Kathryn did as instructed. It thudded against the floor, and Wyatt quickly found it. Rising to one knee, he sent the remaining rounds through the opening. Roark rolled over the deck railing and tumbled to the forest floor just as the nine-millimeter rounds splintered the railing and continued overhead. He took off up the mountain. The cold assaulted his throat and warred against his warm breath for dominance. It quickly won victory, and Roark’s throat burned from the exertion.
“Are you okay?” Kathryn asked Wyatt as he rose to his feet. He placed his hand on his side and exhaled out the wave of pain.
“Get my one-ten!” he shouted, referring to his sniper rifle. The night’s cold swirled into the living room, and Kathryn scurried back into the bedroom to retrieve the rifle. In the meantime, Wyatt had thrown on his boots. Kathryn emerged with the heavy rifle and dropped it down to him. He caught it, ignoring the pain in his side.
“Get back to the bedroom,” he ordered before he rushed outside. Kathryn watched him go, but she did not intend to return to the bedroom. Because of her involvement, Wyatt had gained the upper hand, and she was not about to let him continue alone. She hurried down the spiral staircase, found the pistol, and loaded a new magazine before racking the slide. She followed him outside, and the cold nearly paralyzed her.
Wyatt braced his M110A1 sniper rifle against the railing and sought out the intruder. Thankful for the full moon and its friendly light, he quickly found the man scurrying up the mountainside. A wave of pain rolled over him and his vision blurred, but the Raider fought through it.
Kathryn watched as Wyatt exhaled slowly and his finger found the trigger. Finding his natural respiratory pause at the end of his exhale, Wyatt watched the reticle sway across the man’s profile. He rapidly blinked his eyes; the pain from his side grew deeper and burned sharper. He couldn’t get the reticle to steady, but as it passed over Roark’s profile, he squeezed the trigger and hoped for the best.
Roark heard the suppressed rifle’s breathy chirp just before the searing pain ripped through his left shoulder. He slumped into the nearest tree and rolled around it for cover. He forced his breath through his gritted teeth to fight off the rolling waves of pulsing and throbbing pain, and he cradled his arm at the elbow. He cursed over and over again as he took off once more up the mountain.
Mist rose from the ground obscuring Wyatt’s view, and the forest grew thicker and thicker as his reticle traced up the mountain.
“Did you get him?” Kathryn asked. Her voice trembled with fear.
“I … hit him,” Wyatt replied, but he couldn’t be sure he had killed the man. “We need … we need … ” his breathing grew more difficult, “we need … to leave.” Kathryn caught Wyatt as he slumped forward. His rifle clanged against the deck, but she ignored it and dragged him inside.
“I’ll call nine-one-one!” she exclaimed. Wyatt’s hand shot up and gripped her forearm. She looked down at him, and he shook his head.
“My guns … they’re illegal for me to have. Pack up the car … and we’ll head for the nearest hospital.” Kathryn did as he had instructed. She retrieved his rifle and pistol, and, after stowing them in the car and covering them with a blanket, she helped Wyatt to the vehicle. After starting the Honda, she sped backwards, whipped the steering wheel, spun the car around, and hit the gas to zoom down the driveway.
Wyatt passed in and out of consciousness, and Kathryn repeatedly screamed his name to wake him. After hastily finding a hospital using her iPhone GPS, Kathryn sped to Page Memorial Hospital in Luray. It was the nearest one, and, upon arrival, she threw the car in park and raced inside the emergency center.
“Help!” she cried.
“What is it, ma’am?” the staff behind the counter inquired. Her voice held an edge of not expecting what would come next.
“My boyfriend, he’s hurt really bad!” Kathryn answered.
“Alright, Miss,” the staff replied kindly, “we’ll take care of him. Just bring him in,” but Kathryn cut her off.
“He will die if you do not help him,” she stated gravely. The severity of her words and tone caught the woman off guard. She turned around and shouted, “I have a priority one!” Two men with a gurney meandered from a set of twin doors. They trotted toward Kathryn, and, although their pace agitated her, she led them outside.
“John!” she cried. The passenger door was open, and Wyatt lay sprawled on the ground. The two men quickened their pace.
“Any spinal or neck injuries?” one of them asked as he knelt to examine his patient.
“No,” Kathryn quickly replied.
“Alright,” the man said to his colleague, “let’s lift him up.” Kathryn watched as the two men lifted her beloved onto the lowered gurney and strapped him down. Kathryn followed alongside until one of the men stopped for a moment, touching her shoulder.
“You’ll need to move your car. There is parking just over there,” he said, pointing to the structure.
“But,” she protested.
“Ma’am, please. We’ll take good care of him.” Kathryn nodded, and her tears wet her cheeks as she watched them roll Wyatt inside. She inhaled and ran both hands over her head as she fought off hysteria.
“I’m stronger than this,” she told herself. She resolved her emotions and raced toward her Honda. The sooner she parked, the sooner she could be at Wyatt’s side again.
48
Great Abaco Island,
The Abaco Islands, Bahamas
Morgan helped Silva from his seat on the plane, and the two men descended onto the tarmac of Leonard M. Thompson International Airport. His chest still hurt considerably, but his breathing had steadily grown stronger. He glanced around the devastated island and noted the repairs the country had initiated. Hurricane Dorian had decimated the small island and was considered the worst natural disaster in the country’s history, but Silva hardly cared. His mind already placed him in Green Turtle Cay where his business would continue.
Kevon Pinder waited patiently by his vehicle. His life was better than most, and the black Range Rover behind him and the nice suit he wore confirmed his standing. The vehicle gleamed in the morning light, and Pinder was satisfied with his wax job. He picked up Mr. Silva from the airport three or four times a year and had done so for the last two. He still had no clue how he landed this opportunity, but Mr. Silva paid him well and had imported the Range Rover to keep in Pinder’s care. It was a dream job.
“Mr. Silva,” Pinder greeted, “Welcome back to the Abacos.” He smiled warmly, and his white teeth gleamed in contrast against his dark skin.
“Thank you, Mr. Pinder,” Silva returned. Pinder quickly opened the rear door behind the driver’s seat, and Silva climbed in. Pinder noticed Silva’s weary complexion but did not press the matter. Fear always surged through his body when he picked up his employer. A fair bit of that fear stemmed from a concern of losing his job, as if one small mistake would ruin his good fortune, but Silva himself kneaded a small fraction of that fear. Pinder knew a dangerous man when he saw one, and Silva was no exception. He couldn’t place his finger on it, since Silva had always dealt kindly with him, but deep down he just knew. Mistakes were not to be tolerated.
Pinder started the engine and commenced his drive on the familiar route that led north to Treasure Cay Marina, where an ocean-worthy, luxury, sport yacht waited for his patron.
The fifty-two-foot, Windy SR52 Blackbird sat calmly in its slip at the marina. Its black hull contrasted attractively with the clear, turquoise water. The sport yacht boasted a price tag of over a million and a half, and it fit Silva’s taste perfectly; however, he was sad he enjoyed it only briefly the few times he visited the island per year. The bright red, leather seating shouted boldly against the light woodgrain of the decking and black accents. The design almost appeared like a combination of a United States Navy PT boat and a professional racing boat. Radar sensors spun over the cockpit, and Silva drew all eyes as he stepped off the dock and onto the luxury craft.
Morg
an handed Pinder an envelope containing a five-thousand-dollar, cash tip, to which he was accustomed, and followed his employer onboard. He had never seen such a boat and secretly marveled at its design while maintaining his usual, grim expression. Silva stood at the controls and fired up the engine. It roared like an old mustang before settling into a pleasant purr. Silva eased the yacht out of the slip and piloted it south down the channel and into the open Caribbean.
The yacht cut through the calm water with silky grace, and Morgan admired every aspect of their journey. His promotion certainly came with perks. No longer would he work the back waterways and ports of the developing world moving Silva’s merchandise. He had arrived, and he intended to remain at his current standing.
“Is the team in place?” Silva asked without taking his gaze off the northwest horizon.
“Yeah,” Morgan answered. “How do you know this guy will come for you?”
“Because of you,” he simply replied. The comment caught Morgan off guard.
“Because of the girl,” he corrected.
“No, Mr. Morgan, you are the prize upon which Rian Mather-Pike has set his gaze. Having you here assures he will come,” Silva explained. The entire notion didn’t sit well with the Englishman, but he hardly had time to contemplate before Silva piloted the craft into the strait where his supplier’s residence was located. He spotted the blue house sitting alone and separated from the rest of the properties. Silva did not find the three-story villa impressive, but he could see how the general found the place charming. Silva docked the SR52 Blackbird alongside the small pier, and Morgan secured the vessel.
General Weber watched from the second-floor balcony as the two men exited the yacht and approached his villa. He sipped his dark rum and raised his glass in greeting before turning inside. In a few moments, Silva stood before him.
“What happened, Francisco?” Weber asked as he refilled his glass. His condescending tone brewed anger within the Spaniard.
“I was betrayed,” Silva replied.
“We can’t have that now, can we?” Weber replied, posing the words more as a statement than a question.
“I’m taking care of it,” Silva replied.
“I hope so,” Weber snarled. The sudden shift in demeanor startled both Silva and Morgan. Silva had killed a fair number of people in his time, but Weber stood on another level to which Silva could not hope to advance. Despite his dapper island attire, Weber had likely put more people in body bags than both Morgan and Silva combined, perhaps even twice over. He commanded one of the world’s most elite fighting forces, and Silva was very aware of that fact. There were very few men Silva feared, but Weber was surely one of them. “Now,” the general said, “I need to fill you in on some things.”
• • •
“You burned Al Amiri?” Silva asked, stunned. “You ensured me that you would be able to cover that up.”
“And I did,” Weber hissed.
“Then why is Al Amiri dead?”
“I am a man under authority, and I posed the best solution to prevent exposure, and, as far as I can see, it worked.” Weber took a sip of rum. “Business can resume as usual after we clear up this twenty-million-dollar debt.”
“Debt?” Silva probed.
“Yes, you lost twenty million in product. Now, I don’t care if you write a check or you negotiate higher prices on the next batch, but you will cover the cost of what you lost,” Weber explained. The way Weber spoke, with such superiority, agitated Silva all the more, and his patience wore thin.
“This is a mutually beneficial arrangement,” Silva countered. It wasn’t about the money, but the principle.
“Indeed, but I can toss a rock and find ten other arms dealers that would kill for our arrangement. How many suppliers of top-tier, United States weaponry do you know?” Weber didn’t wait for an answer. “When I found you, you were dealing in Vietnam-era Russian trash. Look at where you are now. Do you want to throw that away over twenty million?”
“I’ll repay your cut, and your cut only,” Silva countered. Weber shook his head.
“Consider this a show of good faith,” the general replied with a confident grin. Silva maintained his composure despite his desire to lash out at the man. Fearful of him or not, Silva possessed his own threshold, and Weber was hovering quite close to the line. He was rich before Weber, and he’ll be rich after Weber. However, that level of wealth depended on how well he played his cards.
“I will repay the twenty, plus an additional five if you can secure heavy weaponry,” Silva stated. It was Weber’s turn to be caught off guard.
“You want to deal in F35s and M1s?” Weber scoffed, referring to the United States’ most advanced combat aircraft and tank.
“Perhaps not right away, but eventually, yes,” Silva replied. His confidence growing, he rose from his seat and meandered over to the bar. He perused the stock and settled on a bottle of Black Tot British Royal Navy Imperial Rum. When he turned and locked stares with Weber, the general showcased his annoyance. However, the notion of five million, not accountable to anyone, intrigued him. The twenty million would be dispersed to pay off his black-market employees spread throughout the Marines Corps, SOCOM, various ports, and shipping companies. He would take home around four of that twenty, but the extra five tickled his greed too much for him to bear.
“We are phasing out our heavy armor, so I’ll see what I can do,” Weber replied with a smile. Yes, he had chosen well in his partnership with Silva. The Spaniard was a visionary, and why disrupt a good thing?
49
Green Turtle Cay,
The Abaco Islands, Bahamas
Shaw gazed through the night to behold the well-lit, Bahamian villa as American Rhetor glided smoothly through the sea, passing the residence at a distance. Natalie stood next to Shaw, and Affré and Mather-Pike next to her. They had picked up the two men in Coopers Town on the north shore of Little Abaco, which conveniently lay on their route toward Green Turtle Cay.
“You sure this will work?” Shaw asked Affré. “How do you know you both won’t be shot on sight.”
“I don’t,” he replied, “but it is the only way to expose the extra security Silva would have acquired.”
“And how do you know?” Natalie asked.
“Because I was there when he did this before,” the Frenchman replied. Shaw shifted his eyes back to the villa and nodded.
Shaw returned to the helm and steered the vessel to the designated insertion point. He dropped anchor off the beach to the west, out of sight from the villa, and prepared. He assembled both carbines, allowing Natalie to take her pick. She chose Shaw’s personal AR-15. Shaw approved of her choice, wanting her to have the lighter, more reliable weapon.
Anticipating that Silva would have Mather-Pike frisked upon arrival, he was to go unarmed, but Affré would carry Shaw’s service Glock in his waistline. And finally, Shaw popped open the black gun case and again beheld the 1911 pistol with awe, appreciation, and grief. Having already swapped out the barrels, he threaded on the forty-five-caliber silencer and fixed a Surefire X300U weapon light to the rail on the underside of the weapon’s frame. Shaw then slammed home a loaded magazine, racked the slide, and clicked on the safety. He removed the magazine to top it off with another jacketed hollow-point round. He had eight rounds in the gun, but he wouldn’t need them all. He stowed the weapon in the RagnarokSD holster and handed Natalie his personal Glock 19. She seated the weapon in the same holster on her belt, and she indicated her readiness with a nod.
The four piled into American Rhetor’s inflatable tender and sped toward the island. Under the cover of darkness, they would easily infiltrate the island; penetrating Weber’s illuminated villa was a different matter. Shaw helped Natalie out of the craft, not that she needed it, and the two other men remained afloat.
“Remember, the security team will be located close by, wait until we draw them out,” Affré whispered to Natalie and Shaw. They nodded.
“Good luck,” she sai
d. Affré bound Mather-Pike’s hands with a single zip tie. They made sure to leave enough room between his wrists so that he could break the bonds against his chest when needed.
Shaw watched the two men speed away in his tender and hoped their plan would work. Shaw was good, and Natalie had proven herself in combat, but they were no match for the fully outfitted security team that Affré had described. Everything relied on perfectly planned execution, and if the special operations community had taught Shaw anything, it was that perfectly planned execution didn’t exist. Adaptability was necessary, as was speed, surprise, and violence of action.
• • •
“Are you expecting anyone?” Weber asked as he observed the tender enter the straight. He puffed on his cigar, exhaled, and watched as the small boat docked at his personal pier. Silva sat up and attempted to identify the two men. The smaller of the two shoved the larger man out of the boat. He fell, catching his foot on the edge of the dock, and landed on his chest. His hands were bound, and the other man kicked him in the side.
“My dear Romuald,” Silva uttered affectionately. He rose from his seat on the balcony and watched Affré hoist Mather-Pike to his feet. Nearly giddy, Silva couldn’t hide his wide grin. “Mr. Morgan,” he called. The Englishman stepped through the French doors and beheld the scene.
“Well, how about that,” he commented.
“Call in the team,” Silva ordered. He nodded, produced his radio, and turned inside. Affré, carrying the metal briefcase, met Silva’s gaze from the lawn and nodded. Silva returned it before heading inside to greet his most loyal employee.
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