and every man here turned to watch her approach. She was wearing a weapon, he realized. She spoke to one man, walked to another, then flashed an ID. The man reared back a bit, then took it, looking closely. When he returned it, she set the briefcase on the hood of a garda car and opened it, handing over a couple sheets of paper.

  She talked with them for a few more minutes and Sebastian simply enjoyed Olivia on a power trip. She had an air of absolute authority that was scaring the officers. Go get ’em, baby. She strode to the two bodies laid out and frowned, pointing to the one man he’d recognized from the chase across Ireland. Then with the garda officer, she crossed to them, her NSA ID leading the way.