Deadly Cargo: BookShots

by James Patterson

  Before O’Neill or Starke could say anything further, Iosif’s walkie-talkie crackled.

  “Iosif, report,” Dmitry barked, speaking in Russian. “Where are you now?”

  When no reply was forthcoming, Dmitry radioed again.

  “Iosif, acknowledge now or we come after you.”

  Picking up the radio, O’Neill held it towards Iosif’s mouth. “Tell him you’re still working on the charges, everything’s fine. And keep in mind that I speak Russian.”

  Glaring at him, Iosif nodded, and O’Neill clicked the transmit button.

  Taking a breath, the Russian weighed up what to say next, making his decision a couple of seconds later. “Dmitry, it’s a trap!” he shouted. “I’m in—”

  A second blow to the head knocked him down. Releasing the transmit button, O’Neill turned away, bristling with anger.

  “God damn it,” he growled.

  “Are you still listening?” Dmitry’s voice asked a moment later, having switched to English now. “I assume you are, Starke. Iosif was one of my best. You must be good to get the better of him. I respect that.”

  O’Neill glanced over at Starke. The young woman was staring at the radio, saying nothing.

  “I will make this simple,” Dmitry went on. “You will present yourself on deck within two minutes and surrender to us.”

  Swallowing hard, Starke held out her hand for the radio. When O’Neill withheld it, she looked up at him, her eyes pleading. “He doesn’t know you’re still alive. We need to keep it that way.”

  Reluctantly he handed her the walkie-talkie. Taking a moment to compose herself, she held it up and hit the transmit button. “And why should I do that?”

  The response didn’t come immediately. For several seconds, O’Neill and Starke stood there in silence, waiting for what their adversary was about to do.

  The answer, when it came, was enough to send a chill through them.

  “Kate.”

  The voice that spoke wasn’t Dmitry’s.

  “Watkins?” Starke gasped. “You okay?”

  “I’m sorry, Kate. The sons of bitches jumped me in the engine room.”

  “Tell them what I’m doing, my friend,” they heard Dmitry command him. “Tell them now.”

  “He’s got a gun pointed at me. We’re on the bridge, Kate! We’ve—”

  His voice was drowned out by the sharp crack of a gunshot, followed a second or so later by Watkins’ howls of pain. Dmitry kept his radio transmitting the whole time so they heard every terrible moment of it.

  “You get the idea, Starke,” he said when Watkins’ cries had subsided. “The next one is in his head if I do not see you on deck in two minutes. After that, I kill Rodriguez and hunt you down anyway. Decide now.”

  With that, his transmission ended, and a deathly silence fell on the room.

  Then, just like that, Starke reacted. “Here, take this,” she said, handing O’Neill her weapon. “Find those charges, Rick. Then kill that sonofabitch. I’ll buy you as much time as I can.”

  With that, she turned towards the hatch leading out on deck. O’Neill grabbed her arm and spun her around to face him.

  “You’re not going out there,” he said firmly.

  “You heard what he said. He’ll kill Watkins and Rodriguez if I don’t.”

  “And he’ll kill all of you if you do,” O’Neill countered.

  “Not if you stop him.” She swallowed hard. “I have to do this, Rick.”

  Suddenly, she reached out and pulled him to her, holding him in a fierce, desperate embrace. His grip on her arm slackened as he returned the gesture.

  No sooner had he let go than she slipped out of his grasp, disappeared through the hatch and slammed it closed before he could stop her.

  “Kate, don’t do this,” O’Neill shouted, trying to unlatch it. It was no good; she’d jammed the lock. “Open the hatch!”

  Staring at him through the small viewing port, Starke gave him a fleeting look of apology before turning away, hurrying out across the rain-soaked deck.

  CHAPTER 21

  DMITRY WAS ON the Ossora’s bridge overlooking the deck below. He glanced at his watch as the two-minute timer reached zero.

  “Your comrade thought very little of you, my friends,” he said, turning towards the two Coast Guard men kneeling before him, their hands bound behind their backs. Blood was pooling from the gunshot wound to Watkins’ thigh, but his moans of pain had been silenced by duct tape across his mouth. “Time’s up.”

  He drew his automatic and leveled it at Rodriguez, who stared back defiantly at him. Brave but stupid. Such traits must have been common amongst their ilk.

  “Wait! I see someone on deck,” Yuri called out, pointing below.

  Dmitry paused, turning to the younger man. “Searchlight.”

  Yuri nodded and hurried out into the starboard bridge wing, firing up one of the big directional searchlights that were mounted there to aid with navigation.

  Making his way over to the bridge window once more, Dmitry was just in time to see the powerful search beam swing downward, illuminating a lone figure standing in the center of the deck. Wet, bedraggled, and pathetic-looking in the driving rain, it was the woman Starke.

  Dmitry smiled. Had she stayed at large, she might well have caused more problems for him and his men. But just like her commander, she was gullible and weak.

  Lifting his radio to his mouth, he spoke a single command to Oleg, who was on standby down below. “Bring her to me.”

  CHAPTER 22

  DESPITE THE CHILLY air in the unheated cargo hold, O’Neill was sweating from exertion as he hurried along the starboard side of the compartment, his flashlight beam playing across the exposed steelwork of the Ossora’s hull until he found what he was looking for.

  The Russian Iosif might have been a cold-blooded murderer by trade, but he was as good as his word when it came to revealing the explosives he’d placed. Perhaps his desire to avoid death had overridden his sense of loyalty to his boss.

  Kneeling down beside the plastic explosive charge duct taped to the starboard side of the cargo hold, O’Neill carefully powered down the radio detonator, then peeled away the tape to remove the explosive charge. There was more than enough Composition-4 in his hand to blow through the compartment wall and breach the outer hull.

  And there were three more charges still to locate.

  Shoving the now inert explosive into the satchel he’d liberated from Iosif, O’Neill scrambled to his feet and hurried off to find the next one.

  CHAPTER 23

  “WATCH IT, YOU sonofabitch!” Kate Starke snarled as the big man Oleg shoved her roughly onto the Ossora’s bridge.

  As she’d thought, his younger comrade Yuri was there, his blond hair now hanging wet and limp after his excursion onto the bridge wing. Kneeling in front of him, their mouths covered with duct tape, were Rodriguez and Watkins. The latter was bleeding from an untreated gunshot wound to the thigh, but both men were still very much alive.

  How long they stayed that way depended on the man in command of the room. Dmitry had changed out of the grubby engineering overalls he’d worn when still pretending to be one of the Ossora’s crew, instead donning a black sweater and a thick leather overcoat that padded out his already muscular frame, and was standing beside the ship’s wheel.

  He smiled coldly at her. “Good of you to join us.”

  “I’m not here by choice,” she spat.

  His smile broadened. “None of us are. Tell me, what became of Iosif?”

  “I killed him, threw him out through the anchor well,” she lied, hoping his knowledge of the ship was as limited as it seemed, and that he wouldn’t order a search for his man. “He’s probably at the bottom of the Bering Sea by now.”

  For a moment, she actually saw a flicker of regret. “Pity, he was a good man.”

  “That’s a relative term,” Starke observed dryly.

  Glancing at Oleg, the man who had escorted her to the bridge, Dmit
ry gave him a short command. “Open the cargo doors and get the container ready.” This done, he looked over at Yuri. “Prepare the crane. I want the cargo on deck in five minutes.”

  As both men hurried off to follow his instructions, Dmitry turned his attention back to her. “You may not believe me, but I did not want it to come to this. My men and I were only passengers on this ship, hired to move a cargo. I am a businessman, not a murderer.”

  “You killed the Ossora’s crew,” she said, anger simmering beneath the surface.

  “That was unfortunate,” he conceded. “But they became too curious for their own good, and found out our little secret. My orders were clear—if I was in danger of being discovered, there were to be no witnesses. I was left with no choice but to act.”

  “So what did you want with us?” she asked, knowing full well what he wanted. All she was concerned with was keeping him talking, buying time. “Why the distress call?”

  He snorted in amusement. “For your ship, of course. My men and I could not manage a vessel of this size alone, but your boat will serve just fine. Enough for us to deliver our cargo to its destination.”

  “The Coast Guard will be looking for it,” she hit back.

  His smile returned. Reaching into his pocket, he held up the radio detonator that Watkins had used earlier to blow the engine room hatch. “Not if they think it sank along with the Ossora.’

  The loud clanking and rumbling of heavy machinery told Starke that something was happening on deck. Glancing out the window, she watched as the massive cargo hatch covers swung upward, propelled by hydraulic pistons and exposing the darkened depths of the hold below.

  Standing by the bridge windows, Dmitry spoke into his radio. “Where is that crane?”

  With his attention focused on the operation below, Dmitry had his back turned to Starke, allowing her to see the automatic shoved down the back of his jeans.

  Realizing the opportunity that now presented itself, the young woman began to edge closer to him, one inch at a time.

  “Moving into position now,” Yuri reported.

  She was getting close now. Her heart was beating fast and urgent as she prepared to act, a trickle of sweat mingling with the salty tang of seawater that covered her face.

  Sure enough, one of the loading cranes on the port side was now illuminated, the tiny figure of Yuri visible in its operating cab. Slowly the huge metal arm swung inboard until it was positioned over the yawning hold, and Dmitry watched as the lifting cradle was lowered down into the gloom.

  Now!

  Starke rushed at him, already throwing out her hand to snatch the weapon from his jeans. As soon as she had it, she would open fire and keep shooting until he was dead or she’d expended the magazine.

  But it wasn’t to be. Seeing her reflection in the bridge windows, Dmitry whirled around, caught her arm and twisted it, using her momentum to force her forward into the instrument panel. She hit hard, banging her head against the sharp edge of a monitor, and felt blood begin to trickle from a cut over her eye.

  Larger and far stronger than her, Dmitry increased the pressure on her arm and leaned in closer. “Did you really think I was stupid enough to turn my back on you?” he rasped in her ear. “I could snap your arm like a twig. Do you think I should do that, Kate?”

  She groaned in pain as his grip tightened, but clamped her mouth shut and said nothing. Refusing to give him the satisfaction.

  “Enough for now, I think,” he said at last, pulling her other hand behind her back and using a length of duct tape to bind her wrists.

  Once she was secured and no longer a threat, Dmitry released his hold. Starke collapsed to the deck, the muscles and tendons in her shoulder burning with pain as Dmitry resumed his vigil by the window.

  “I want you to see this.”

  CHAPTER 24

  THE CARGO HOLD, now open to the stormy weather outside, resounded with the harsh clang of metal on metal as O’Neill crept forward through the maze of cargo containers. He could see the chains and pulleys of a lifting cradle that had been lowered down from above. Clearly Dmitry and his men were planning to extract one of the containers, but why?

  Creeping through the narrow, shadowy gap between two containers with the AKS-74 up at his shoulder, O’Neill came to a halt, surveying the scene beyond.

  Sure enough, the lifting cradle was now in position over one container in particular, heavy chains attached to all four corners of Number 29. The source of the noise was Oleg, who was perched atop the container using a hammer and brute strength to force a pin into its shackle at the nearest corner. Huge and muscular, and swinging the hammer with practiced ease, the man seemed born for heavy manual labor like this.

  Only his bandaged right hand gave some evidence of their earlier fight.

  O’Neill would have to take him out. He glanced at the weapon in his hands, knowing it would be little use in such a task. It would surely kill Oleg, but the thunderous boom of an AKS round discharging would echo around the cargo bay like a bomb going off, alerting everyone on the bridge that something was wrong.

  Gently easing the shoulder strap off, O’Neill laid the weapon on the deck as Oleg leaped down from the container and tossed the hammer aside now that it had served its purpose.

  The big man was just turning to survey his handiwork when O’Neill made the decision to go for it, emerging from cover and rushing straight at him. There was no sense trying to creep up on him slowly. The patter of rain hitting the deck and roar of the wind overhead created enough ambient noise to mask his footsteps. His best chance was to close the range as fast as possible.

  He almost made it, reaching within a few yards of his target before his foot caught a spare shackle that had been left lying on the deck, and sent it skittering across the metal surface with a clatter loud enough to echo around the cargo hold.

  Oleg’s head snapped around. Seeing O’Neill barreling towards him, he reacted immediately by grabbing his opponent and hurling him against the side of the container. O’Neill let out a cry of pain as his injured arm and shoulder took the brunt of the hit, white-hot pain searing down his left side.

  “Still alive, bitch?” Oleg growled, advancing on him to finish the job. Massive and unstoppable. “Not for long.”

  O’Neill swung wildly, catching him with a solid blow to the ribs that would have doubled most normal men over, but not Oleg. The answering punch, though O’Neill managed to partially block it, was nonetheless enough to send him staggering sideways.

  The Russian came at him again, swinging his massive hands like clubs. His fighting style was brutal, deliberate, and unsophisticated, but no less effective for all that. O’Neill blocked the first shot, but another came straight in after it, snapping his head sideways. He fell to the deck with stars dancing across his vision and blood dripping from his mouth, only for a thickly muscled arm to clamp around his neck, lifting him bodily up off the floor.

  “I’m glad you made it back,” Oleg whispered in his ear as he tightened his grip, cutting off O’Neill’s airway. Already he could feel his vision darkening as he threatened to black out. “I wanted to see your eyes when I crush the life from you. Then I will do the same to your little bitch.”

  O’Neill lifted his right foot and drove it backward with whatever desperate strength still remained to him.

  His aim was good, and he heard Oleg let out a growl of pain as O’Neill’s boot drove into his groin. Suddenly the iron grip slackened and O’Neill tumbled to the deck in a heap as Oleg staggered away, moving towards a pair of shipping containers positioned closely together.

  For a moment, O’Neill thought he might be trying to escape, until he spotted the distinctive frame of his AKS-74 lying between the crates.

  Scrambling to his feet, O’Neill knew in an instant that he was too late to intercept the Russian, who had almost reached the weapon. Instead he cast his eyes on the deck around him, seeking anything he might use to defend himself.

  That was when he spotted the ha
mmer that Oleg had so recently discarded, lying just a few feet away. It was a lump hammer, smaller than a sledge and designed to be used with one hand, but heavy and durable for all that.

  O’Neill snatched up the improvised weapon and turned to face his enemy, just as Oleg grabbed the assault rifle in his meaty hand and swung it towards him.

  O’Neill didn’t think; he acted, hurling the hammer at his opponent and sprinting towards him, thinking the crude missile might at least disrupt his aim and buy O’Neill a few precious seconds to close the distance. He was already hurting and bleeding from their brief battle, but there was no other option.

  He never got the chance to engage his enemy a second time.

  There was a wet crunch, a breathless groan, and suddenly the big Russian’s legs gave way beneath him. Dropping the assault rifle, he collapsed to the deck with an audible thud, unseeing eyes staring blankly up at the open sky above. A mountain of muscle and deadly strength suddenly rendered useless.

  O’Neill stopped in his tracks, staring at the blood-covered hammer lying beside the crushed, gory dome of his enemy’s head. Ten pounds of metal impacting at high velocity doesn’t leave much to chance. He’d been killed virtually on impact.

  Two men down.

  Two more to go.

  But first he had to find out what was in that container.

  Kneeling down beside the dead man, he snatched up the blood-covered hammer, as well as the assault rifle, and advanced on the container. The pain was kicking in hard now, and he could feel warm blood from the bullet wound dripping down his arm, leaving spots on the deck as he limped onward.

  The container was locked and secured with a heavy duty padlock. It looked intimidating, but it was made of nothing more than mild steel, and a couple of vicious blows from the hammer were enough to break the internal shackle. Yanking the broken padlock aside, O’Neill discarded it along with the hammer, and raised the assault rifle as he prepared to unlock the container.