Still riding an adrenaline rush, Adam, Tripnee, and Sophia huddled together in the cockpit. Maybe they were finally coming together as a team.
Adam asked, “What do you make of Dogu Kubilay’s and Isa Kaan’s change of heart? Will more of these terrorists wake up?”
“No chance,” Sophia said. “Of course, there are all sorts of Muslims. But Jamaat-e Aleimlaq is hard core. It’s made up of doctrinaire extremists in the same mold as Osama bin Laden. With them, there’s no wavering, no compromise, no tolerance. Period. They sacrifice everything: their future, their families, their children. I’ve tracked this group for years, and I can’t think of a more extreme example of total conviction.”
“But look at all the drinking and carousing,” Adam said, “and the two guys who were tempted by the gold. How is that hardcore Islamic extremism?”
“Most of that is just for show,” Sophia said. “Believe me. These guys are serious.” She paused. Her face took on a wistful, faraway look. One eye pinched shut, and her hands clenched into fists. “Jihadis from this network have performed dozens of suicide bombings. Think of that level of conviction. To do that knowing you’re going to kill people—and get killed yourself in the process.”
Adam shook his head. “I just can’t wrap my head around that. How can anyone even condone, let alone do such a thing?”
Tripnee said, “Suicide bombers have streets and public squares named after them in the Palestinian territories. They’re honored as heroes, celebrated far more than we celebrate our own founding fathers.”
Adam again shook his head. “Mad, depraved, deprived.”
Sophia said, “No. Lots of these Believers are educated and come from well-off families, including from Europe. Like Osama bin Laden and the 9/11 terrorists, these guys are responding to something bigger than themselves. They literally, absolutely believe they are doing the bidding of the one true, real, actual God of the universe: Allah.”
Taking in the enormity and horror they faced, Adam felt exhausted. Hell, they were all sleep-deprived. After checking his maps, he outlined a plan for the coming day. Then, with Sophia offering to take the coming watch, he and Tripnee went below and plunged into something akin to the sleep of the dead, but, for him, alive with nightmares.
As the sun rose the next morning, Adam groggily stumbled up the companionway as Sophia guided Dream Voyager into a small bay.
“Voudhia?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“Well done.”
There was that smile so dazzling he had to look away.
They were near the far northeastern corner of Milos. Roughly 13-miles-long by 6-miles-wide, Milos, like Santorini, had an enormous bay, Ormos Milou, in its center. Once the caldera of an ancient volcano, Ormos Milou was the thriving, bustling heart of the island—and not a good place to be if you wanted to stay out of sight. The remote backwater inlet of Voudhia, on the other hand, was perfect. Sheltered from the coming meltemi gale and, even more importantly, from prying eyes, it was linked by road to every sizable port on the island.
Desperate to catch Helios before it vanished with its nuke, Adam roused Tripnee and the pair quickly filled their fanny packs with what they’d need.
Adam grinned to see Tripnee bring her Banshee MR-57 with its 10” silencer and a bunch of 20-round magazines. A mini version of the AR-15, the light, ultra-compact sniper rifle fired small, fast bullets—rounds that were extra lethal because once they hit flesh, they stayed inside the body and did not go out the back. If you have to fight terrorists, it was good to have an intrepid, if slightly crazy, sharpshooter girlfriend with a cute, 4.6 pound machine gun accurate to well over 200 yards. Hell, he’d seen her obliterate targets with it at 500-yards.
They rode the dinghy to shore, and hired a local to drive them to the island’s biggest port, Adamas, on the big interior bay, Ormos Milou. Meanwhile, Sophia already had drones fanning out over the island in search of the Cyclopean caique Helios.
When their vehicle crested the mountainous ridge encircling Ormos Milou, both Tripnee and Adam gasped at the sight before them.
“Imagine the scale,” Tripnee said, “of the volcanic eruption that created this vast bay.”
“Incredible.”
Sophia’s voice crackled over the earpieces of their encrypted radios. “I knew it. Helios is loading in broad daylight right on the main quay in Adamas. It dwarfs the boats around it. You should be able to see it from where you are.”
Sure enough, there far below them was what had to be the 118-foot caique Med-moored to a wide quay. A short time later in the town of Adamas, they paid off their driver and mingled into the Greek Med scene of fit, suntanned people promenading along the quay and feasting in open-air cafés fronting Ormos Milou. They started wandering out along the quay to get a close-up look at their quarry. Halfway to the boat, Adam suddenly spun around, putting his back toward Helios. Tripnee followed suit.
“Roxanna’s on board.”
Praying they hadn’t been spotted, Adam and Tripnee moved away, knowing not to glance rearward, trying to melt into the crowd, but feeling like they had targets emblazoned on their backs.
They watched the stately two-masted caique from a busy café across the cobblestone boulevard from the quay, far enough away but still with a clear view. One man topped off fuel tanks from a diesel tank truck; a second man filled water tanks with a hose from the quay’s water line; and two other men carried supplies from a truck over a stern gangplank onto the vessel. Soon the activity stopped. The hoses were rolled up, two of the men drove the trucks away, and the other two men boarded the boat and entered the cabin.
Sophia’s voice again crackled in their ear pieces. “I haven’t been able to fly any drones inside the cabin, but I do have a visual through a window.”
Tripnee said, “It looks like they just finished loading and are leaving. I think we’re too late.”
“Hold on a minute,” Sophia said. “They’re arguing about something. I made out the words, ‘one last drink.’”
Abruptly, eight people, six men and two women, poured out of Helios’ cabin, streamed across its gangplank, and came sauntering off the quay. One of the women was Roxanna. Adam and Tripnee subtly dropped their gazes and turned away.
“That looks like their whole crew,” Adam said. “They may still have a sentry on board, but this looks like the best opportunity we’re going to get.”
Chapter 22
Helios
R oxanna and her companions walked off the quay and moved east along the waterfront boulevard toward the center of Adamas, fading into the crowd. A subliminal alarm fired in Adam’s psyche. What was wrong? Not sure, but he insisted Tripnee stay in the café as lookout while he alone checked out Helios. She had a fit, but eventually agreed.
Adam crossed the boulevard and walked out along the ancient stone quay. The 118-foot, two-masted caique Helios looked quiet with no one stirring, and the yachts on either side also seemed quiet. Too quiet?
Figuring what the hell, Adam stepped onto the gangplank and boarded Helios at the stern. An above-deck one-story cabin ran the full length of the hull, except for a stern cockpit. Still no one visible. Adam crossed the cockpit and put his hand on the cabin door handle. It was unlocked. Pulling his silenced Glock from his fanny pack, he stepped into the spacious salon and closed the door behind him. The room appeared empty.
A long mahogany table able to seat maybe fourteen people stretched the length of the space. Large windows lined the walls to port and starboard, while floor-to-ceiling lockers of lustrous dark hardwood lined the bulkheads fore and aft.
Out of nowhere, a gun barrel jammed into the small of Adam’s back.
“Don’t move.”
“Hold it right there.”
“Drop it.”
In the blink of an eye, gun barrels jutted from lockers, doorways, and a floor hatch. All aimed straight at him. Uzis and AK-47s. Eight, ten, a dozen.
It wasn’t going to be easy to get the drop on so many, but there
had to be a way. There was just too much at stake. Then, visible through the salon windows, armed men streamed aboard from boats moored alongside. Twenty or so men. All looking at Adam. All armed. It was a trap. They’d been lying in wait.
“Drop it. Or die.”
Adam lowered his pistol. A savage blow struck him on the back of the head and the world went black.
* * *
Adam opened his eyes. His skull throbbed. He was collapsed in a chair with arms bound behind him. Clothes gone, shoes removed. Looking around, he saw he was in a small, dimly-lit cabin, probably below the waterline, down in the belly of the caique. A figure stood before him. A long, ugly knife and big wire cutters moved into his field of vision.
“You can make this easy or hard.” It was Roxanna.
“What?”
“You’re going to tell me everything. How you’re tracking us. Who you’re working with.” The blade moved back and forth inches from his face. “Where’s your boat? Where are my bombs?”
The knife suddenly shot straight toward his face, its tip almost touching his right eye.
“You can talk now while you’re still in one piece, or you can talk later when you have no fingers, no toes, no teeth, no eyes, no balls, no cock. You choose. One way or the other, you will talk.”
Helping this terrorist was not an option. But getting cut to pieces sounded less than ideal. What in hell was he going to do?
“So, what’ll it be?” she demanded. “Are you Mossad? CIA? Where’s your boat? Where are my nukes?”
“Your biggest problem,” Adam said, “is you’ve got moles.”
“Moles? No way.”
“How else could I know it was you who negotiated the deal for the nukes? It was you who sailed them down through the Bosporus? And it was you who got the gold to finance the whole jihad?”
Roxanna’s eyes opened wide in surprise, then narrowed to angry slits, her face contorted. Was she taken aback, thrown off balance? Was she buying it?
“You’ve got me,” Adam said. “You believe in what you’re doing—I respect that. In fact, I envy you. Me, I’m just a very, very highly paid assassin.”
Roxanna’s face remained a picture of rage, but she nodded, smiling slightly.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Adam continued. “We exchange information. We go back and forth. I tell you something and in exchange you tell me something. And afterward, if you’re satisfied, you let me walk.”
No doubt the woman would kill him in a heartbeat once she’d extracted the information she sought. But this could work in his favor. She’d probably be more willing to open up thinking whatever she shared would die with him. The key was to let her think she was the smarter, superior person. But whatever he did, he had slow things down. Gain time to figure something out. Some way, any way to survive.
Roxanna’s eyes moved up and down the length of his naked body.
“I have admit, it would be a terrible waste to slice you up,” she said, lowering the knife. “Even strapped down, I have to admit, you’ve got what I call apex male energy.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m surrounded by dim-bulb males, a few alphas, lots of betas, and some omegas. I use ’em all—everyone Allah sends—but sadly no apex males like you. Too bad you’re an infidel.”
Clearly, she was playing him with flattery, but that could work both ways. “I have to return the compliment. You’re one hell of a woman.”
Like any true Believer, this woman was probably convinced she knew the Truth with a capital “T.” And no doubt she was certain she had no vanity nor prejudices—which made her all the more susceptible to his playing upon them. Also, it didn’t hurt that on some animal level she felt his male vibe.
“In fact, you’re amazing,” he said. “I think you’re Cyclops. If you’re not, you should be.”
She tried to hide it, but her eyes brightened. She seemed to eat it up. “It’s odd. The truth is, I don’t know who Cyclops is. I’ve never met him.”
“As a neutral observer, I have to say it’s obvious you’re the real, true leader.”
“Well, just between us, I have to say one thing for sure: Cyclops is a piss-poor leader.”
“Yeah?”
“Too distant and shadowy.”
“Not moving fast enough?” Adam ventured.
“Oh, we hear about plans to destroy the Great Satan, but nothing happens. No movement. No jihad. Instead, Cyclops is so inept, he lets you, an infidel, sail around the Aegean like you own the place, picking off our boats, our people. Grabbing my nukes. Well, this is my territory. You don’t belong here. You’re not welcome. And I’m putting an end to your sacrilege.”
Just then there was a commotion above them. Faint sounds of bodies hitting the deck. “Enough of this,” Roxanna said as she left the cabin. “When I get back, you start talking, really talking, or I start cutting.”
Chapter 23
Monemvasia
A lone in the room, Adam strained against his bindings. He wrenched, twisted, and pulled until his muscles quivered and blood covered his hands and feet, oozing from where the ropes cut his wrists and ankles. He tried to tip the chair over by throwing his weight from side-to-side, but it was too stable. Too big, wide, and solid.
Could he attract attention from other boats by shouting at the top of his lungs? Bad idea. The door, walls, and ceiling around him were at least semi-soundproofed with thick corrugated foam insulation. The neighboring boats were part of the Cyclopean jamaat fleet. And worst of all, yelling would probably bring Roxanna back all the sooner, wielding her blade and wire cutters.
Then, the 118-foot Helios rocked from side-to-side. Had to be from the wake of a passing ship. For such a large boat, the degree of roll was unusual. But the caique was narrow for its length. Hmmm.
Maybe, just maybe. Adam got ready, bided his time, and waited for the next wake. And waited. Yes, a sound. Was it Roxanna coming back with her knife and cutters? He tried to push the thought away. Come on. Come on. Give me a big wake.
Finally, one came. The ship heeled far over. Adam threw himself violently to one side, going with it. The chair rocked up on two legs. Teetered. Then banged down again right-side up. What was that? Footsteps. He froze. Was it Roxanna coming back to flay him alive?
Steeling himself, he waited. The padded door vibrated like it was about to fly open. The slightest sound triggered images of the blade and cutters. He waited, dripping sweat, wrists and ankles screaming with pain, hands and feet dripping blood.
At long last, a big wake came. A truly big wake. Adam threw his weight to one side, going with the roll. The chair tipped up, balanced, teetered for a second time, then finally went on over. Crash. Tied up, there was no way he could soften the blow. But at least he was able to take it on his shoulder, not his head.
On his side, Adam shimmied and squirmed his bound arms off the chair back. Then, rolling onto his back, giving thanks he’d always been flexible, he brought his knees to his chest and passed his bound wrists around over his feet. Once his hands were to his front, he untied the blood-soaked knots with his teeth, hardly noticing the iron taste of his own blood. Then he untied his ankles.
He grabbed a pair of black shorts off a peg up near the low ceiling, and pulled them on. Cracking open the cabin door, he looked fore and aft along a wide passageway. All seemed quiet. Stepping into the walkway, he moved silently toward a stairway. A cabin door behind him opened. He whirled to see a man pop into the hallway. A very big, very fast man. The guy charged straight at him, throwing a haymaker punch, putting his whole body into it. The attack was wild and fierce, but unsophisticated. Knowing just what to do, Adam stepped inside the swing, moved in close and slammed an elbow directly into the guy’s face, breaking some facial bones and knocking him out cold.
Adam turned to see a second man pound down the stairway with a glass jug. Charging forward with the hefty bottle upraised, the guy swung it down in a powerful motion, aiming to bash in Adam’s head. Another enthusiastic attempt, but
artless. Adam guided the swing down to one side, and drove an elbow into the guy’s throat, sending him sprawling, choking. A follow-up stomp to the throat left the man quiet and immobile.
Taking the stairs three at a time, Adam climbed into the main salon. A woman with fierce eyes rushed him head on, aiming a powerful kick at his groin. Her face distorted with hatred, determined to incapacitate him, she threw her whole being into the kick. Adam stepped to the side, brought an arm to the back of her neck and used her own momentum to slam her down onto the deck, knocking her out cold.
Moving out onto the stern deck, Adam looked along the quay. Roxanna and a dozen or so men were walking toward Helios. Seeing him, she and her men drew weapons and began running, coming fast.
Adam threw off the stern mooring lines, raced to the helm and searched for the engine controls. Where the hell where they? There. Low on the rear bulkhead of the main cabin. Shots rang out just as he bent down to reach the engine start button. Bullets whizzed by inches above his back. He pressed the button, staying low. Nothing. He held the button down. Come on. Come on. Still nothing. Then he saw a key on a hook below the wheel. More shots. Running feet, getting closer. Snatching the key, he jammed it into what he hoped was the ignition. Turning it, he pressed the button again. One hell of a big engine roared to life.
Ratta-tat-tat. Ratta-tat-tat. Bullets ripped into the binnacle and ship’s wheel above him. Footfalls louder and louder. Pressing himself flat onto the deck of the cockpit, Adam reached up one hand to push the throttle full forward. Amazing. Helios leapt forward. Hundred-and-eighteen-foot ships didn’t do that. But this terrorist boat did. In the nick of time.
Cyclops Conspiracy: An Adam Weldon Thriller Page 10