Deadly Cargo: BookShots

by James Patterson

  “And the woman?” Dmitry asked. Oleg had originally been tasked with ascending to the bridge, and killing or capturing O’Neill and the young woman Starke, but he’d instead become embroiled in a fight with the leader of the Coast Guard boarding party.

  The big man glanced away. “We’re still looking for her.”

  “Then she’s a threat,” Dmitry concluded. A marginal threat to be sure, and unlikely to seriously challenge four armed men, but it was a threat he could do without. He had enough problems to deal with already.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Oleg said, guessing his thoughts. Snatching up his AKS-74, he turned to leave the bridge.

  “No,” Dmitry commanded him. Oleg had already proven himself unreliable in combat. “I have other work for you. Get to the Coast Guard vessel and keep watch over it.”

  The big man hesitated, then reluctantly nodded and turned to leave. He knew better than to argue with Dmitry.

  As Oleg left, Dmitry turned his attention to the other man standing by on the bridge. Iosif, the cold and remorseless killer from St Petersburg who had so efficiently dispatched the Ossora’s crew.

  “Take this,” Dmitry said, tossing him the canvas satchel that had once been carried by Rodriguez. “You know what to do. Engine room and cargo holds, and make sure the internal hatches are open.”

  Oleg nodded. “Consider it done.”

  “And when you are finished,” Dmitry added, “hunt that bitch down and kill her.”

  The Russian smiled, turning to leave without saying another word.

  CHAPTER 18

  O’NEILL STARED IN disbelief as the figure that emerged from the shadows suddenly resolved itself into a young, dark-haired woman dressed in Coast Guard gear. His heart surged at the realization that she was alive.

  “Kate,” O’Neill said, his voice a ragged, pained rasp as he managed to rise to his feet and take a step towards her.

  “Rick! Jesus, I thought you were one of them,” Starke exclaimed, lowering her gun and striding forward to meet him.

  She was just in time. His vision growing hazy, O’Neill’s head swam, and he stumbled and almost fell, saved only when Starke caught him and gently lowered him to the deck.

  “It’s all right. You’re okay,” she said, shocked by the pale, shivering man kneeling before her. “What happened to you?”

  “Had to take a swim,” he replied, managing a weak smile as he hugged his arms close to his chest, trying to generate a little warmth.

  Her eyes opened wider. “Christ, you’re freezing!”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, she unzipped her jacket and pulled it off.

  O’Neill tried to stop her, but he lacked the strength or the coordination to make much of an effort. “No, you don’t have to—”

  “Bullshit I don’t. You’ll freeze to death if you don’t get some dry clothes on,” she cut in firmly, removing his coat and inadvertently exposing a bloody wound along his upper right arm—torn fabric and torn flesh beneath. “God damn it, you’re hit. Anything else you want to tell me?”

  O’Neill glanced down, surprised by what he saw. The bullet that had whizzed by as he dived around that corner must have come a little closer than he’d thought. Between the adrenaline rush of his escape and the numbing effects of the frigid water, he’d barely felt a thing.

  “It’s not bad,” he said, not certain if that was true. At least the bleeding didn’t seem serious, and as his recent climb proved, he still had use of the arm.

  Starke thought about it for a moment, but decided raising his body temperature was higher priority than treating a flesh wound and set about forcing his arms into her own jacket. It was rather too small for his large frame, but it was dry and still warm. Soon enough he began to feel the effects, helped by her wrapping her arms around him to share body heat.

  The shivering settled down, and his thoughts became clearer. He was still soaking wet and cold, but hypothermia was less of a threat for now.

  “How … how did you …” he began.

  “Get away?” she finished for him. “When I heard gunshots, I looked out from the bridge and saw shooting on the portside deck, so I bailed out through the outside stairs on the starboard side. I guess they didn’t see me, because I made it this far. Figured this was the last place they’d come looking.”

  “Why didn’t you radio me?” he asked.

  “For all I knew, they could be listening in. If I gave away my position they’d come looking for me.” She sighed, looking ashamed. “Not exactly heroic.”

  O’Neill nodded, impressed that she’d had the presence of mind to take such a precaution. “You did the right thing.”

  He didn’t expect such reassurance to cut much ice with her, and he was right. “Rick, tell me what’s going on,” she implored him. “Who the hell are these people?”

  O’Neill swallowed hard. “I don’t know, but they killed the Ossora’s crew and tried to do the same to us.” His hands clenched into fists as he thought about the body being dumped unceremoniously into the water. “Wyatt’s dead.”

  Starke’s mouth opened wide in shock. “You’re sure?”

  He nodded grimly. “Saw it with my own eyes.”

  The young woman closed her eyes for a moment, silently mourning the loss of one of their comrades. “What about Watkins and Rodriguez?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I know they weren’t answering their comms.”

  Starke let out a defeated sigh, leaning back against the wall. “So we’re all that’s left.”

  “For now,” he conceded. Reaching out, he laid a hand on her shoulder and stared into her eyes. “But we’re not done yet.”

  “But what can we do?” she asked.

  “The Munro’s on her way. We only need to keep them busy until then.” He thought about it for a moment. “We know this ship isn’t getting away under her own power, and the lifeboats are too slow to get anywhere in this weather. That leaves the MLB. They must be planning to escape in it.”

  “So we steal it back from them,” Starke concluded.

  O’Neill looked at her. “We don’t do anything. I’ll take care of it.”

  The young woman frowned. “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Stay here. Stay safe.”

  “You really think I’m going to let you go out there alone?”

  “You don’t need to let me do anything,” he said, rising to his feet with difficulty. “I’m still your CO, and I’m ordering you to stay here.”

  “If this is some chivalrous crap—”

  “It’s not about that!” he snapped, immediately regretting it. Letting out a breath, he forced himself to calm down. “I just … I don’t want another death on my conscience.”

  Starke too rose to her feet. “That’s a line of thought you need to shut down. There’s nothing you could have done for Richards, and you know it.” Seeing the haunted look in his eyes, she hesitated, sensing there was something more he wasn’t telling her. “But this isn’t just about Richards, is it? This is something else.”

  “You don’t want to know,” he said evasively.

  “It’s the same reason you didn’t pull the trigger in that engine room when Dmitry took Watkins hostage,” she pressed on. “The same reason you ended up out here in the first place. What the hell happened to you, Rick?”

  O’Neill sighed and looked down. He’d come close to telling her earlier, back at Attu Station, but he’d held off. Afraid of what her reaction would be. Afraid of what she’d think.

  But he was tired of hiding from the truth.

  “Those rumors you heard about me,” he said at last, his voice quiet and pensive. “They’re true. I did get a man killed.”

  Starke said nothing to this. Instead she waited, giving him the time he needed.

  “I was part of the MSRT,” he went on.

  “The armed response teams?”

  O’Neill nodded grimly. Maritime Security Response Teams were an elite amongst the Coast Guard, deploye
d in situations where armed resistance was almost guaranteed.

  “We’d boarded a freighter in the Gulf of Mexico that we’d been told was shipping cocaine in from South America. We fast-roped in from a chopper and secured the deck, then split up to search the ship. That was when it happened.” O’Neill took a breath. “Pete Clarke, a guy I’d served with nearly five years. We went through MSRT selection together. One of the smugglers managed to ambush him and put a gun to his head, used him as a human shield. He was demanding that we let him go or he’d pull the trigger. I had the shot, and I wasn’t about to let that sonofabitch get away with taking my friend hostage. So I took it. No hesitation; I just fired.”

  O’Neill closed his eyes as that terrible moment played out in his mind once again.

  “I can’t rightly say what happened, no matter how many times I see it in my head. Maybe he moved at the wrong moment, maybe the deck shifted beneath us. But I missed, hit Pete just above the left eye. And that was it for him. He died in surgery an hour or so later.” He opened his eyes again and looked at Starke, feeling oddly relieved to have shared the truth with someone. “Watkins was wrong about one thing, though. I didn’t use any connections to avoid a court-martial. I asked for one, but they refused, said it was an accident, that making it all public would drag everyone through the mud. I was finished there, couldn’t bring myself to draw a weapon on anyone again. So I left, gave up my position in the response teams and requested a transfer to the most remote posting they could give me. And here I am.”

  The young woman was silent for a moment or two, clearly stunned by what she’d heard. “I didn’t know …”

  “Now you do. The guy who led you out here is a fucking fraud who isn’t fit for his command, Kate.” He snorted with grim humor. “I was typing up my resignation letter when you came into my office. A day later and I wouldn’t even be here.”

  “But you are here,” she said, reaching out and touching his arm. “So am I. Whatever you did in the past … it doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is what we do now, tonight. We can still stop Dmitry and the others getting away with this, but we have to work together.”

  He shook his head. “I told you I don’t want another death on my conscience.”

  “And I told you I’m going, whether you order me or not.” For the first time since their reunion, she flashed a faint, defiant smile. “You can court-martial me later if you want, sir.”

  O’Neill looked at her for a long moment, saying nothing.

  CHAPTER 19

  CHECKING FOR THE third time that it wasn’t hooked up to a power source, Iosif inserted the length of detonator cord into the lump of gray-white material he’d duct taped against the ship’s hull. A veteran of the Russian army, he knew all too well the risks associated with rigging explosives. The potential for fatal fuck-ups was never far away.

  In this case however, he needn’t have worried. The Composition-4 demolition charge pilfered from the Coast Guard boarding party was top grade military explosive, extremely stable and as pliable as Play-Doh. It could be shaped into virtually any form one desired.

  With this done, the last step was to hook the det cord up to the remote detonator unit. The charge was now armed and ready to be blown. A similar explosive device had been set up on the other side of the vast cargo hold, as well as two more in the engine room. They needed to blow both sides of the ship simultaneously if it was to sink properly, otherwise they risked capsizing it and trapping air pockets inside that could keep it afloat for hours.

  He was just packing away the tools he’d used for his work, when a noise at the far end of the hold caught his attention. The metallic ping of a dropped bolt or screw accidentally kicked. The soft shuffling of feet on the steel deck.

  Gently picking up his AKS assault rifle to avoid scraping the barrel on the deck, Iosif rose slowly to his feet and raised the weapon to his shoulder, advancing slowly down the hold while keeping to the shadows.

  He’d fought many a desperate battle in the ruins of Chechnya and knew how to use cover and concealment to his advantage, as well as how to move silently. With light levels at a minimum, Iosif strained to hear instead.

  There! Movement, thirty yards away, starboard side. It was coming towards him.

  Creeping forward until he was positioned between two shipping containers, he crouched down and gently flicked the safety catch off, eyes scanning the gloom. He was like a hunter on a game trail, waiting for his prey to come to him.

  It didn’t take long.

  Thirty seconds later, a figure finally moved into view. A woman for sure, judging by the small frame, crouched down low and moving warily, trying to stay hidden. Completely unaware that he already had the drop on her.

  Then she spotted him. The woman froze. He heard a sharp intake of breath, and saw her starting to tremble. She was frightened, as well she should be. She was going to die in this place.

  “Do not move,” Iosif said, emerging from his hiding place with the weapon up at his shoulder. From this range, he simply couldn’t miss.

  The woman was pale, her dark hair wet and tangled, but in ordinary life he imagined she was quite attractive, still in the bloom of youth. Shame, he thought as his finger tightened on the trigger. The world always missed a pretty girl.

  He expected to see fear in her eyes as his intention became clear, but strangely there was no sign of it in this woman. Either she was braver than most of the men he’d killed in his lifetime, or too stupid to realize this was it for her.

  “Drop it,” another voice growled in his ear.

  Instinctively Iosif started to turn towards it, but the cold barrel of a weapon pressed against the side of his head was enough to dissuade him.

  “I said drop the gun,” the voice repeated. “Don’t make me ask again.”

  Recognizing that his position was hopeless, Iosif lowered the weapon. Straight away Starke moved forward and snatched it from his grip before turning it on him.

  “Good timing,” she remarked.

  It was a trap, he knew. The woman had been a decoy to lure him out. Somehow O’Neill had survived his plunge into the freezing sea. The bastard was resilient if nothing else.

  Iosif glanced over at O’Neill, who still had the pistol at his head. “This will make no difference,” he spat. “You have no—”

  He was silenced when O’Neill swung the pistol around against his head, knocking him unconscious.

  CHAPTER 20

  IOSIF AWOKE A short time later. He’d been moved to a different part of the ship; one that he didn’t recognize. However, heavy machinery and the thick links of anchor chains stretching across the room told him he was somewhere in the bow. His hands were bound to one of these chains by plastic cable ties.

  Starke and O’Neill were standing in front of him.

  “Good, you’re awake,” O’Neill said, staring him hard in the eye. “We’re short on time, so I want some answers fast. Where are the rest of my team?”

  “Fuck you,” Iosif spat.

  “Last chance,” O’Neill warned.

  Iosif glared at him. “You won’t kill me. You are coward.”

  At this, the Coast Guard officer smiled. “You’re right, I won’t.” He nodded to the young woman at his side. “But she will.”

  Without saying anything further, Starke turned towards the heavy anchor windlass around which the chains were wrapped, gripped the brake release handle and pulled it downward.

  Immediately Iosif was jerked away from them, pulled by the inexorable weight of tonnes of steel anchor and chain being lowered into the sea. He was being pulled towards the anchor well at the far end of the room.

  “What are you doing?” he yelled. “Stop!”

  But the look on the young woman’s face made it clear she had no intention of stopping.

  “What do you think, Rick? Will he fit through?”

  O’Neill shook his head. “Nah, he’s too fat,” he said, forced to speak louder to be heard over the clanking chains. “I’m guessin
g the anchor well will tear him up.”

  “Stop this!” Iosif shouted, yanking and straining against his bonds as the chain pulled him closer and closer to the opening. It was a futile effort. He knew from experience that they were virtually unbreakable. “You can’t!”

  “Only one way this is going to stop, Iosif,” O’Neill warned him. “Feel like talking yet?”

  His hands were almost at the anchor well now. It was clear he’d never fit through such a gap, and would likely see his arms ripped off by the force of the descending chain.

  “All right!” he shouted, finally breaking. “Stop!”

  Reaching for the brake handle, Starke pushed it upward to engage the break. Mercifully the chain came to a halt, though he noticed her hand remained on the lever, ready to release it at any time.

  “Where are my team?” O’Neill asked.

  Iosif glared at him, teeth bared. “Engine room,” he said at last.

  O’Neill and Starke exchanged a look. “So they’re still alive.”

  “For now.”

  The threat wasn’t lost on O’Neill. Reaching for the satchel Iosif had been carrying when they captured him, he held it up. “What were you doing with this?”

  When an explanation wasn’t forthcoming, O’Neill nodded to Starke, who tightened her grip on the brake lever.

  “All right!” Iosif cried out again. “I was planting explosives against the hull. Dmitry is going to sink the ship.”

  “Sonofabitch,” Starke said under her breath. “The Munro will get here and assume the ship went down with all hands.”

  “And by the time they figure out what really happened, Dmitry and his buddies will be long gone,” O’Neill finished, then turned his attention back to Iosif. “One way or another, you’re staying in this room until our relief ship gets here, so it’s in your interests to answer my question truthfully. How many charges did you plant?”

  “Four.”

  “Where?”

  Iosif stewed on that for a moment or two. “Engine room, port and starboard side. And two more in the forward cargo hold.”