by Matthew Rief
“Some idiot pizza boy,” a voice crackled through the guy’s radio overhead.
“Well, tell him to fuck off!” another voice barked. I recognized it as Brier’s. “We didn’t order any pizza.”
We heard the Volkswagen’s brakes squeak, followed by some distant shouts coming from the front of the house.
Scott got a text from Ange.
Clear to engage, was all it said.
Opening my drybag, I pulled out a Browning Buckmark .22 handgun with a suppressor attached. The combination of the firearm’s low-caliber and short barrel and the attached suppressor made it about as quiet as a BB gun.
I handed it to Scott, who gave me a nod, and we moved to opposite sides of the dock. Nothing else needed to be said. We’d already gone over the finer details of the plan.
I pulled myself quietly up onto the dock while Scott climbed the other side. He provided cover with his .22 while I stepped softly onto the dock. The guard had his back to us, and the loud music from Jack’s diversion masked my movements. By the time he realized that somebody was behind him, it was too late.
I pounced. Before he could make a sound, I forced my right arm hard around his mouth while grabbing his chest with my left. I shoved my foot into his calf and jerked him back. He struggled for a few seconds before going limp in my arms.
Scott climbed up, and we dragged his body around to the ocean side of the boathouse. Quickly, we removed our drysuits and I attached a suppressor to my Sig. I also grabbed my night vision monocular.
A new message came from Ange.
Move in. Be wary of cameras.
The yelling from the front side of the house was getting louder. There was little doubt that Jack would be forced to turn around and leave in a trail of dust soon. We had to move fast.
We kept our eyes up as we moved out from cover and made quick work of the rest of the dock. Once at the shore, we cut left to avoid a rotating security camera. When it shifted back away from us, we sprinted up the stairs and dove behind a row of thick bushes.
We avoided two more cameras and a motion sensor before reaching the door to a small, unassuming shack fifty yards from the main house. I looked left, then right, making sure that there were no guards nearby. With Jack’s loud music still blaring, I reared back and kicked in the door. The frame shattered, and the door slammed open.
I winced a little from the blow but didn’t let Scott see it.
“You’re getting older, Dodge,” he said as we moved into the small dark space. “Imagine when you hit forty.”
“I thought you were fifty?” I jabbed.
We shut the door behind us and turned on our flashlights. The generator wasn’t hard to find. It was big and noisy and lit up with LED lights like R2D2. We stood in front of the control panel, then called in to Ange with the radio.
“Ready to go dark, Ange?”
“Copy that,” she said.
We called the sat phone we’d given to Jack to let him know that he could take off. It rang and rang and rang, then went dead. I wondered if maybe the phone wasn’t working.
I stepped out of the shack and listened. The loud music was still playing.
Just as I was about to try the number again, I heard the loud groan of an engine. Tires screeched on the road. And then the sound of automatic gunfire filled the air.
Shit.
“Scott, cut the power, now!” I said.
He punched the emergency shutoff, and the entire compound went dark in an instant.
FOURTEEN
Jack stood on the dock in front of the green bungalow, looking out over the water. When he got the radio call that Logan and Scott were dropping into the water, he grabbed the two pizzas. Bounding out the door, he hopped into the blue Volkswagen and started up the rear-mounted 60-hp engine.
Putting the manual transmission into gear, he drove down the long, narrow, bumpy driveway toward the main road. With his left hand on the wheel, he scanned the radio stations. Only two didn’t have static on that remote part of the island. His options were some guy rattling off the news in Spanish or a commercial, so he switched it off.
He drove across the narrow width of the island and turned east onto Camp Bay Road. The streets were empty. The few houses, restaurants, and hotels that he passed were quiet. With the top down and the tropical wind blowing through his curly blond hair, Jack glanced at his watch, then pressed down a little more on the gas.
He followed the road as it bowed southward, then cut onto an unmarked dirt road. It was only through careful examination of satellite photos that they’d been able to find the correct spot to turn.
After traversing a mile over the hilly, tree-covered terrain, Jack spotted the top of the main house in the distance.
The gate must be right around the next bend, he thought.
He pulled into a small turnout, then turned off the engine and switched off the headlights. It was spooky out there in the jungle. There were no sounds but the rustling of nocturnal wildlife and the wind through the overhead fronds. It was nearly pitch dark under the tree canopy. Only a few streaks of moonlight bled down, shifting with each movement of branches.
He adjusted in his seat, looked down at his watch. Just as he picked up his phone, a new message illuminated the screen.
You’re up, Jack, it said.
He replied, took in a deep breath, then started up the engine.
Here we go, he thought.
As the engine groaned, he flipped on the headlights and the radio. He didn’t care what music was playing. He just needed something he could blare. When a familiar voice came through the speakers, he smiled.
That’ll do. Oh, baby, that’ll do.
Jimmy Buffett was his favorite artist, and “Fins” one of his favorite songs.
He turned the knob clockwise as far as it could go. The music screamed so loud it caused the old German car to shake.
He put the bug in gear and hit the gas. Dirt kicked up behind him as the worn tires gained traction. He hit a turn quickly and started singing along at the top of his lungs when the compound’s gate came into view.
The blaring music and the sound of his off-tune voice filled the evening air. He kept his eyes forward, watching as two men stepped out from the small shack beside the tall metal gate. Both were big and tough-looking under the light of their shack. And they both had rifles slung across their chests.
Jack’s heart began to pound.
What the heck did I get myself into?
He quelled the doubts and sang louder. He was delivering pizzas, that was it. Nothing dangerous about him. Nothing to worry about.
One of the guards moved to the center of the road and held up his left hand. His right gripped his weapon.
Jack slowed to a stop in front of him, but kept on singing, finishing up a round of the chorus. The closest guard stepped toward him, shielding his eyes from the headlights and yelling at Jack to shut up.
Jack stopped singing but kept the radio on and the speakers full blast. It wasn’t until the guard reached him and raised his weapon that Jack turned the volume down a little.
“Hey, easy with the gun, man,” Jack said, trying to sound even more laid-back than usual. He put the car in park, then grabbed the two pizza boxes.
“What the hell are you doing here?” the guard grunted. His voice was low and rough.
Jack shrugged. “My job. Who’s hungry?”
He lifted the two boxes, then pushed open the door. The guard wasn’t having it. He lunged forward and forced the door shut.
“No one ordered any food,” he barked. “Now turn around and get the hell out of here.” Jack was about to reply when the guy glanced at the still-blaring car radio and cut him off. “And turn that shit off.”
Jack ignored the two orders, letting them slide into thin air as if the guy hadn’t said anything at all.
“You sure, man?” Jack replied. “’Cause I’ve got a supreme and a—”
“Yes, I’m sure,” the guy snapped. “And I told you t
o turn that music off.”
“Can’t. The knob sticks and the radio won’t turn off unless I kill the engine. It’s an old car.”
The guard leaned over and grabbed a fistful of Jack’s Island Time Pizza T-shirt.
“I’m not going to tell you again, punk,” he snarled. Jack caught an unpleasant whiff of his foul chewing tobacco breath. “Nobody ordered any food. Now get lost.”
Jack tensed up a little, then relaxed again. He was pushing it, that was clear. As the guy’s grip on his shirt loosened, he fidgeted, then met the guard’s gaze.
“It’s a small island, and I know it like the back of my hand,” Jack said. “I know someone from here ordered piz—”
The guard tightened his grip again and shook Jack’s body. He froze a moment, listening to words barking through his earpiece, then stepped back and raised his weapon.
“You’ve got three seconds, idiot,” he said, aiming the barrel of his submachine gun at Jack.
Jack swallowed hard, then nodded. His demeanor had shifted from flustered to terrified. He was just playing the role, but a part of him wasn’t acting anymore. He knew that the guy would fill him with lead without skipping a beat. They’d kill him, bury him someplace in the jungle, and then forget anything had happened. And they’d do it with no remorse.
Jack dropped the pizza boxes onto the passenger seat and raised his hands into the air.
“Easy, man,” he said. “I’m leavin’. I’m leavin’. Just a misunderstanding.”
He slid back down into the seat and put the Volkswagen in reverse.
He just hoped he’d given Logan and Scott enough time.
~~~
Richard Wake stood beside an upstairs window, watching the commotion in front of the gate. The music had caught his attention while he was preparing for the arrival of his guests. He was wearing his usual business attire: a black Brioni suit that cost more than most sports cars and shined Italian shoes.
He glanced at his diamond-encrusted gold wristwatch as footsteps approached.
“Now, what the hell’s going on?” Wake said, motioning through the window.
“Some idiot delivering pizzas,” Brier replied. “Don’t worry. He’ll be out of our hair in a few seconds.”
Wake cleared his throat. “He better. His damn music’s giving me a headache.” He turned around and strode toward the stairs to the top level. “All the intel ready?”
“It’s set up in the secure room. Chopper’s inbound.”
They moved side by side up toward the helipad. Passing the security room, Brier pushed open the partly open door. There were rows of monitors on the wall in front of two guys in chairs. The screens displayed various angles of the driveway. The delivery guy and gate guard were still exchanging words.
“Why the hell is that guy still here?” Brier said.
The two guards looked over, startled by Brier’s tone. One wore a headset. The other had a radio pressed to the side of his face.
“They’ve ordered him to leave,” the guy with the radio replied.
“Well, order him again!” Brier said. Before the guy could say anything, Brier snatched the radio and held down the talk button. “Get this guy out of here by whatever means necessary.”
He watched as the guard by the gate listened to his earpiece, then raised his weapon to aim it at the driver. Watching the driver raise his hands and put the Volkswagen in gear, Brier got a strange feeling in his gut. He’d spent most of his adult life in combat all over the world. After all those years, he’d developed a sort of sixth sense.
He raised the radio and called in for an update from the rest of his team. One of his watchstanders didn’t reply. He narrowed his gaze as the car drove backward away from the gate.
“Bring up the dock camera,” Brier said to the two seated guys.
They did as they were told. Brier looked up at the center screen, which transitioned from an image of the driveway to the long jutting dock in an instant. Everything looked as it had the past few days. There was just one big problem. It was empty. The watchstander was nowhere in sight.
“What’s going on?” Wake said.
He’d been listening at the door and strode in when he saw the display of the empty dock.
“Something’s wrong. Deacon’s not at his post.” Brier followed his instincts. He raised the radio and spoke another order into it. “We’re under attack! Kill the driver.”
He watched on the other monitors as the two gate guards raised their rifles in unison and fired off a storm of automatic gunfire toward the retreating car. The Volkswagen immediately picked up speed as the rounds shattered the windshield and shot sparks as they collided with the grille and hood.
Suddenly, the monitors went black. Everything went black. The room fell into near-total darkness and silence in an instant.
Wake’s hands formed tight fists.
“We need to leave, now!” he yelled. He turned to Brier and stuck a finger in his face. “Gather all of the intel. Get it into the escape boat.” He stormed toward the door with Brier right on his heels. “And call off the meetup. Get the chopper away from here.”
“Yes, sir,” Brier fired back, going into full attack mode.
He grabbed his radio, but before he could relay any orders, Wake grabbed him by the throat.
“And I want these intruders dead, Brier,” he snarled. “Nobody breaks into my house and gets away with it, understand?”
Brier nodded, and Wake released his grip.
FIFTEEN
We took off toward the house. With the power off, we threw stealth to the wind, nearly sprinting across the well-manicured grounds. We were halfway to the main house when Scott spotted something.
“Wait,” he said, just loud enough for me to hear.
He pressed a hand to my left shoulder, motioning for us to stop. We both ducked down behind a large outdoor dining area. I looked forward into the darkness and focused on what had caught his attention. Up ahead about ten yards, a guard was racing down a set of stairs along the side of the main house.
We watched the guard intently. When he turned around, we sprang from our position, hopped across the path and a row of bushes, then stopped behind the corner of the house. We were only there a moment before the guard came thundering around and into view.
Scott jumped into action. He grabbed the guy forcefully by his shirt, jerked him around, and slammed him into the side of the house. His head met the angled edge of metal, knocking him out in an instant.
Scott let go, and the guard collapsed to the ground. With the second guard out of commission, we moved along the outer wall of the house’s main floor, heading toward the big sliding glass door. It was locked.
Without hesitating, I pulled a decorative brick from the edge of the path and shot put it into the center of the glass. It shattered, and I kicked the remaining pieces away with my boot before we flooded inside.
We raised our weapons and took cover. As I’d hoped, the sound of the breaking glass had attracted one of the guards. We dropped behind a fancy couch and hid as he stomped toward the pile of shards on the floor. He stopped when his boots crunched the glass and scanned the flashlight attached to his gun over what remained of the door.
Scott was closest. The moment the guard looked in the opposite direction of us, Scott grabbed a nearby vase, rose silently to his feet, and slammed it against the guard’s head. The pottery cracked to pieces, and the guard fell to the ground.
A second guard heard the commotion and entered from the dining area to my right. I lunged toward him and side-kicked the chaise lounge resting between us. It slid across the smooth floor, slamming into his legs and causing his upper body to jerk forward.
Diving toward him, I grabbed the barrel of his submachine gun and forced it up. Rounds exploded out in violent succession, riddling the ceiling far above with holes and shattering the massive glass chandelier.
His finger released the trigger, and I jerked him backward. We rolled and slammed onto the floor. With
my left hand still gripping the barrel, I aimed my Sig into his chest and fired off two 9mm rounds. He jerked, loosened his grip on his weapon, and I threw him off me.
Still on my back, I snapped my head sideways just in time to see a third guy aiming his weapon straight at me. Before I could take aim, the sound of gunfire rattled the air. But it wasn’t him. Scott had fired a round from under the couch. The bullet exploded into the guy’s left ankle. His lower body flew out from under him and he slammed painfully to the hard floor.
We sprinted over and quickly knocked him out before scanning the rest of the massive living room. Once we saw that it was clear, we moved toward the stairs with our handguns raised. We listened intently and heard muffled voices and footsteps coming from a few floors up.
As we ascended the stairs, we froze as a new sound came over the air. It was coming from outside, and it was getting louder. Soon, the shot-up chandelier and the large windowpanes started shaking.
“That’s a helicopter,” Scott said.
We both looked at each other, then picked up the pace. It was clear what was happening. Wake was trying to slip through our fingers.
We quickly reached the second floor, then pressed on toward the third. With each rapid movement, I couldn’t stop thinking about the absurdity of it all.
How could Wake have possibly mobilized a helicopter so quickly?
Barely two minutes had passed since we’d heard the initial spurt of gunfire, and Scott had killed the power.
At the top floor, we slowed and scanned every inch as we moved. We had our weapons raised, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.
We listened but could no longer hear anything over the sound of the helicopter. It was clear that the bird was swooping in for a landing up on the roof.
We stormed into an empty master bedroom. Based on the plans we’d looked over, we knew that the stairs up to the roof were out on the veranda, so we headed for the already open sliding glass door. We stepped outside. The chopper’s rotors roared and blew strong gusts of wind from above. Two girls dressed in lingerie were huddled in a corner, plugging their ears and crying.