His chute filled with wind and began dragging him backward. Bolan’s straps cinched as his canopy dipped beneath the level of the rail and began to wildly billow and gyrate in the chop. Bolan tried to grab the slick hull of the lifeboat, but his fingers slid off, wet with his own blood. He was dragged inexorably backward and he lurched as his chute dipped into the sea. The canopy became an instant sea anchor and the soldier was violently pulled toward the rail.
Bolan’s Navy diving knife cleared its sheath with a rasp. He twisted and slashed at his lines. If the canopy managed to tangle in the propeller there was an excellent chance he’d be reeled in like a fish to a watery meat-grinding grave. Bolan hacked through his portside shrouding. The strain eased as the canopy went from a water scoop to a long soggy ribbon in the bow wake. He hooked an arm and a leg into the railing and cut his remaining lines. Bolan sagged to the deck and spat blood. He gave his septum an experimental and mildly agonizing wiggle.
His nose wasn’t broken but blood poured down his chin. Bolan reset his NVGs on his face and made double sure his rifle’s optics and suppressor were still in alignment. He gazed up at the wheelhouse but he had no visual on whoever might be inside. No one had gone to the rear window to see what had happened. The sea was rough, a storm was on the way and ships were noisy. Bolan doubted his landing, inglorious as it was, had registered over the sound of the engines and the swell. The soldier secured his phone to his left forearm and hit an app. Becca’s tracer was blinking away belowdecks.
Bolan rose and moved to the rear hatchway.
The hatch was open. All the lights were on and everybody was home. Bolan pushed up his NVGs and moved down the stairs that led below. The smell of tamarind, hot chilies, peanut sauce and rice frying told him he was indeed on an Indonesian ship.
Bolan moved along the corridor and took the second set of suicide steps down into the main cargo hold. Cigarette smoke and the sound of harsh laughter rose to meet him. Containers were stacked two high with narrow corridors between them. The center of the hold formed a small open area. Becca hung by her wrists from the starboard fork of a forklift at maximum height. Most of her clothes lay on the floor in sliced condition. A shirtless Indonesian man with a traditional parang sneered endearments in Malay as he laid the heavily curved machete blade between the shuddering woman’s collarbones. Five more men sat smoking, drinking beer and shoving fried rice down their maws as they watched. Bolan had the terrible feeling that Becca was considered a little too long in the tooth for the slave market and was being sacrificed to the crew’s appetites. Becca’s bra popped away beneath the blade.
Bolan sent three heavy, subsonic .30 calibers between machete man’s shoulder blades.
The rape crew watched for a stunned moment as the first in line fell and his blade hit the deck with a clang. They heard the clinking of Bolan’s spent brass a half second later and leaped to their feet clawing for pistols and blades. Bolan gave each man two rounds through the face in as many heartbeats. The slavers dropped dead like dominos in a neat semicircle. The soldier stepped out of the shadows, and Becca sagged in her restraints at the sight of him.
“You’re late.”
Bolan took out his knife and cut Becca free. “I know, and I am sorry.” He scooped up the machete man’s cast-off T-shirt and tossed it to her. “Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”
Becca pulled the stained V-neck over her head. “Just get me and the girls out of here.”
“On it. Can you shoot?”
“My last boyfriend was a cop. He let me shoot his Glock.”
Bolan scooped up two of the slaver’s pistols. “These are Browning Hi-Powers.” He cocked them and left them unlocked. “Just pull the trigger. You have thirteen shots in each one. Where are the rest of the girls?”
Becca took the pistols and seemed to visibly gain strength from them. “They’re in the two blue containers down to the right. They want them delivered unbruised so someone else can damage them.”
Bolan knew the vicissitudes of the modern slave trade all too well. “Still just you girls from the cave?”
“No, there are twenty of us now. There were some girls already on the boat when we were loaded. A couple of Canadian girls and three Mexicans—they’ve been on board for a while.”
“I hate to say it but I can’t let them out just yet.”
“They’re safest where they are.” Becca nodded. “Got it. How do we play it?”
“I’m going to take the ship.”
Becca stared at the pistols in her hands then back at Bolan. “Awesome. I want in.”
“It’s a small freighter, and it has a small crew. I just took out five. I gather none of these assholes is the captain?”
“No.”
“Then I’m figuring he’s in his cabin or on the bridge with at least one other crewman. Is there any other crew you would recognize?”
“The cook. He was decent to us. He actually seemed sad, but not enough to do anything about it. There’re at least three guys I’ve seen besides the ones you just took care of.”
“Any Hawaiians?”
“No, but one is just about the creepiest Euro-trash asshole you ever met.”
“Dunno. I’ve met some pretty creepy ones.”
“I bet you have. Did you kill them?”
“The ones who were actively in the slave trade? Yeah, mostly.”
“Good.” Becca’s pistols began shaking in her hands. “Hey, can I ask you a favor?”
“You’re about to freak out.”
“Yeah.”
“But we need to kick some ass and get this shit done.”
“You know?” Becca managed a tremulous smile. “I finally find a sensitive man and every time we meet, it’s in a rape cave or a slave ship.”
“We get out of here alive? And it’s a mani-pedi and dinner at the restaurant of your choice on Maui,” Bolan said.
“And why do I believe you again?”
“Because I’ve never lied to any woman I’ve rescued from a slave ship.”
“You do this often?” Becca challenged.
“Often is too strong a word.” Bolan furrowed his brow. “What do you say to Sarento’s On The Beach after the day spa?”
“Let’s do this.”
“We’re heading for the bridge. Keep an eye on our six and try not to shoot me in the back.”
“Can do.”
Bolan moved out slowly to let the beaten, barefoot and admirably belligerent member of his two-man fire team stay in covering position. He circled back for the starboard set of steps that led to the main deck. The hull gently throbbed with the vibration of the engine. Bolan stopped by the galley door. “You said the cook was kind to you?”
“I got the impression he never signed up for this.”
Bolan nodded and took a small bundle of para cord from his web gear. The kitchen door had no lock and opened inward so the soldier simply tied off the handle, stretched the cord to a pipe in the ceiling and tied it off taut.
Bolan went up the stairs to the main deck. He emerged at the base of the superstructure below the wheelhouse. Rain was just starting to patter on the deck. Becca shivered in the wind of the coming storm. “So, are the Navy SEALs or
the United States Marine Corps coming or something?”
Bolan gazed up at the yellow light spilling out of the bridge windows. “No.”
“No?”
“Becca, we’re taking the ship. Me and you.”
Becca looked to be about a millimeter away from tears. “Okay…”
Bolan went up the gangway. Bare feet pattered on the steel steps in the rain behind him. The soldier hit the landing and saw three men on the bridge. Bolan kicked open the door. He immediately made the Indonesian captain drinking coffee and one of his mates at the helm. The Euro-trash slave trader
was easily identifiable by his six feet and blue eyes. His beard, mustache and hair were all shaved to the same stubble.
Becca snarled like a she-cougar. “Screw you!” Both of her pistols detonated like dynamite in the confines of the tiny bridge. Euro-slaver fell to the deck clutching the twin holes his belly.
“I told you to watch my six.”
Becca stood with smoking pistols in both hands. Hatred radiated from her in waves. “He was in charge of inspections.”
The slaver moaned. The captain and his mate stared in horror at Bolan and the heavily armed woman. Bolan dropped to his heels beside the wounded man and removed a Glock from his waistband. “What’s your name?”
The man grimaced in credible manliness.
Bolan shook his head. “Tell me your name or I am going to step on your stomach and keep stepping on it.”
“Pashke!”
“Pashke, you’re in a lot of trouble. You’ve got two bullets in your belly, but you’ve also got three choices. You talk to me, and you get medical attention and live. You can clam up, in which case I end your suffering and put you over the side for the sharks. Three, you say something really stupid and insulting and I take the Skipper and Gilligan downstairs and give Becca ten minutes alone with you to fulfill her revenge fantasies. Which is it?”
Pashke shuddered through the pain of his ruptured viscera. “I will talk!”
“Keep that in mind, focus on it and suffer for a little bit.” Bolan rose and pointed his rifle at the captain. “Name.”
The man hissed through clenched teeth. “Narang.”
“Your crewman?”
“First Mate, Sadarso.”
“Excellent.” Bolan tapped the Nautical GPS tracking app on his phone and checked his position. “You’ve made excellent time, Captain. Take a heading three degrees south by southwest.”
Captain Narang gave Bolan a surly look and nodded at First Mate Sadarso. “Make it so.”
Sadarso complied.
Becca kept her pistol trained on the first mate. “Shouldn’t we, like, do a 180 and turn these guys over to Five-O?”
Bolan shrugged and considered the worsening weather outside. “I don’t have the authority to turn them over to
Five-O. These are international waters, and technically I’ve committed an act of piracy. It would complicate their prosecution by U.S. authorities immensely.”
The first mate shot Bolan a triumphant look.
Bolan aimed his rifle at the first mate’s forehead. “Keep your eyes on the road, Mr. Sadarso.”
Captain Narang nearly jumped out of his shoes as he looked at his chart, his new course, and did the math in sudden horror. “There are no landing facilities!”
Bolan shook his head. “Nope.”
“We will run aground!”
Bolan nodded as he spotted the dark mass of land dead ahead. “Yup.”
The first mate fired off a stream of Indonesian at his captain.
“Becca?” Bolan asked.
“Yeah?”
“If Sadarso says one more word in a language you don’t understand? Shoot him in the stomach.”
“You got it.” The former kidnapping victim shot the first mate a look of sheer bloodlust. “Go ahead, matey. Make my day.”
Bolan was beginning to think Becca might make a decent pirate queen herself. He flipped the switch on the intercom and spoke to the captive women in the hold. “Ladies, you are currently being rescued. We’re about to make landfall, and it’s going to be rough. Grab hold of something solid and hang on tight.”
Narang exploded. “We will crash!”
“Hold your course,” Bolan advised.
Thunder rolled behind the freighter. Storm clouds gathered above and the rain hit harder. Ahead, scraps of starlight were enough to establish the difference between the roiling Pacific and the motionless darkened mass of what appeared to be an island.
“Becca. Grab on to something.”
Becca shoved one Hi-Power into her shorts and hugged a bulkhead. Bolan slung his rifle and withdrew a SIG. He waved the pistol at the deck. “Hit the floor.” The captain and first mate dropped to the deck. Bolan stepped behind the chart table, which was bolted down. “Here we go.”
The Anggun screamed as her belly scraped across coral. Alarms began sounding and lights blinked red across the control consoles. The bridge tilted violently but the forward momentum of the ship took her over the fringing reef and straight for the beach. Everything went flying as the Anggun hit water too shallow for her draft and the sand grabbed her. Becca yelped and nearly lost her purchase on the bulkhead. The captain, the first mate and Pashke the slaver tumbled across the bridge like flotsam and jetsam in a rip curl. Bolan was braced against the chart table but he still slammed against it hard enough to set his nose to bleeding again. He spat to the side and concentrated on holding on while the Anggun took its shrieking sleigh ride onto the shore.
The ship ground to a halt with her bow on the beach and her stern sand-vised in the lagoon. The deck tilted at a
20-degree angle. Becca let go, yelped and promptly slid across the deck into Bolan’s arms. “You all right?”
The woman managed an impish grin. “Let’s do it again.”
“Keep your guns on the boys.”
Becca turned her pistol on the pile of slavers lying in a heap against the portside wall of the bridge.
Bolan texted the Farm.
We’re here, target secure.
Kurtzman replied.
Copy that.
The starlight disappeared as the storm overtook the island. The HC-144A Ocean Sentry turned on all of its lights to reveal a rough runway that took up most of the island’s length. A six-man team deployed across the coral atoll on the double. A rope ladder hooked over the gunwale and armed men came aboard the Anggun.
The door to the bridge flew open and a very large man announced loudly, “I am Sergeant Cassius Goldstein of the United States Coast Guard! You seem to have run aground. Are you in need of assistance?”
Captain Narang rose hissing like a cat. “This man has attacked my ship in an act of piracy!”
Sergeant Goldstein blinked twice at the area Bolan occupied on the bridge. “What man?”
Captain Narang stopped short of hopping up and down as he pointed. “That man!”
Sergeant Goldstein blinked again and shook his head. “I don’t follow.”
“Him!” Narang shrieked.
“Captain! Have you sustained a head injury?” Sergeant Goldstein asked. “I don’t see anyone on the bridge save you and your mate.”
Bolan grinned and gave Becca an arm. A second plane came out of the storm and began its approach toward the landing strip. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 6
Honolulu safehouse
Bolan sat at the breakfast table and read the Waikiki News story on his tablet.
Ship of Horror! Slavery Ring Exposed!
Last night the United States Coast Guard rescued more than a dozen women who’d been locked in the hold of a freighter. Names have not been released but it is believed several of the victims were reported missing in the Hawaiian Islands this week. The Coast Guard unit also discovered signs of a bloody gun battle on board with multiple casualties. The captain and first mate as well as an unidentified wounded man have been turned over to FBI custody. The ship Pukulan Anggun, flying under Indonesian colors, ran aground on Johnston Atoll, an unincorporated territory of the United States….
Koa read the print version. “Nice work, Matt.”
Hu came over with a fresh pot of coffee. “Very nice.”
“Thanks.” Bolan finished his coffee and sighed. Taking over a ship at sea single-handedly and breaking a slavery ring had been relatively easy. This morning’s mission was going to be rou
gh. He eyed Hu’s black eye and the bandage over Koa’s nose. “So, let me guess. She ain’t happy?”
“No, she is not,” Koa confirmed.
“Well, I guess I should go have a talk with the girl.”
“Good luck with that.”
Hu’s hand unconsciously went to her face. “Watch out for her fists.”
“Watch out for her feet,” Koa recommended.
Bolan rose and took his tablet and a fresh cup of coffee to the basement door. He knocked politely. “Melika, it’s Makaha.”
A majestic stream of profanity greeted the announcement.
“You want coffee?” Bolan offered.
Melika told Bolan in no uncertain terms what he could do with his coffee.
“I’m coming down.” Bolan went down the steps. Melika appeared to be a “hell hath no fury like a woman kidnapped” kind of girl. Her cot was overturned. The TV was smashed. Despite being handcuffed by one wrist to a pipe, she had somehow managed to overturn the clothes dryer. Both last night’s dinner and this morning’s breakfast currently formed a work of abstract art on the opposite wall. Despite being a trained military policeman it had cost Koa a bloody nose and some significant bruising to establish a dead zone around Melika. There was nothing else within her reach. The woman sat against the wall and gave Bolan a look. Bolan raised the steaming mug. “So, coffee?”
Melika smiled angelically. “I’d love some.” Bolan held out the mug just within range of Melika’s fingers. She took the coffee and sighed as she closed her eyes and sipped. “Mmm…that’s good.”
“Glad you like it. Peg is—” Bolan ducked as the mug flew toward his face and avoided most of the coffee comet tail trailing behind it.
“You’re fast,” Melika admitted. “Maybe faster than Koa, and he used to be a local legend.”
“Thank you.”
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