by Amy Jarecki
“Where are you, asshole?” shouted the gunman.
“Leave him,” another said while outboard motors rumbled to life.
Still unable to see the trawler, Logan silently pulled himself portside. After he passed the second outboard, the boat’s hull came into view. A half-dozen shooters leaned over the rail, training their weapons across the water. Damn, he was too close to see anything on the trawler’s deck. To make things worse, he could hear nothing over the pelting rain in concert with the buzz and grind of poorly maintained dual outboard engines.
The gunman walked up the gangway then gave the order to cast off.
Not but eight feet ahead of him, a fish jumped. AK-47s opened fire. Bullets pummeled the surf and splattered saltwater into Logan’s eyes. He held his position. If he tried to move any closer, he’d be shot. No question.
The boat reversed.
Diving deep, Logan swam toward the shore. He came up for air in the shadows of a sailboat. Through the blur of rain, the back of the trawler’s deck propelled low in the water—sailing southeast while gunmen patrolled the stern. And Olivia was nowhere in sight.
It wasn’t pretty. And he’d had no opportunity to smuggle aboard. Though it hadn’t been part of the plan, Logan hated seeing Olivia disappear in the clutches of those vultures.
Once the grinding of the trawler’s motor became a distant hum, he pushed the button on his ICE watch and watched it illuminate. “This is Batman. Project Cat House underway.”
“Roger that,” Garth’s voice came loud and clear, and a damned mite perkier than Logan felt.
A streak of lightning fingered overhead. He needed to get out of the water before he was lit up. Thunder boomed. “Where’s my backup?” he asked.
“Patrol boat dispatched. Will arrive at 02:30.”
“Four hours?”
“Had a hiccup. Hold tight.”
Logan swiped the rain out of his eyes. What else would go wrong? “Do you have eyes on the craft, sir?”
“Eyes in the sky are blind. Tracking on. Target traveling southeast at twenty knots. I reckon they’ll cruise for a good long time.”
Logan didn’t like it. Even if the patrol boat could max out at thirty-five knots, the bastards would have a four-hour head start. If anything malfunctioned with Olivia’s chip, she’d be lost. Worse, he had nothing to do but stay out of sight for a hell-of-a long time. After signing off, he climbed up the sailboat’s ladder and scurried across the boat toward the pier. He hopped to the timbers, stooping into the shadows. He pulled the Glock from the holster under his arm. Looking toward the shore, an overhead lamp cast an eerie glow through the rain, but there wasn’t a soul in sight, at least as far as he could see.
Wasting no time, he made his way toward the car.
But two parking spaces before he reached the rental, his gut gave a twist.
Logan froze in a crouch, searching for movement. He hadn’t seen a living thing, but he knew better than to discount his gut. As he ducked behind an SUV, he listened for footsteps. He heard nothing but the rush of the rain making it impossible to discern any other sounds. The only certainty was Logan needed to keep moving.
Glock cocked and ready to shoot, he dashed to the driver’s side door. His mind on full alert, Logan kneeled and illuminated his watch, moving it under the car like a flashlight. A silvery flicker caught his eye. Something too clean. Something that didn’t belong.
Dropping to his shoulder, he moved his arm closer for a better look.
His heart jolted.
An IED was wired to the starter.
Rocking back on his heels, he looked left then right. The rain had lessened to mist and, with it, a fog was rolling in. Probably a good thing. Someone wanted him dead. And right now, his ass was exposed. The perp might be nearby—waiting and watching especially since this looked like an ISIS hit.
Logan eased his way to the rear of the car and peered toward the parking lot entrance. A white van idled at the street corner.
He pulled out his smartphone and selected Jon’s heat seeking app. The screen homed in on the engine first. At 220 degrees, it had been idling for a while. He panned the phone back. Two warm bodies sat in the cab—a driver and a passenger. And panning toward the rear of the vehicle revealed no other life.
Logan pocketed his phone while his blood boiled. He should have known ISIS radicals would stab him in the back. It wasn’t enough that he’d supplied them with a victim and guns. The bastards were insane.
Damn. He was a seasoned SEAL and there he stood in the rain playing the patsy. They’d planned this all along, rubbing their hands and waiting for their IED to blow him to hell.
Not tonight assholes.
Moving like a cat, He ducked around the front of the car, darted to the edge of the lot, and climbed down to the beach. The sand came clear up to the five-foot cement embankment, giving Logan both cover and the ability to move in silence. He ran further than necessary to ensure he’d traveled well beyond the van. Logan’s heart thundered in his ears as he inched up and peered toward the street. Fifty feet ahead, the vehicle hadn’t moved. No surprises there.
Behind a hedge, he climbed to the street. Damp clothes hindered his flexibility, but he rolled to his feet and readied his weapon.
Approaching from the rear, Logan crept to the driver’s side door.
He took two deep breaths before rising high enough to see inside the cab. A spike of fury shot through his chest. Yeah, betrayal served up bitter bile.
Hakim.
The jihadi terrorist sat in the passenger seat like he was waiting for the latest blockbuster to burst in live action before him. But the only thing about to be busted was the jerk’s traitorous skull.
The men’s heads were turned away, watching Logan’s rental car. The storm outside may have ebbed to a mist, but the storm inside Logan’s chest exploded into a raging tempest. He ripped open the door and slammed the butt of his gun against the driver’s temple. The force behind the strike was meant to be immediate and lethal and Logan’s years of training didn’t disappoint. A grunt was the last sound the man made as he slumped sideways.
Hakim whipped his head around but Logan had already launched himself over the dead man. He jammed the muzzle of his Glock in the terrorist’s temple. “What the fuck asshole? If they didn’t murder me on the pier, you had a backup plan? You think I’m that easy to kill?” he snarled in American-accented English.
Hakim’s eyes grew wide. “You’re not—?”
Logan swung with his left.
Hakim blocked, raising a Beretta with his far hand.
Logan caught the man’s wrist, pinning it to the door, applying savage pressure to the bastard’s ulnar nerve. “Did you think you could ice me and take my business?”
Cringing in pain, Hakim clamped ahold of Logan’s arm. “Traitor!”
Logan continued to squeeze until the Beretta clattered to the floor. Hakim shrieked with the pain, but struggled like a frantic cage fighter. The man’s will to live was strong. His grip was like iron as they locked in a battle of wills. But Logan didn’t intend on losing this fight. Not with Olivia sailing off in the hands of heinous barbarians.
“You’re not only a traitor to your country, you’re a cancer on the ass of the human race.” Baring his teeth, Logan attacked with a head-butt. Hakim’s grip eased. Logan swung back, broke free and smashed the butt of the Glock into the terrorist’s skull. Bone crunched. Blood splattered, then Hakim’s head lolled forward.
No shots fired. No loud noise made. Logan’s gaze shot up and down the street and then checked the mirrors. The rain had resumed and not a soul was in sight.
Quickly, he dragged the corpses into the back of the van. Hopping into the driver’s seat, he revved the engine. Once he pulled out onto the road, he contacted ICE.
“Speak,” Garth’s voice came through like a fog horn.
“IED waiting under my rental car. Caught the perps—Kadir Hakim and one of his goons. They lost. Heading northeast on M6098. Need a n
ew location to pick up my ride.”
“Head to Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferat. End of first pier.”
“Roger that.” Logan punched the new location into his GPS. “Send a bomb unit to Villefranche-sur-Mer.”
“On it.”
“Over and out.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Locked in the hold of the trawler, Olivia sat in a corner, her wrists bound. It stank like rotten fish. Worse, her ribs ached like a son-of-a-bitch. She’d heard the order commanding the men not to mar her face though, after her hands had been tied, the bastards didn’t have any qualms about throwing a few jabs to the ribs. It hurt to take a deep breath, but she hadn’t felt any pops. With luck, she was just bruised.
The light was so dim, she couldn’t see the discoloration even if she tried to look. Without her watch or phone, she had no idea how long she’d been there, but she’d slept a little. The sliver of light shining from under the door had grown brighter, so it was probably daylight. The hold was empty aside from a pee bucket.
Nice of them to be so accommodating.
The door opened and Olivia held up her hands to block the blinding light.
“You’re British?” demanded the dark figure in English as if she were the scourge of the earth.
As expected, they’d taken her bag with her fake passport and tossed her track phone overboard. She’d left her ICE phone with Logan. “Yes.”
The man swore in Arabic, moving inside. He was a hulk with a big gut.
“Yes, that’s right,” Olivia sniped. “And the British government will be breathing down your necks so fast, you’ll wish you’d never seen my face.”
“I doubt that.” He sauntered inside and tossed a plate in front of her—a slice of white bread and something that looked like Spam. “No one knows where you are.”
“I told my friends I was going to Nice for dinner.”
“You’re a liar. That’s what I would expect from filthy infidels. You didn’t know you were going to Nice until the Englishman got on the motorway.” The man snorted. “Your friends still think you’re in Lyon. And to ensure you’re untraceable, we’ve rubbed out the scumbag who betrayed you.”
Another jabbing pain stabbed Olivia’s ribs. Her head swam. She’d heard the shots. Logan had taken a dive off the pier. Had he been hit? But what about all the shots fired after they’d marshalled her onto the boat?
They killed him?
God no. He had to be okay.
Or had ISIS set a trap?
Shit.
Olivia forced herself to breathe. No matter how much this animal’s words stung, she couldn’t allow him to think she cared. “You mean David Mason? Good riddance. He’s the asshole who got me into this mess—said he was taking me to his yacht.” She sniffed. “But this piece of rubbish looks like it’s ready for the scrap heap.”
The man drew back his foot. Olivia tightened her elbows around her ribs to bock the blow.
“Yakov,” a deep voice said from the passageway, speaking Arabic in a northern dialect. “Leave her alone. We get more money if we deliver them healthy.”
“Unclean infidel, unfit to drink my piss.” But Yakov stopped himself, pulled a water bottle from his back pocket and tossed it at her feet. “Where you’re going, you’ll need your strength.”
She reached for the water. “Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
She held up her wrists. “Can you at least take these off? They’re rubbing my skin raw.”
“Then stop fighting them.” Yakov turned and slammed the door.
She lurched forward and pounded her fists on the timbers. “I am a British Subject and you will not get away with this, you filthy pirates!” Yes, yelling was futile, but she needed to make them think she was scared. To be honest, she was riled. And there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it wallowing in the bowels of a rickety old fishing boat chugging through the middle of the Mediterranean.
After sliding her back down the wall, Olivia cracked open the cap of the bottle with her teeth and guzzled the water. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pictured the scene at the pier in her mind. The man with the deep voice had fired at Logan as he dove into the water. After that, she couldn’t see anything. Even if it hadn’t been raining, there was another boat blocking her view. She replayed the scene again. Yes. Logan started moving before the gun fired.
But had he survived all the bullets after she’d been taken below decks? Surely, he hadn’t tried to board—not with all the crew’s firepower.
But that still didn’t mean he hadn’t been hit. Someone had shouted “leave him”. Did that mean leave the corpse, leave him be, or leave him for someone else to kill?
She bashed her fist against the wall.
He’s not dead.
No. Freaking. Way.
***
The trawler’s motors growled in low gear as the boat rocked from side to side. Olivia had heard a similar sound on Kadir’s yacht many times before. They were docking, and it was about time. She’d been in the hold for two days at least. Her legs were cramped, she had a migraine and she was starving. Sure, they’d given her bread and Spam, but the portions were hardly enough to keep a Chihuahua alive.
The door opened and Yakov threw in a bundle of black cloth. “Put this on.”
She shook it out and a piece dropped to the floor. “It’s too bloody dark. I can’t even tell front from back.”
“I’ll wait.” He moved so a ray of light streamed in from the corridor.
Standing, she regarded the garments. An abaya and a burka. “Are we going somewhere?”
“You are.” He held up a knife.
She shrank away with a gasp.
He snorted. “To cut your cuffs.”
She let him slice the plastic, then rubbed her wrists. “Where?”
“Up north. Past Aleppo.”
Her stomach squeezed. They were taking her deep into ISIS controlled territory. “What’s there?”
Yakov’s expression turned angry. “Shut up and put those on. You’re not fit for a dog’s eyes in that dress. The van’s waiting.”
She pulled the abaya over her head, covering her filthy sundress. “You’re not making me ride a camel?”
“You think you’re smart, don’t you?”
“If I were smart, I wouldn’t be in this situation.” She held up the mesh veil of the burka. “Any chance I can get something to eat before I’m smothered by this?”
“No.” Yakov pointed his AK47 at her chest. His finger wasn’t anywhere near the trigger. “Don’t make me use this.”
For a split second, Olivia contemplated how easy it would be to disarm the bastard. Even his body language was relaxed. Now that her hands were free, with a step to the side, she could take charge of the gun’s muzzle, upend it and slam the butt into his jaw. With luck, his teeth would shatter, he’d swallow his tongue, and he’d be dead in about twenty seconds without a shot fired. But then she’d have the rest of the crew to battle, and that wouldn’t help her locate the hostages. Swallowing her pride, she pulled the burka over her head and peered through the mesh.
It was no surprise they were taking her into the heart of ISIS controlled territory. Still, satellite images and assets on the ground hadn’t brought back any intel on the location of the harem. It could have been anywhere, though the Middle East was a sure bet. Syria was likely but so had been Iraq. Regardless, the further inland they took her, the tougher the rescue op would be. Losses were more likely, too.
At least her kidnappers had been smart enough to dress her for the journey. If she showed up remotely close to Aleppo with blonde hair and wearing a sundress, she’d be dead within an hour—and that’s only because the apes would take their time torturing her.
“Hands,” Yakov commanded.
Olivia obediently held out her wrists while he attached a new set of zip cuffs. “Where are we now?”
“Shut up.”
“You say that too much. Your English could use
some polish.”
With an unpleasant growl, he grabbed her elbow and yanked her into the corridor. “The problem with the infidel’s women is they are disrespectful.”
Olivia started down the narrow hall and headed for the stairs, but the jerk tightened his grip, tugged her into his chest and pressed his lips near her ear. “If it were up to me, I’d slit your throat and laugh while the life drains from your body.”
A spike of hot ire shot up her spine. Snapping her elbow from his grasp, she faced him, the burka hiding the hatred in her eyes. “I’ll remember you said that.”
“See? You think you’re superior, but you are weak compared to me.”
“Perhaps one day soon you’ll discover how weak I am.” Before he could place another finger on her, she marched through the corridor.
“You’re not as afraid as the others.”
She stopped. “Others? How many others?”
“Shut it.” He pushed her in the shoulder. “Keep going.”
Up top, a half-dozen thugs waited for her, their shadowy faces looking like they’d like nothing better than to put a bullet in her skull. It was nightfall again, and the trawler was lit only by a single lantern.
Yakov grabbed her arm. “If you proceed to the van nice and easy I just might let you live.” He started for the gangway. “And if you utter a sound, I’ll hit you so hard you won’t be able to breathe.”
Charming.
No matter how much she seethed inside, she exercised control by focusing on her heart, her steady breathing, and her own internal strength. Years of training had taught her to block her fear. That’s right, after Kahlil she hadn’t lost her knack. She just needed to be thrown into the midst of extreme danger. This was where she was sharpest. This was where she belonged. When her life hung on a precipice, she could face evil in the eye and take on the world.
She’d been there before, though not with her wrists bound. Yakov led the way to the pier. Olivia obediently followed, noting the knife at his hip and the AK47 swinging from his shoulder harness and hanging across his chest. Two thugs similarly armed followed behind. Ahead, a uniformed guard outfitted with an M16A4 assault rifle suspended from a shoulder sling waited with his hand resting on the gun’s handle. The insignia on his uniform indicated he was a customs agent. It took about two minutes to bribe him. Then Yakov directed Olivia into the back of a van. At least she had a seat—the most comfort she’d experienced since her abduction.