by Matthew Rief
Without thinking, I let go of the helm and grabbed Nate’s shoulder forcefully.
“Take it!” I said.
Seeing the fire burning in my eyes, Nate switched places with me. I moved towards the stern, grabbed Manny from behind, and brought him to the deck. Blood was flowing out from two wounds to his chest. I wanted to help him but knew that if we didn’t take these other bad guys down soon, we’d all be dead.
Grabbing hold of my M4, I peeked over the transom and took aim at the first boat in view. Kyle moved in beside me, and we both let loose. I watched through my NOD as one of my rounds flew through the already broken windscreen and tore through the neck of the pilot. As the guys scrambled for control of their boat, we unleashed hell, striking them in their backs and sides and taking the boat out of commission.
That left one boat, and I had just the thing to send it and everyone aboard to the locker. I quickly prepped the M203 grenade launcher attached to my M4. I kept to cover behind the transom as the fourth and final boat closed in. When it was within a few hundred feet, I popped up, took aim, and fired. The grenade burst through the air and struck right in the center of the boat. A deafening explosion followed, sending bodies and shattered pieces of the boat flying in all directions. The fuel tanks went as well, overtaking the boat in flames as it crumbled and crashed to a stop.
Kyle and I took one more quick look around the river behind us and the banks on both sides, but there was nothing except the wreckage of the enemy boats. We knelt down beside Manny, patching him up as best as we could.
“Hang in there,” I said as I grabbed his hand in mine.
Nate maintained the SOC at its top speed of just over forty knots. We flew down the river, zigging and zagging our way towards Coco Nuevo, where the Inirida flows into the Guaviare, to meet up with the rest of the platoon.
Manny’s eyes began to bulge. I told him again to hang on, letting him know that we’d be able to get him proper treatment soon. But the bleeding was too severe. The flow had slowed, but it had soaked through Manny’s clothes and pooled up around us. I’d never seen so much blood.
He took a few labored breaths and looked up at me one more time, his eyes staring deep into mine. Then his head dropped and he went motionless.
ONE
Falcon, Venezuela
Three Days Later
Kyle Quinn’s wrists were bound in handcuffs in front of his body as three US Air Force police officers escorted him across the tarmac. Their destination was a Learjet C-21A, a small transport aircraft that would take Kyle back to the States, where he’d face a series of charges against him. It was a hot and humid evening. The dying sun’s rays beat down uncontested through a clear western sky, causing a thin layer of sweat to form on Kyle’s brow.
His head was a mess. The past three days had been a tiresome and painful blur. With the news of Estrada’s death came the story that a Navy Special Forces operative had compromised the mission and was being charged under the UCMJ for failure to obey a lawful order. Even worse, Kyle was also being charged with treason. His personal communications with operatives within the Colombian government were being heavily investigated. There were also reports that he’d been in communication with members of FARC for the past few months.
Kyle continued down the tarmac. Only once did he look over his shoulder at the Special Forces soldiers standing at his back. He made brief eye contact with his friend, Logan Dodge, then faced forward again. He was confident he could count on them to have his back, but the evidence against him was overwhelming. He was facing months of testimonies, trials, allegations, and scrutinized media coverage. Then, in all likelihood, he’d be thrown into prison for the rest of his life.
He shook his head, wondering how in the hell it had all happened. Wondering how such a conspiracy could be orchestrated in the country he loved so much.
The Air Force police stopped in front of the jet’s side door. Three guys in suits stood in front of the group. They were big guys with earpieces and sunglasses.
“We’ll take him from here,” one of the guys said.
The airmen hesitated, waiting to see the guys flash their credentials. Suddenly, Captain Wyatt Holt appeared seemingly out of nowhere.
“They’re taking him,” Holt said. He was a tall, commanding guy who spoke with rough authority. “I just got off the phone with the joint chiefs. He’s to be handed over for the transport.”
The airman saluted the captain, then did as they were told. The three suits took control of Kyle, nodded to Holt, then forced him up into the aircraft. They sat him down in a brown leather chair, then two of the suits headed back down the stairs onto the tarmac. They reappeared a few seconds later, carrying a large metal storage box to the back of the plane.
“This thing weighs a ton,” one of the guys said.
They secured it and sat down beside Kyle. After just a few minutes, the side door closed, the pilots fired up the two turbine engines, and the jet took off.
The first hour and a half of the flight was relatively uneventful. Kyle sat in a brown leather seat with his arms shackled. He was surrounded by the guys in suits and no one in the cabin had said a word since takeoff. Through the window, Kyle could see the solid black silhouettes of clouds and the occasional flash of lightning. They’d flown from the calm northern coast of Venezuela into a massive storm that surged over Cuba and into the upper Bahamas.
They were flying at thirty thousand feet over the northern part of the Caribbean when a phone rang in the cabin. It was coming from the pocket of the guy sitting right across from Kyle. He had short black hair and stern brown eyes and he weighed well over two hundred pounds. In his early forties, he was older than the other two suits and was the leader of their group.
He checked his phone, then stood up and moved to the back of the plane before answering. He spoke for just a few seconds before nodding and hanging up. With fast, confident strides, he moved all the way forward and tapped on the cockpit door. It opened briefly and the big guy whispered something to one of the pilots, then the door shut. He moved back to his seat across from Kyle, acting as though nothing had happened.
A minute later, he said something into the ears of the two other guys. Kyle tried but couldn’t hear what he said. All three suddenly stood up and ordered Kyle to his feet.
“What’s going on?” Kyle asked, trying to sound as defensive as possible.
Deep down, he already knew what was about to happen.
“Shut up and move,” the leader said, pulling Kyle to his feet and forcing him to move towards the back of the plane.
The four of them reached the back of the cabin, stopping right beside the bathroom door. Without warning, the leader turned and slugged the suit beside him in the nose. He wailed in pain and placed his hands on his bleeding nose as he nearly toppled over.
“What the fuck was that for?” he said, looking angrily back at the leader of the group.
He shrugged and shot Kyle an evil smile.
“Just following orders,” he replied. “Kyle here attacked us midflight. We tried to subdue him but had no choice but to take him down.”
He kept his gaze locked on Kyle.
The guy’s nose dripped red blotches of blood onto the carpet. He snarled, then eyed Kyle as well.
“Well, then, let’s fucking get on with it,” he said. “I better get a bonus for that sucker punch.”
“We’ll all be paid handsomely,” the leader said. “You can be sure of that. And you’ll be a hero in the media for taking that blow.”
Kyle’s mind raced wildly. There wasn’t going to be a trial; no chance of redemption for him. Those guys were going to kill him and put an end to the entire thing right here and now. He needed to make a move, and he needed to do it soon.
Kyle glanced over at the large metal box for a moment, then the leader met his gaze.
“That’s all the intel,” he said with a devilish smile. “Too bad you won’t be around to sort out the fake shit from the real.”
&n
bsp; The bloody nose guy grabbed a black Beretta handgun from its holster on his right hip.
“Not out here,” the leader said as he pulled open the bathroom door.
The three guys forced Kyle inside the small bathroom and pushed him facefirst up against the wall. The leader pulled a Glock from his waistband and pressed it against the back of Kyle’s head.
Time slowed and Kyle could feel his heart pounding in his chest.
“It’ll be easier to clean the mess in here,” the leader said.
A surge of strength rose forth from deep within him. Just as the guy began to squeeze the trigger, Kyle snapped his head to the left. The 9mm round fired just inches from his ear, exploding out from the chamber and shattering the small mirror in front of him. The sound was painfully loud, and Kyle heard nothing but ringing in his right ear. Before the guy could respond, Kyle forced his bound hands back, grabbed hold of the leader’s wrist, and snapped it over his shoulder. The Glock slipped through his fingers and clattered against the floor at Kyle’s feet.
Still holding tight to the leader’s cracked wrist, Kyle jerked it forward while slamming his head back, shattering the guy’s nose with his skull. As Kyle spun around, the leader landed a powerful punch against the side of his face with his left hand. Only slightly dazed from the blow, Kyle bent down, wrapped his hands around the Glock, and put two bullets into the leader’s left leg. He yelled in pain and lurched forward. As the two other guys came after Kyle, he used their leader as cover. Extending the Glock around the leader’s flailing body, Kyle fired a series of rounds into the chests of the two other guys. Blood splattered out from their bodies and they jerked back, slamming into each other and into a nearby leather seat before toppling over and crashing onto the floor.
Kyle jumped to his feet, kicked the leader across the head, then aimed the Glock straight at his face. A stream of blood flowed out from his mangled nose. He was bent over, his hands wrapped around his bullet-riddled leg.
“Talk, asshole,” Kyle said.
The guy struggled to breathe, then spat a gob of gooey blood onto the floor beside him.
“Screw you!” he fired back.
Agitated, Kyle kicked the guy’s leg wounds a few times, then aimed the Glock at his right knee.
“Tell me who hired you or I’m gonna blow your kneecap off,” Kyle said.
He stared back at Kyle, then grunted and said, “Carson Rich—”
The cockpit door slammed open, and one of the pilots came storming out, holding a Beretta pistol with two hands and aiming it straight at Kyle. He only had a split second to react, and he used it to hurl his body behind the nearby leather chair. The pilot opened fire, letting loose a repetitive barrage of bullets that exploded into the seat and paneling around him.
In the loud chaos, Kyle crawled under the seat, took aim, and fired a bullet into the pilot’s right ankle. He yelled in pain and his lower body gave out, causing him to topple over and land hard on the floor. Kyle fired two more shots, striking the pilot in the chest and forehead. His head blew open and splattered against the leather seat behind him, then his body went motionless.
Kyle rose to his feet, keeping his gaze forward just in case the other pilot decided to make a move.
“Give me the key,” he said to the leader.
The battered and bloodied guy handed it over, and Kyle kicked him in the head, knocking him unconscious. Kyle dropped to one knee and quickly removed the handcuffs. Rising up, he moved towards the cockpit with his Glock raised. Before he’d made it halfway through the cabin, the plane suddenly banked sharply to the left. Kyle flew across a nearby seat and slammed against the right-side paneling. He struggled to his feet and felt the plane descending rapidly. Fighting for every inch, he soon grabbed the door and pulled himself into the cockpit.
The pilot was seated. He looked focused and intense as he turned and looked over his shoulder at Kyle.
“Go ahead,” the pilot said. “Kill the only pilot left on this plane. Seal your death warrant.”
Kyle paused as he kept his Glock aimed at the guy. He’d taken a few flying lessons before but knew that there was no way in hell he could land a plane like this. He glanced over the pilot at the instrument panel, watching as the altitude continued to drop. He needed a plan and he needed one fast. He thought about options, about where they could land to give him the best chance to escape.
“Where are we?” Kyle asked.
The pilot paused for a moment. “The middle of nowhere,” he finally said. “A hundred miles or so north of Cuba.”
Kyle was in a difficult position, he knew that. The most important thing was to get as far away as possible from the US.
“Turn us around,” Kyle said. “Back to South America. And stop taking us down.”
Their elevation had dropped to below ten thousand feet. Sheets of rain splattered against the windshield, and lightning cracked all around them.
“How much fuel do we have?”
The pilot tilted his head and pointed towards a gauge. As Kyle leaned closer to read it, the pilot slammed his right elbow into his cheek. His head jerked, and pain radiated as the pilot jumped out of his seat, grabbed the Glock still gripped in Kyle’s hands, and slammed it into the wall behind him. It rattled to the floor as Kyle twisted the pilot around and slammed his head into the door frame.
The pilot retaliated, and they scuffled on the floor for a few seconds while the plane flew out of control. The pilot struck Kyle across the face, then choked him, wrapping his fingers around his neck and squeezing with both hands. Just as Kyle felt his consciousness begin to fade, he reached as far as he could behind him and grabbed the Glock, firing round after round into the pilot’s chest. Blood spewed out as his body shook and fell to the floor. He went lifeless, his eyes rolling up into his skull as blood pooled around him.
Kyle jumped to his feet and sat in the pilot’s seat. The plane had an elevation of just a few hundred feet when he grabbed the controls. He extended the flaps and slowed the engines, trying to lower the plane’s speed as much as possible. He pulled back on the controls, but it was no use. They were going down at too steep of an angle and all Kyle could do was level it out as best as he could.
The storm’s intensity seemed to grow even worse as rain splattered against the windshield in thick sheets. The occasional flash of lightning allowed him to see the thrashing waves below. He strapped the full-harness seatbelt over his body, and within seconds, the plane crashed into the surface of the angry ocean. The windshield shattered, and water slammed into Kyle as his world went black in a loud and blurry instant.
TWO
Key West National Wildlife Refuge
March 2009
The light of the late-afternoon sun glistened poetically over the clear water around me as I prepared to jump in. I couldn’t help but smile as I stepped to the edge of the swim platform. Gripping my pole spear in one hand and my freediving fins in the other, I extended my right leg far out into the water. With a warm splash, the ocean overtook me. I relished the magical transition from the world above to the colorful paradise of sprawling marine life below.
I treaded on the surface just long enough to slide into my fins, then took in a deep breath and dove down. The four pounds of lead weights strapped around my waist allowed me to exert minimal energy while kicking for the bottom forty feet below. Every few kicks, I squeezed my nose and tried to breathe out slowly, equalizing my ears to the pressure. As I torpedoed towards the seafloor, the blur of colors took shape, revealing patches of elkhorn coral and brain coral and parades of various species of fish passing by or swimming to stay still in the current.
When I reached the bottom, the air in my lungs contracted to less than half its original volume as the pressure of just over two atmospheres pushed down on me. With my body relaxed, I stretched out horizontally along the seafloor and scanned the alien-like environment around me. Assimilating into the underwater world as best as I could, I moved slowly and kept my eyes peeled, relishing the hunt.
Through the tiny holes in a large dark red gorgonian, I spotted a hogfish gliding over a patch of turtle grass. Keeping my eyes glued to my prey, I gave a few smooth, strong kicks. I finned slowly alongside it, careful not to spook it as its orange body swam for a cluster of rocks covered in sediment and assorted plant growth. Extending the spear out in front of me, I pulled the band back as far as I could, getting it nice and tight, ready to fire.
I kept my body flat, gliding with the current as I moved in close to the unsuspecting hogfish. As it reached the rocks, it turned sideways, giving me a good target. I took aim and released the spear. The band snapped forward and launched the spear through the water. A fraction of a second later, the single-pronged tip stabbed through the scaly flesh in the small space between its black eyes and its gills, killing it instantly.
The brightly colored fish went motionless, floating aimlessly into the rocks with the spear sticking a few feet through its body. I grabbed hold of the spear and smiled as I turned and finned back towards the surface. On the way up, I spotted Jack swimming roughly fifty feet away from me, his wiry tanned body propelling him through the water like a fish as he searched the bottom for his own quarry.
I surfaced at the stern of my forty-eight-foot Baia Flash named Dodging Bullets. Grabbing hold of the ladder, I hoisted my catch up onto the swim platform and slid my mask down to hang around my neck. Atticus, my one-year-old yellow lab, ran over beside me, his tail wagging against the transom.
“Not bad, eh, boy?” I said, scratching behind his right ear.
I’d only had Atticus for a little over a month and had quickly learned of his love for seafood. He looked even more excited than I did for the future meals the fish would bring.
Jack surfaced beside me suddenly. He removed his mask, then slid his long blond hair off his face with his left hand and dropped his fish beside mine. He’d caught a black bass, one of the largest I’d ever seen.
“He was a quick bugger,” he said in his usual laid-back tone. “I nearly missed him.”