“They’re going to torture her.”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
“They’re all together, on a ship that Riggs controls docked about an hour from here.”
“How much time do we have?”
“They’re skilled at this sort of thing. Hours, if that.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “We’ll get to her in time.”
A look of doubt crossed Hayes’s face.
“They killed Foley,” Kelly said.
“God. I’m sorry.”
Hayes took a deep breath, refocused. “Foley was tough, but they may have broken him. They’re going to come for us with everything now.”
“Then let’s get to them first.”
Things were uneasy between Riggs’s and Caro’s men. The colonel’s soldiers dressed like typical contractors—ball caps, jeans, beards—while Caro’s wore two-thousand-dollar suits and carried themselves like City of London bankers. Caro’s lieutenant, a man named Kasem, had insisted on driving separately and now kept a side conversation going with his men in a language the others couldn’t understand.
This was rally point Italy: a dry creek bed along the side of the highway, surrounded by new subdivisions.
“Are you sure you have the grids right?” asked Kasem.
He looked over the map and checked the GPS. “They must be using SARDOTs.”
Kasem cursed in a foreign tongue. SARDOT—an acronym for search-and-rescue dot—is a sort of geographic code word that’s changed daily or even more often. When locations are communicated on open radio nets, they aren’t given exactly but with respect to a predetermined point known only to friendly forces, an offset that obscures the real location to anyone listening in. These men were a mile from the home where Hayes and Byrne were hiding, but they had no way of knowing that.
“They must be close.”
“Most likely. But we won’t be able to find them unless they screw up, break radio silence, or move out.”
Kasem lifted his binoculars and scanned the hills, passing without notice over Hayes’s safe house where it stood among the thousand other newly built homes.
Chapter 38
HAYES STEPPED OUT of the truck and lifted his spotting scope. Sheer cloth covered the lens to stop any reflections. We were on a hill looking down over a commercial marina with three concrete docks. Across the bay came the sound of sailboat halyards clanging against masts like church bells.
“That’s it,” Hayes said, pointing to the docks.
Our chances of rescuing Nazar were dwindling by the second. It’s called progression of captivity. When you’re taken by hostile forces, no matter what your situation is, it’s only going to get worse: more secure, deeper in enemy territory, harder to overwhelm or escape.
Ward, Cook, and Green remained at Italy with the money. Ward had tracked Riggs’s communications to this port where Moret, Speed, Kelly, and I had just arrived.
I followed Hayes’s extended finger. On the closest pier, I saw a ship’s silhouette against the ripples of moonlight on the water.
“The Shiloh,” Hayes said.
“You know it?”
Hayes nodded. “Every bulkhead. Operated out of it for months. It’s a prototype, built under contract. It sucked up billions, but never went into production. It wasn’t technically navy, so they used it for classified missions and then turned it into a floating brig to hold prisoners they wanted to keep off the books. A floating black site.”
“Riggs controls it.”
“Yes. Our only chance is to snatch Nazar back while they’re moving her.”
I could hear the ship’s engines droning. To reach the Shiloh, first we needed to get past a chain-link fence that surrounded the whole complex, then past another fence inside, which ran between two industrial buildings and was topped by razor wire. Finally, at the base of the dock, there was a tall metal barrier.
“There’s probably conventional security at the perimeter, shared for the commercial marina. Riggs looks like he has his own people closer in on the Shiloh’s dock.”
“How many?” Speed asked.
“Can’t say. Safe side, given his habits, eight to twelve, another dozen or more on the ship.”
“We should take her now,” Speed said.
“If we can take them by surprise. We only have the numbers for a stealth approach.”
Moret set up a prone sniper position behind a tangle of sage bushes and cut away the low growth. It would hide her muzzle flash and let her overlook the entire port.
We sneaked down to the base of the first fence. Hayes pulled out a twelve-inch pair of wire cutters and clipped the fencing right next to the post, then pulled it open wide enough for us to pass through. He took a length of gray paracord and laced it through where he had cut the fence.
If you didn’t look close, it was impossible to tell it had ever been breached.
“You two stay here and cover us,” he said to me and Kelly. “We’ll see if we can get through the next fence. Wait for my signal.”
“Check,” I said. Kelly and I put twelve feet between us and watched Hayes disappear down the hill toward the razor-wire fence.
Hayes and Speed moved silently toward the Shiloh’s dock, avoiding the sight lines of the cameras. Speed raked open the American padlock on the razor-wire fence in a few seconds. There was a main gate through the high metal wall that guarded the dock, but Speed assumed the guards would be watching that entrance. Instead, he and Hayes were headed for a small secondary door.
They moved toward it, passing behind two corrugated-aluminum trailers and a parked truck, then a large steel job box. A crane on six-foot tires covered the last twelve feet to the gate.
Hayes halted. He could hear footsteps on the other side of the crane. He listened as the guard moved closer and then stopped. The flint of a lighter rasped, and they could smell smoke. Hayes unsheathed his knife.
The guard started moving again, the footfalls growing quieter. Hayes edged around and saw him disappear behind a trailer.
He raised his finger to Speed: One minute.
They ran for the door through the high metal barrier, their last obstacle before the Shiloh’s dock.
It was solid steel, with an Assa Abloy lock, certified to stand up to a skilled lock picker for thirty minutes at least. Speed unzipped a pouch on his chest and pulled out a tool that looked like a small power screwdriver. It was a Falle decoder, a skeleton key available only to select military, intelligence, and law-enforcement agencies. Hayes and Speed had met with Falle. He was a former British commando who worked out of a little-known factory on the island of Jersey.
The business end was shaped like a key. Most keys have notches—called bits—at different heights. The correct combination opens the lock. But this decoder had bits that were adjustable.
Speed started with them all level at the full height of the key blade. He slid the decoder in and applied a light twisting tension. A thin metal rod ran through the handle of the device and allowed Speed to jiggle each bit and each corresponding pin inside the lock. If the pin was at the correct height to open the lock, he would feel the slightest wiggle. If wrong, there would be no give at all.
He moved the rod and felt each pin. Number five was correct. He took the decoder out, and using another tool, he lowered each bit slightly, except for number five.
He put it back in and felt the pins.
Nothing. The rest were still bound.
He lowered them again.
One and three were now at the correct height.
The Falle tool allowed intelligence operatives to decode a lock over multiple visits. All they would need was ten seconds unattended. They would do one height at a time in the embassy, under the noses of their targets. And the decoder, unlike other nondestructive entry techniques, left no forensic evidence.
“He’s coming back,” Hayes said.
Speed worked his way down the bit heights. Then he felt the slightest give. The door was un
locked. It had taken sixty seconds. He pulled the decoder and hid behind the crane.
The guard continued on his rounds. Hayes radioed for Byrne and Britten to join them through the gate they had left unlocked in the razor-wire fence. As the two crept up to meet them, Speed put the decoder back in, with the correct combination still set, and opened the door a crack.
Hayes checked in with Moret for an overview, then peered through the door. He could see the Shiloh.
Little Bill walked across his path, then turned back. Hayes saw only that one man covering one sector. Moret had a better view and had given him the position of several other sentries. Together, that was enough for Hayes to understand Riggs’s entire security posture around the ship.
They were waiting for an attack. He craned his neck, and the assault plan came to him: Put Byrne and Britten on the carbines for cover. Remain in the shadows beside the gate, take Bill from behind with a knife, and make a cut to the carotid on each side of his neck; he’ll bleed out in a half a minute. Go over the port side, skip the pilothouse, stack on the door with Speed; breach, bang, and go below shooting.
The steps came naturally, without conscious thought, like moving his legs on a ship to keep his balance.
“Let’s go,” Speed said.
Hayes had been at the christening of Bill’s boy, but that wasn’t what gave him pause. Another guard was making rounds in the distance. They didn’t have enough guns for an assault against a well-prepared enemy. If they were at sea, in the chaos of noise and darkness and wind, they could take them by surprise, but not here, not with security on land and on the ship. Their chance was to take Nazar in transit, but now she was buttoned up. He knew the hold where they would put her, an old crypto vault they used as a cell. He needed a half a dozen shooters at least, and Moret’s rifle would do him no good once they went below.
He ran it every way, longer on stealth, faster now, coming over the bowlines, shooting first, pure kinetic violence.
The end result was always the same: they would be dead before they reached the second deck.
There was a better way. They had the gear cached.
“No,” Hayes said. “We can’t take them head-on.”
“You’re worried about killing?”
“No,” Hayes said. “Just killing for no reason. We’re not murderers.”
“You’re the only one who believes that.”
“It’s the truth.”
“How many did we kill?”
“That was war. It was different.”
“Why? Because a bastard like Riggs told us so? Killing is killing, and a few more traitors doesn’t matter. You want to screw us all by playing prince? You’re a warrior. Act like one.”
Hayes watched Bill lift his radio. “They’re waiting for us.”
“Fuck this,” Speed said, and he fixed his sights on the sentry.
The deckhands on the Shiloh threw off the stern lines. “They’re leaving,” Speed said. “We need to take them now.”
“Speed. We’ve lost surprise. We’ve lost the initiative. We have the gear to take that ship, but this is not the way. We need to fall back. If we go direct assault, we’ll have to kill every one of them, and we’ll die before we finish.”
Hayes had seen it before, many times, anger short-circuiting reason. The only way to sate it was by killing. It was as dangerous as enemy fire. And he could see it infecting Byrne as well, the adrenaline rising, the fear giving way to a taste for blood.
“You’re afraid,” Speed said. “You’ve lost the will. There’s no time. I need suppressive fire. I’m going.”
“Speed,” Hayes said. “Listen to me. They want us to come. It’s a trap, a shooting gallery. There’s a better way. The water. I’m ordering you—”
“You can’t. We’re not soldiers anymore. We’re nothing. Now, give me a base of fire.” He brought his rifle across his chest.
“Don’t.” Hayes grabbed for his arm, but he took off in a crouch along the dock.
He was ten feet out when the first shots came, every fifth a tracer, burning red through the night. Hayes took a knee and aimed at the shooter. The fire stopped, but more picked up from the ship.
Speed got twenty more feet. Hayes moved into the open door, taking out the enemy guns one by one.
More fire. Speed took two stumbling steps, then fell forward into the shadows.
Byrne lifted the radio. “Speed. Speed.”
Hayes ducked back and grabbed his arm.
“Stay off the comms.”
Floodlights fixed on the body. The volley had taken Speed’s head off from the jaw up. Rounds filled the corpse. The tracers burned in the flesh.
“Fall back,” Hayes barked to Byrne and Britten.
“What about you?”
“I’ll take those shooters. I need to get to the body. They can’t take our radios.
“Go,” Hayes said, and he moved toward the gunfire as it closed in on them, thundered against the steel.
Byrne and Britten ran fifteen feet before they were hemmed in by fire and took cover behind the job box. Kelly reached forward and squeezed his arm. A tracer round punched through the metal, burning red, and slit the air between them.
Chapter 39
WARD LIFTED THE Italian menu. On the back, with a ballpoint pen, she had sketched Sandstone Falls on the New River Gorge. Green glanced over without letting her see his interest. She didn’t like to show her work, but he could never get over it. One minute she would be arguing about Bloodsport, and then she would go quiet and start drawing with startling realism.
The water seemed to rush down the page. She began sketching a figure; a child’s form slowly appeared on the cheap paper. Green knew his anatomy and could see every contour drawn true to life. She stopped at the neck and jaw.
She never drew faces. Everything was exploitable.
She stood up, held the paper to the blue flame of the range, and watched it burn near the sink. Her radio crackled, but no voice came.
“What’s that?” Green said. “No one should be on the net.”
“Help.” It was a man’s voice, strained, racked by pain.
“Help.”
“Go ahead.”
“It’s Speed. I need help. I’m hurt. Where are you?”
“Speed, are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Yes. I need help. What’s your location?”
“I say again, Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“I need help.”
She turned off the radio. Are you in some kind of trouble. They used the phrase as part of their coded communications. If a team member seemed to be under duress, he or she would be asked exactly those words, which would sound innocent enough to any captors. If the team member had been taken hostage, the response was I’m doing all right or I’m not doing all right. If free and clear, the response was I’m doing good or I’m not doing good. In this way, they could communicate with one another without tipping off the enemy.
The voice on the radio had said, I need help; whoever was on the other end of the line wasn’t up on the codes. Ward had suspected it, but now it was confirmed. The man talking wasn’t Speed, but he had his radio. She knew enough about Speed to realize that he wouldn’t give it up alive.
He was gone.
“It’s a trap! They must have been tracing us. We need to go, now!”
She lifted three bales of money, about a hundred pounds, and started for the truck.
“What about Cook?” Green asked.
“We’ll get him last. The less time he spends moving, the more likely it is that he’ll make it.”
They ferried the cash out to the box truck, stacked it, and strapped it against the walls. Green carried his under his good arm.
Ward checked her watch—eight minutes since the call. She thought of trace times, SWAT response, as she hustled back inside.
She grabbed an IV bag and put it at the foot of Cook’s litter. “Can you get that end?” she asked Green.
“Yeah,” h
e said. He taped down the catheter with the improvised valve, then put the IV bag in his teeth and hoisted the litter with his good hand. Ward carried the other end.
They loaded Cook into the back of the truck. Ward followed him in.
“Get the engine going,” she said, and she threw Green the keys. He snatched them out of the air and walked toward the cab. She cut a length of paracord and lashed the IV to the tie-down bars. As the truck shuddered to life, Cook opened his eyes.
“We going for a ride?” he slurred.
She put her hand to his cheek.
“Yeah. Sit tight.”
“How’d I do back there? In the firefight?”
“You made us all proud, Cook. You did great.”
“Did I tell you…”
“Tell me what, Cook?”
“About the corduroy…the corduroy pillows.”
“What? Cook, are you okay?”
“Wait, it’s, ah…”
“Why don’t you tell me later, Cook,” she said as she pivoted out of the back of the truck. “We’ve got to roll.”
“Okay,” he said, and he shut his eyes. “It’s a good one. I think I got it this time.”
She slammed the back door shut and was about to turn when she felt something press against her temple. It was cold and round, about the size of a quarter: the muzzle of a gun. The man holding the pistol came around and pressed the barrel against her forehead. He was wearing a suit.
“Hands,” he said.
She raised her hands in the air, close to her temples, and to the gun. He took her sidearm.
Pfft.
A suppressed gunshot. She heard a cry and then a muted thump as a body hit the ground on the other side of the truck. Green. She held back the emotion and used the moment, the distraction, to swipe her right hand a few inches through the air as she stepped in the other direction.
The gun near her face fired. The blast from the pistol burned the skin of her cheek and ear and deafened her. The bullet gouged the side of her scalp. She grabbed the wrist of the man’s gun hand, jerked it down and toward her. As he stepped forward to gain his balance, she threw her shin against the side of his knee and dropped all of her weight into it. The pop from a ligament, probably the ACL, sounded like a snap of the fingers. As he crumpled, she took his gun. He reached for hers, tucked inside his belt, but she kicked his hand, and her pistol went flying.
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