The Tide: Dead Ashore (Tide Series Book 6)

by Anthony J Melchiorri

  “Damn,” Glenn said. “We hit the motherlode, didn’t we?”

  “Won’t know until we get in there,” Dom said. “Any sign of Spitkovsky?”

  “Haven’t seen the ugly asshole yet,” Jenna said.

  Dom yearned to wrap his fingers around the man’s neck. This time, he wouldn’t let go. Even if it cost another bullet or two in his leg, it would be a small price to pay.

  “Any Titans?” he asked.

  “No,” Jenna said. “Honestly, I don’t think they can fit a Titan in here.”

  Dom’s eyes shot toward the other warehouses. Maybe they had a Titan or two hidden in one of those. He didn’t really believe it, though. Something else was going on here, something more troubling than what they’d witnessed in the Congo.

  “Any indication how these guys are controlling the Skulls if the Titans aren’t around?” he asked.

  “I can’t tell from here,” Jenna said.

  “Then we’re going in there to see,” Dom said. He considered their options. Either they could barge in through the front entrance and engage the guards head-on, risking casualties, or they could try something with a little more flair—a little more risk—but a higher reward if they pulled it off. Dom knew what choice Meredith would make if she were in his shoes. He signaled the rest of the Hunters to the roof with Jenna.

  This was far too ripe of an opportunity for Dom to pass up. The intel inside this lab could prove extraordinarily helpful. He stared through the skylight at computers.

  “Want me to get us down there, Chief?” Miguel asked as he examined the rooftop for access points.

  “Proceed.”

  “Consider it done.” Miguel flipped open a panel on his prosthetic arm. He tapped on one of the small buttons concealed there. “Stand back. It’s going to get a little messy.”

  A thin stream of acid, modeled after the Droolers’ weapon of choice, jetted from a nozzle in the prosthetic. It sizzled against the silicone seal of the nearest skylight. Miguel stepped back to admire his handiwork.

  “Door’s open, my friends,” he said.

  Glenn and Spencer grasped the edges of the glass and placed it aside. Jenna uncoiled a rappelling rope from her pack and secured it to a pipe poking up from the roof. She tugged the rope to check her knots.

  Dom perched over the edge, staring down into the warehouse. It wasn’t like the high-tech facility in the Congo. Everything here appeared industrial and neglected. Rust pocked the metal walls, and dust covered the floors. Dried brown stains marred the concrete. It looked like old blood.

  A thousand nightmarish thoughts swirled through Dom’s mind about why bloodstains would turn up in a place like this. But after everything he had witnessed since the Oni Agent outbreak, there was one thing he knew for certain. Whatever dark scenarios he could imagine, the reality was likely worse.

  “Miguel, Jenna, you two first. Glenn, Spencer, take rear guard. When we get down there, top priority is to establish uplinks to the Huntress. Secondary is disrupting all activities taking place here. I want Spitkovsky to know we crashed his party.”

  Miguel perked up at that. “Party crashing, huh? I’m good at that.”

  “Then get to it.”

  Miguel and Jenna crouched over the open skylight, their eyes searching the floors and catwalks below. With a nod from Dom, Miguel took hold of the rope, unspooled it into the space, and slid down it. Jenna followed quickly after.

  “All clear,” Miguel said through the comm link.

  Dom wrapped his arms and legs around the rope and began his descent. The muscles in his wounded leg burned as he accelerated toward the floor. The pain almost made him lose his grip on the rope, but he clenched his jaw, determined to get through it. He hit the ground hard, his leg buckling under him. Miguel helped him stand.

  “You good, Chief?” he asked. He wore a serious, professional expression, but Dom could see the worry behind his brown eyes.

  “Rusty on the landing, that’s all,” Dom said. Then he chinned the mic to send a command to Spencer and Glenn. “Clear.”

  The two big men came sliding down with far more grace than Dom. Once they hit the floor, Alpha team spread out among the crates and boxes, bristling with weapons and awaiting their next move. Jenna peered down one passage, and Miguel checked another.

  “Clear,” they both said.

  Dom signaled them on toward the first bank of computers. Most of the machines were powered down. Hand-scrawled notes covered lab notebooks and other loose papers on the makeshift worktops.

  “Russian and Farsi,” Glenn explained. He took snapshots of all the notes to translate later.

  “Jenna, start with the uplinks,” Dom commanded.

  Jenna fished out a handful of USB sticks from her pocket and plugged them in as she powered on the computers.

  “Huntress, Alpha here,” Dom said. “We’re installing uplinks.”

  “Copy,” Chao said. “Ready as soon as they come online.”

  Before Dom could say more, the tap of footsteps echoed off the walls. Dom signaled for Alpha team to take cover. They ducked behind the desks, rifles aimed toward the open door.

  The footsteps grew louder, more numerous. Dom’s heart raced, and his finger twitched at the trigger guard. He pictured the rope still hanging from the sunlight, half-hidden in the dark corner of the warehouse but still noticeable by a scrutinizing eye. Voices called out. He estimated at least a half-dozen hostiles. With surprise on their side, Alpha team could take them down. But the resulting fray wouldn’t be worth it. There was still much of the lab to be explored, and Dom didn’t want to get mired in a gunfight before they had a chance to do so.

  The voices were yelling out in what sounded like alarm. They were almost to the entrance now. Then Dom saw the first one. He expected a man dressed in black fatigues not so different from his own. But instead, Dom saw some type of bulky armor encasing the man’s limbs and legs.

  More of them flashed by. All seemed to be wearing the same strange body armor. None stopped to investigate the room. Their footsteps pounded into the distance.

  “What in the hell was that?” Spencer asked.

  No one had an answer for him.

  “Miguel, Jenna, clear the passage,” Dom said. “We need to get to the bank of computer terminals in the next chamber.”

  They began stalking through the hallways with shadows as their only cover. They passed by more bloodstained floors and walls. Something tingled at the back of Dom’s neck, and his eyes danced nervously across the space as they entered the next room. They managed to connect the uplinks without incident, but as they made their way back into the passage, Dom paused.

  A low groan had caught his ears. He froze, holding one hand up. The others looked around. Judging by their expressions, he hadn’t been the only one to hear the noise.

  Dom crept around a stack of crates toward a rusted metal door. The noise seemed to be coming from the other side. Two men stood in front of the door. They looked bored.

  Before Dom could duck, one trained his eyes on him. He reached for his radio and began to speak. Dom sprang into action. He charged the man and slammed the butt of his rifle into the guard’s hand, knocking the radio aside. With another swing, he sent the man’s teeth chattering together, and a knee to the stomach left the man choking for air. One final blow knocked him to the floor, blood pooling from a busted nose and jaw.

  Jenna had acted a split second after Dom and now had her arm wrapped around the other guard’s neck. His face turned white then blue as he struggled for air. His fingers lashed out against Jenna’s arms. The man’s eyes searched Dom’s, at first with seething hatred and rage then a strange vulnerability, as if he was asking for help. As if he couldn’t understand how his evening had gone so terribly wrong.

  Finally, Jenna lowered his body next to the other guard’s and used the back of her hand to wipe the sweat from her brow. “Damn, Captain, it’s hard to keep up with you.”

  Dom refrained from grinning, but only just.
It was a small bit of satisfaction to know he could still strike like a jaguar despite the pain radiating through his leg. “This old man can still move.”

  “Won’t argue with you there, but a little warning would be nice.”

  “I’ll ask the next bastards to give us a head start.”

  Jenna offered a playful grin back. Her expression slipped when the groaning from behind the door started again. Dom pressed his ear to the cool steel. He signaled for Jenna and Miguel to cover him. Spencer and Glenn watched the hall.

  There was a moment of hesitation. Maybe they didn’t need to know what was behind that door. Maybe it would only cause trouble.

  But he might be inches away from knowing what Spitkovsky’s plans were. There was no way he could pass this opportunity up. His fingers curled around the door handle, and he gave it a tug.

  Locked. He signaled to Miguel.

  The Hunter withdrew a lock-picking kit from his prosthetic and inserted a probe into the lock. It took only a few seconds before he was rewarded with a satisfying click. Miguel and Jenna stepped back, their rifles shouldered, as Dom nudged the door open slowly. The groaning sounded louder, and a wave of rot slammed into Dom’s nostrils. He repressed an instinctive urge to gag and pushed into the dark.

  Dom’s stomach lurched at the sight that lay before him. There were no Skulls in here. No Droolers or Goliaths. No Titans.

  The sight was far more terrifying.

  They had found the missing American SEAL team.

  -32-

  Andris surveyed the guards stationed around the munitions warehouse. The cool sea breeze did nothing to alleviate the desperation rising in his chest. He and Meredith needed to do something fast. They could not wait the whole night out here for the soldiers to go back to their routine duties.

  He tried counting the guards posted behind sandbag bunkers. There were at least twenty at the entrance of the building, and they appeared to be vigilant. He did not like their chances.

  “It looks as if it will be very difficult to make it in there now,” Andris said.

  “Probably shouldn’t have tripped the alarm, huh?”

  “Eh, things were too easy for us. Sometimes it is good to face a challenge.”

  “You’re only saying that now because we have no other choice. I would’ve been perfectly content to sneak in there without the extra guards.”

  “As you Americans like to say, beggars cannot be the choosers. We still need explosives.”

  Andris put his eye to his rifle’s scope again and swept it over the shipyard. He could see the plan unfolding in his mind—make it into the warehouse, steal what they needed, then be off. There was only one problem. He sighed and lowered his rifle.

  “I cannot see a good way in,” he said. “Not from here.”

  Meredith crouched beside him and put down her binos. “Same. I don’t want to start a firefight we can’t win.”

  Andris tapped his rifle. “I could shoot them all from here. One at a time. Like shooting potatoes in a wheelbarrow.”

  “Fish in a barrel isn’t good enough for you?”

  “In Latvia, potatoes are easier to shoot than fish.”

  “Wait, you guys actually hunt potatoes?”

  Andris let out another defeated sigh. “No, Meredith. It is a joke.”

  “Thank God,” Meredith said. “I thought you were going a little crazy on me.”

  “It is being around all these Russians that is the problem,” he said. “This is why I want to shoot them all.” Andris traced his scope over the shipyard, looking for something he had missed before. Then he saw it.

  “I have another idea,” Andris said.

  “I’d welcome a non-crazy one.”

  “Follow me,” Andris said. They flitted from the crates they were hiding behind to more cover farther along, working their way closer to another warehouse. “In Latvia, as a boy, I was always getting into trouble. I was not a studious type.”

  “No kidding?” Meredith asked, her words reeking of sarcasm.

  He stopped behind a stack of oil drums. Meredith slid next to a nearby crate. She signaled there were two contacts headed his direction. Their footsteps clattered over the shipyard as he pressed himself low and tight against the oil drums. Soon the footsteps faded, and he sprinted to the next set of concrete barriers surrounding a warehouse. This one was left largely unguarded. Two soldiers stood before the entrances, but their eyes were trained on the munitions depot.

  He paused, watching the two guards. One was picking his nose. These were most definitely not the best of the bunch, unlike those who were guarding the more vital parts of the shipyards. The FGL seemed largely unconcerned about whatever it was that was inside this place.

  Andris hoped it would prove to be their downfall.

  “I spent much time outside,” Andris said, continuing his story as if there had been no interruption. “Sometimes my friends and I would wander into the farms outside the city on the weekends. We had heard stories about the resistance fighters. They were not well equipped and resorted to guerilla warfare to battle the Nazis and later the Soviets.”

  “I can imagine,” Meredith said. “Does this story have a point?”

  “They had to do much improvising, these guerillas. In the countryside, they did not have many munitions. But there was one thing they had plenty of.”

  “Fertilizer,” Meredith finished for him. “Great idea, Andris. Still crazy, but great idea. Still those types of explosives require very precise measurements. You can’t just mix a bunch of gas and ammonium nitrate and hope for a boom.”

  “This is correct,” Andris said. “But I learned much from the old guerillas. There is a reason I am the explosives specialist with the Hunters.”

  They slipped alongside the warehouse until they made it to another entrance. This one was unguarded.

  “They really are not concerned about this place,” Andris said.

  Meredith tested the door. The handle was locked. “My bet is the two guys in front are just keeping watch while everyone else goes to the other warehouse or the labs.”

  “We will find out very soon, won’t we?” Andris slammed the butt of his rifle into the handle. It dented but didn’t fall away. A second blow did the trick. He tensed, waiting to hear an alarm from within. But there was nothing.

  They crept inside, swallowed by the cavernous darkness of the place. The air was stagnant, thick with the humidity and heat trapped there. A layer of grime and dust seemed to cover most everything. The stench of decaying food wafted from some corner of the place. At least Andris did not smell the distinctive tang of the Skulls, which reminded him of the Riga fish market at the end of a summer’s day.

  Andris had guessed this warehouse served as a hub for goods being shipped first by sea and then by trucks that would carry that cargo into the rest of northern Africa. The neglected transport trucks around back by the loading docks had supported those suspicions. Inside, pallets of everything from textiles to drums of oil and shrink-wrapped machinery confirmed he had been right.

  It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for: commercial-grade fertilizers. Andris selected one that contained ammonium nitrate without additives like urea or ammonium sulfate that would render it inert. Finding fuel and containers to combine the ingredients didn’t prove difficult, given the extent of supplies in the neglected warehouse. All the while, Meredith watched the doors for him, and he monitored the voices over the radio.

  So far, no one had spotted them—or Alpha team. Most talk was still concerned with the activity around the front gates. Andris wondered if his Russian had gotten rusty; people continued to say they had “communicated” with the Skulls or even “talked” them into settling down. It must have been code for something else. What, he could not determine. Right now, his most pressing concern was delivering the explosives to their new homes.

  He signaled to Meredith that he was done, and they began creeping back toward where they’d entered. The door still stood ajar.


  But something had changed. There were new footprints in the dust covering the floor. They appeared almost clawlike. Very different from the boot prints Meredith and Andris had left earlier.

  The sounds of heavy breathing caught their ears, and they swiveled hard to their right.

  There, bathed in the dim moonlight, stood a creature that filled Andris with dread.

  ***

  Tendrils of exhaustion crept through Shepherd’s body. They pulled at his insides. His limbs were almost numb with the effort of helping lift Matsumoto. Divya wore a permanent grimace as she trudged along after him, holding the other end of the stretcher. The old man was nothing but dead weight.

  Matsumoto was awake now. His features were distorted as if he was in pain.

  Good, Shepherd thought. Let him bear some of this burden.

  Shepherd wanted to ask Navid how Terrence was holding up. But one glance at the Hunter’s face told him everything he needed to know. They had given him all the painkillers they’d been able to salvage from the wreck. That amounted to mostly over-the-counter pain meds in a standard first-aid kit. None of the barbiturates or sedatives they’d been using to handle his third-degree burns.

  Sergeant Costas looked shell-shocked. The man was clearly haunted by the people they had been forced to leave behind. Rory and Rachel offered a shoulder each to a man with a twisted ankle. Rich and Tammy were no longer relegated to comforting their son; they’d inherited a couple of weapons from the dead airmen and had been given hasty lessons on how to use them.

  They were a sorry bunch.

  “Please tell me someone is listening to that radio,” Shepherd said to Costas.

  The man quite literally shook himself out of his stupor. “What? Oh, yes, I will try again.”

  Shepherd had long since learned to expect nothing more than static. And once again, his expectations were met. If they didn’t catch a break soon, Shepherd feared that their grim parade would no longer be able to continue. They were utterly demoralized after leaving their brothers and sisters behind. Now they were driven by rote duty, and it was Shepherd’s responsibility to guide these people through these Skull-infested woods.