“Tell them that one of your guests has quirky tastes in yachts,” Alpha said.
Baker supposed that could work. If the crew dug deeper and wondered why rich guests would ride in such an ugly vessel, he’d just have to feign ignorance. His was not to question the tastes of his guests.
“How am I going to explain you?” Baker pressed. “Uniformed men with guns will most certainly spook them.”
“Only you will know we are here,” Alpha explained. “But we will be watching. If anything out of the ordinary happens—and I mean anything—you and your staff will be the first to be shot.”
Baker didn’t know the crew of the Katie Starling personally, but he understood who they represented. He had no doubt that any violence started by Alpha and his army would be finished by the ship’s company. It had been Baker’s experience over the years that the illicit-arms industry was a group not to be messed with.
It was a lesson Baker would learn firsthand soon enough if he were fortunate enough to live to greet the Ukrainian operatives who would arrive in two days to pick up the shipment they had already paid for.
The pier burned white-hot with the lights turned on. Baker and his staff waited midway down the dock as the ship went through its berthing procedures. He stood with his feet planted and his arms folded while the other workers sat in idling fork trucks.
“Remember, gentlemen,” he coached his workers. He had to find the right volume level that would allow him to be heard over the idling engines, yet not so loud as to be overheard by others. “This will soon be over. Treat this shipment just like any other, and the terrorists will be on their way. The crew of the Katie Starling has no need to know that anything is amiss. Are we clear on this?”
He looked around and got nods from all five of his workers.
“Good. Now smile, everyone.”
Within a couple of minutes, the Katie Starling had slid along the dock. Baker fastened the mooring line to the aft cleat, while his foreman, Peter Angelos, took care of the bowline. When the gangplank was deployed, Baker stood at its base to receive whatever crewman wanted to greet him.
It didn’t take long. An overweight man with close-cropped hair and a gray beard walked down the incline to the dock. The man carried himself in a way that told Baker he was in better shape than he appeared. As he came close enough for eye contact, a predatory bearing about him nearly chilled the air.
“Walter White,” the man said as he extended his hand.
Baker accepted the handshake. “Baker Sinise,” he said. What he didn’t say was that “Walter White” was quickly replacing “John Smith” as the ask-no-questions pseudonym among spooks.
“What’s with the other ship?” Walter said.
“One of our guests enjoys cruising the old way,” Baker said. “And I’m happy to say that he pays his hotel, food, and beverage bills in full and on time.”
“Speaking of which,” Walter said. “Don’t you have a bag of cash for me?”
“In a virtual sort of way,” Baker replied. “If you check the account you gave me, you will find that half of the agreed-upon amount has been deposited.”
“I was told that there’d be cash,” Walter said. His tone raised hackles on Baker’s neck. These were details this man should know about. Had something gone wrong?
Then he decided it didn’t matter. “You’ll get the rest of the payment in cash when the material is off-loaded and an inventory taken.”
Walter seemed to sense that something was wrong, and he craned his neck to take in the surroundings. It was the kind of movement that no doubt put Alpha and his trained dogs on edge.
“What’s with the other boat I saw floating out there offshore?” Walter asked.
Baker cocked his head, genuinely surprised. “What boat is that?”
“About a mile out. It appeared to be just sitting there. I didn’t see an anchor.”
“Late-night divers?” Baker guessed.
“Is that one of the programs you offer?”
“No, but you never know what the locals are going to do.” As soon as those words left his mouth, he remembered Tyler’s parting words: “I shouldn’t tell you this, but help is on the way.”
Was that really possible?
“I’m not liking this,” Walter said. “Maybe I should just leave.”
“Once you have off-loaded the cargo I have already paid for, you are certainly free to do whatever you wish.” Baker added a smile as an afterthought. “You bring the cargo to the dock, and my crew and I can take it from there.”
Walter hesitated, clearly not at ease.
“It’s unprofessional to make me ask yet another time,” Baker said. Another common denominator in the illicit-arms sales racket was the importance of a reputation for honesty. The irony was not lost on Baker that the proffered honesty dealt almost exclusively with stolen materials, but that was the nature of the business.
After one more scan of the surroundings, Walter unleashed a two-finger wolf whistle and people on the deck went to work.
* * *
Henry West and the rest of Yankee One hadn’t counted on the sudden illumination of flood lights, and the brightness and number of them startled him. They were hunkered down among crates and assorted stuff along the apron of the pier when they jumped to life, and now they were stuck about a foot inside the boundary where the division between light and dark was the most harsh. They weren’t entirely exposed, nor even entirely illuminated, but Henry and Jolaine, in particular, were on the feather edge of being visible.
Madman, on the other hand, was well-concealed. In a few minutes, when Team Yankee cut the power and the lights went out, none of that would matter.
Peering through a gap that existed between two wooden crates, Henry’s field of vision was annoyingly narrow. Mostly, he could see handling equipment and mingling workers, but he didn’t see any of the soldiers he’d been expecting to encounter. He was confident that they were there somewhere, but they were well-hidden. The only reasonable place for them to be staying out of sight would be in the shadow of the tree line. That assumption, in fact, was the reason why Yankee One itself was not in the tree line.
Until the lights went out, and/or the shooting started, they would remain utterly silent unless something urgent required them to make noise.
Henry even suppressed his urge to look at his watch—knowing, as he did, how unusual motion drew attention. At this point, the time didn’t matter.
At this point, time would begin when darkness fell.
* * *
Jonathan and Yankees Two and Three had moved down the side of the mountain to stage at the edge of the golf course. From here on out, it appeared that every other tree and flower had its own light. Last night, they were atmospheric and romantic. Tonight, they were just bright.
The radio bud in Jonathan’s right ear popped to life. “Scorpion, this is Torpedo.”
Jonathan pressed his TRANSMIT button. “Go ahead, Torpedo.”
“Yeah, I wanted you to know that I think the ship has parked at the docks. They just turned on a whole shitload of lights down there.”
Jonathan craned his neck to look at the night sky on the far side of the island, where he saw a subtle yet distinct glow of artificial light.
“Okay, thank you, Torpedo. Mother Hen, did you copy that?”
Venice’s voice said, “Loud and clear. The lights are on. Are you ready for me to turn them off?”
Jonathan looked to his team.
“There’s gonna be a lot of panic down there when it goes dark,” Boxers said. “Lots of shooting. We’re not in position.”
“We’ll give it a few more minutes,” Jonathan said to Venice. “Yankee One, are you in position?”
The radio broke squelch one time in his ear. Affirmative.
Jonathan addressed the rest. “Okay, here’s where irony meets stupid. Despite the availability of night vision—one of the world’s greatest force multipliers—we’ve got to get across a brightly-lit golf course
before we can go hot.”
“That sounds like something we’ll regret later,” Davey said.
“Yeah, well, actions have consequences,” Jonathan said. “As Big Guy pointed out, the guys on the docks are gonna go apeshit when the lights go out. That shooting, plus the fact of the darkness, is going to make our targets go nuts. Makes no sense for us to maneuver safely just to have to scrape up a bunch of corpses.”
He was a little surprised when he got no pushback.
“We’ll cross the golf course in twos,” Jonathan said. “When you get to the cart path on the other side, take cover and break squelch twice. Then we’ll send the next group. Questions?”
Silence.
“Gunslinger and Boomer, you go first,” Jonathan said.
“I’m not Boomer anymore. I’m Dylan.”
“Oh, my God, words cannot express how little I care,” Jonathan said. “Three . . . two . . . one.” The “go” was always silent because it was the cadence that counted.
Dylan and Gail took off at a low sprint. They didn’t scan for targets, because that was the job of their cover team. Within ten seconds, they were out of sight.
The radio bud in Jonathan’s ear rasped twice.
“Chief and Tyler,” Jonathan said. “It’s your turn.”
“To do what?” Tyler asked. His face was a mask of confusion. “The talking hole in your face makes noise, but I don’t know what the sounds mean.”
Jonathan laughed. You had to like this kid. “In the simplest of terms, run like hell until you’re on the other side of the cart path, and then make yourself invisible.”
“Just follow me, Tyler,” Davey said. “When I run, run. When I drop, drop.”
Jonathan counted it down, and they took off.
In each iteration, as the teams ran, Jonathan and Boxers scanned every compass point for any sign of a bad guy, but they came up with nothing.
“And here we are again,” Boxers said. “In that awkward moment when we’re all alone, but we know people are watching.”
Honest to God, Big Guy was the only person he had ever known who found his center—his calmest self—on the precipice of a firefight.
“Yeah, that,” Jonathan said. He counted it down, and they made their dash across the wide-open space.
As they slid to a halt at the cart path, Boxers said, “I’d consider it a personal favor if you never asked me to do a thing like that ever again.”
“When did you become a big pussy?” Jonathan asked.
They were close now. The roofs of the bungalows were visible through the trees.
“The rules of engagement couldn’t be simpler,” Jonathan said. “If they’re a bad guy and they have a gun, drop them. If they approach a hostage, drop them. Speed and overwhelming violence are the only advantage we have.”
“You don’t ask them to put their hands up or anything?” Tyler asked.
“I just stopped liking you, kid,” Boxers said.
“Absolutely not,” Jonathan said. “They’ve already declared their intent to kill, and we have to take them at their word. We’re just turning their own plan against them.”
“I don’t know that I can do that,” Tyler said.
“We’ll all find out together,” Jonathan said. “Think of that rifle as a tool of last resort. Your job in this isn’t about shooting, anyway. Just don’t get in the way of others who are willing and able.”
Jonathan pulled his map from his pocket again. He lit up his IR flashlight.
“Tyler and Gunslinger,” he said. “You know where the access points are for the utility tunnels. If you need big cover, go there.”
Jonathan reached into his pocket and produced the jumble of keys that Jaime had given him earlier. “Tyler, opening the grate is your job. I never got a chance to do that.”
The assortment of keys filled Tyler’s hand. “Which one is it?”
“When you know, so will we all,” Jonathan said.
“Chief and Big Guy, you’re with me,” Jonathan said. “The signal to go will be when everything goes dark. At the bungalow, Tyler, I can’t stress enough to you the importance of speed and leadership. The rest of your team will take care of the bad guys, but it’ll be on you to get the kids underground and to safety. The rally point for everybody is the exfil point on the beach.” He pointed to it for the twentieth time on the map.
“All right,” Jonathan said. “You’ve got your plan. I don’t think the bad guys thought to put IR reflectors on their kit, but I can’t swear to that, so be careful.”
“I’m not understanding you again,” Tyler said.
“Take a look at Big Guy,” Jonathan said. As the kid turned his head, Jonathan lit him up with his IR flashlight, and patches on Boxers’ vest and helmet came to life. “Those patches are only visible through infrared light,” he explained. “In a perfect world, we’re the only ones on the island wearing the patches.”
“Don’t shoot me, kid,” Boxers said. “And if you do, either make it count or run like hell.”
CHAPTER 33
THE TERRORIST NAMED MIKE SAID, “ERIN, GO WITH HIM.”
Little Isaac looked horrified. “I’m eleven years old! I don’t need help to pee.”
Mike remained unmoved. “Go with him.”
Erin stood from her spot against the wall and walked to the boy.
“I’m not going to pee in front of a girl!” he protested. “I’ve been going alone all day.”
“It’s nighttime now,” Mike said. “I’ll let Erin explain.”
“It’s because Mike is an asshole,” Erin said as she crossed in front of the guard. More quietly, she said, “I promise I won’t look,” but she rolled her eyes as she did. What was it about boys that made them think that every girl wanted to stare at their penises?
Isaac was not happy. “I think this is stupid.”
“Just don’t run away,” Erin explained. “They’ve promised to kill us all if even one of us runs away. Now that it’s nighttime, I guess they’re especially nervous.”
“That’s stupid, too,” Isaac said. “Where would I run to?”
As they crossed the threshold from the bungalow out onto the veranda, Isaac said, “You stay there.” He wandered into the shadow beyond the halo of light and turned his back. “This vacation sucks,” he said. Then she heard the stream start.
If there was one thing Erin admired about boys, it was that no matter where they were, they could always—
Darkness.
It came instantly and silently and was so absolute that for a moment Erin wondered if she had been struck blind.
Cries of panic blossomed among the children behind her. She thought she recognized the scream of the little brunette girl with the glasses whose name she forgot.
The guards yelled commands. “Everybody, stay calm. Don’t get up.” Beams of white light erupted from the front of their rifles and they darted back and forth through the night. “You, outside! Come back in here.”
Somebody back there said a string of words in what sounded like Russian.
“Isaac, you’ve got to—”
It was as if Isaac could fly. One second, he was standing there, taking care of his business, and then he gave a little yip and he was gone—lifted off his feet and sucked into the leafy ferns in the garden.
There was movement back there, too. Voices? Who would—
A man and a woman yelled together, “Everybody, down! Down! Down! Down!”
And then the shooting started.
* * *
The instant the lights went out, Zach Turner knew that their ordeal was coming to an end. As a reflex, able to see nothing, he reached out to Becky and locked her neck in the webbing of skin between his thumb and forefinger. He pushed her head down and pulled her onto the concrete. He knew right away that he’d used too much force, that she hit the ground too hard, but there’d be shooting soon, and he could always apologize later.
He dropped to the concrete and spread himself out on top of her. “Stay d
own,” he said. “No matter what, stay down.”
“What’s happening?” Becky asked. Her voice sounded strained against the weight he’d put on her.
“I think the cavalry just arrived.”
All around him, hostages started to yell. He heard the sound of frantic movement as lounge chairs overturned. People fell or dove into the water. And, good Lord, the yelling! He’d watched people panic before, but he’d never experienced it strictly as a sound track. Bedlam was the only word he could think of.
“Stay in your seats!” one of the guards yelled. It felt as if the night itself were moving as muzzle lights swept the crowd. “All of you stay in your—”
He fell silent as an even louder cry of panic bloomed from the crowd near him.
“Everybody, stay down!” a voice yelled from up around the restrooms. “We are Americans and we are here to rescue you!”
Then the shooting started.
CHAPTER 34
FROM THE SHADOWS AT THE END OF THE DOCK, ANATOLY HAD WEDGED the barrel shroud of his M4 carbine into the spot where a stout tree branch met the even stouter trunk. As the off-loading operations were carried out, he practiced the motions that would be necessary to kill everyone he could see. It wasn’t the outcome anyone desired. Moscow specifically forbade a shooting war with CIA paramilitary operatives, but in a situation as dynamic as this, it was impossible to predict how people would react. He needed to have a plan for every variable.
He’d dialed his scope to 3X—his preferred magnification in situations like this. He found it to be the perfect compromise between telephoto and sight acquisition.
Baker Sinise would die first under any scenario, and Anatoly wondered if the man somehow understood that to be his fate. He stood completely still as the forklifts and the crews performed the complex choreography that was the movement of cargo. Baker kept his back turned to the tree line and his arms folded across his chest, providing the perfect target for a center-of-mass kill shot.
From there, Anatoly would pivot to the CIA boss Baker had chatted with. It was clear that the CIA man was suspicious that something wasn’t right. Like Baker, he hadn’t moved from the spot where he had the broadest view of the activities swirling on the dock. That man—Anatoly had not heard his name—had a military, predatory look about him. Pressed into a corner, that man would fight, which meant he would have to die before the chance to fight presented itself.
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