Barracuda

by Richard Turner

  A couple of men somewhere in the darkness exchanged a few words in German. Mitchell struggled to catch what they were saying, but his German was rusty. All he caught was a time…two hours. What was going to happen in two hours? Their interrogation? Their execution?

  Mitchell tried sitting up as best he could, and looked over toward where he thought the voices had originated. “What is going to happen in two hours?”

  Beck stepped out from the shadows and menacingly hovered over Mitchell. “What sharp ears you have, Mister Mitchell.”

  “I get them from my mother,” he replied.

  Beck snickered. “Sit tight. My master will be here in two hours. He wants to personally interrogate you.”

  “What if I have to use the bathroom?” Jackson asked.

  Beck stepped back. “Soil yourself, for all I care. If you think I’m going to untie either of you, you’re sadly mistaken.” A second later, Beck disappeared back into the shadows. A door opened and closed somewhere, and silence fell.

  “You okay, Ryan?” asked Jackson.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” replied Mitchell. “And you?”

  “I can’t complain; nobody would listen, anyway.”

  “Do you remember what happened to us after we landed?”

  “Some joker with a tranquilizer gun shot us both just before we got into a truck at the helipad. You passed out right away. The bastard shot another dart into me when I didn’t go down at first.”

  “That explains a lot.”

  “Now what do we do?” Jackson asked.

  “There’s not a lot we can do other than sit tight until the head Nazi gets here,” said Mitchell.

  “I wasn’t kidding. I’ve got to use the bathroom.”

  Mitchell shook his head. “You heard the man. Keep it in or let it out; they’re not going to let you out of your chair.”

  “I’ll be damned if I’m going to pee myself in front of a bunch of second-rate Nazis.”

  Mitchell gave a short, wry chuckle. If their captors thought Jackson was ornery now, they had no idea how grumpy he was going to be in two hours’ time.

  “Turn left,” said Yuri to Petrenko.

  Behind the wheel of their rented SUV, Petrenko turned down a side street leading to the harbor. He had to swerve around a car that backed up into the street without looking for oncoming traffic. Thirty minutes ago, Jackson’s transponder signal had stopped moving. Yuri had guessed correctly that Mitchell and Jackson would not be flown into the municipal airport. Instead, they were dropped off somewhere near the city’s harbor. Numerous multi-colored warehouses and smaller buildings lined the narrow road.

  “Do you think they took them to one of the buildings owned by Hyperborea?” asked Petrenko as he fished out a cigarette and lit it.

  “Would you?” replied Yuri.

  “No, I guess not.”

  “If I were them, I’d hold Ryan and Nate in a building belonging to one of their subsidiary companies. I’m sure that’s where we’ll find them.”

  “Is the signal getting any stronger?”

  “Yes. Keep on this road until I tell you to turn again.” Yuri’s eyes were fixed on the small unit held tight in his hands. No larger than a cell phone, the tracking device gave him a map of the city and a flashing red dot where the signal was coming from. Accurate to within fifty meters, Yuri would have preferred a more precise tracker. However, he took what he could buy on such short notice.

  After ten more minutes of driving, Yuri looked up from his tracker and glanced over at a cluster of buildings surrounded by a tall wire fence. He smiled. “They’re in there somewhere.”

  “Which one?” Petrenko asked. “There must be a good dozen buildings in there.”

  “I don’t know. Until we get inside, all I can tell you for sure is that they are in there somewhere.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  Yuri bit his lip. “Keep driving. Let’s see what they have for security.”

  A couple of seconds later, the SUV drove past the front entrance. Standing outside were a couple of men, armed with submachine guns.

  Yuri knew it was not going to be easy. “Park up the street,” he said to Petrenko.

  The SUV stopped in front of a semi-truck. Yuri got out of their vehicle and walked to the road. He tried to look like he was stretching out his back while he looked back towards the protected compound and studied it for a minute before getting back into the SUV.

  “So what do you think?” asked Petrenko. “Shall we wait for night and then try to sneak in?”

  “No,” replied Yuri. “They’ll be dead by then. We go in now.”

  Petrenko’s eyes widened. “And just how do you suggest we do that? We don’t have any weapons or specialized equipment to cut through that fence. I’m not as fit as you are. I can’t climb over that barbed-wire fence.”

  “All true. However, I know some men who can help us out,” said Yuri he dialed a number on his phone. While the phone rang, Yuri looked over at Petrenko. “I hope you’ve got easy access to a lot of American dollars. This isn’t going to be cheap.”

  Petrenko flicked his cigarette out of the car, mumbling to himself. He looked over at Yuri and said, “Can they access my account in Switzerland?”

  “If I remember right, that won’t be a problem with Rafael; he likes to keep his business transactions deep under the table.”

  Someone on the other end of the call picked up. Yuri quickly outlined his predicament and gave the man his wish list of equipment. In less than a minute, the conversation ended.

  Petrenko asked, “So, what did he say?”

  “He’ll be here in the next couple of hours.”

  “How much does he want?”

  “It’s a bargain,” replied Yuri. “Twenty-five grand for everything.”

  “Twenty-five!” blurted out Petrenko.

  “Hey, you reached out to me because I have contacts in this part of the world that you don’t. Black-market weapons and equipment don’t come cheap. Get used to it. If you think you can do this on your own, you’re welcome to try. I, for one, am going nowhere.”

  Ninety minutes passed in awkward silence, with neither man wanting to talk to the other. Yuri checked and re-checked his watch so many times that he lost count. He hated sitting idle while his friends were in danger. Unable to sit anymore, he opened the door of the SUV, climbed out and walked to the edge of the road. He used the front of the semi for cover and glanced back towards the front entrance. It looked quiet. He was about to walk back to the car when he spotted a small procession of black Mercedes cars coming down the road. They slowed down and turned into the warehouse complex. A sick feeling began to brew in his stomach. He had no doubt that there were at least twelve to sixteen men in the vehicles. The odds against successfully rescuing Mitchell and Jackson had just increased exponentially.

  32

  The Warehouse

  Mitchell was growing restless. Waiting tied to a chair to be tortured and then killed was not how he imagined his life ending. He tried to see if he could wiggle his hands free of the rope. After a couple of minutes, he gave up. It was hopeless; the rope was just too tight against his skin.

  Somewhere off to his left, he heard a door open. Voices in German boisterously greeted the men entering the building. Whoever was coming to interrogate them had arrived.

  “Company’s coming,” Mitchell said over his shoulder to Jackson.

  “I hope he brought something to eat. I’m starving,” complained Jackson.

  Suddenly, a man stepped out of the shadows, grabbed Jackson’s chair and swung him around so he was in line with Mitchell.

  “I guess it’s showtime,” said Mitchell.

  “Guess so,” replied Jackson.

  Mitchell tried to see who was talking in the dark. The bright light shining in his face blocked his view. It was like staring into the sun. He heard the sound of men moving around. A couple of seconds later, a chair was placed a few meters from Mitchell and Jackson.

  A we
ll-dressed man wearing a tailored, charcoal-gray suit took a seat in the chair. He looked to be in his early fifties with blue eyes, thinning blond hair, and a tanned face. He studied his prisoners for a moment, before reaching into his jacket. He pulled out a silver cigarette case, took out a cigarette and lit it. “So you are the two Americans who found the U-1309. I was told that you work for a private security company. To be honest, I had expected a couple of men with goatees with the physique of a body builder.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” replied Mitchell. “Not everyone looks like Hollywood’s idea of a security expert.” He was not surprised that the blond-haired man spoke flawless English with a slight German accent.

  The man shrugged. He took a long drag on his cigarette before letting it out. “Just in case you are wondering, your company’s request for information from the Bundesarchiv was what tipped us off. We have people there who monitor all traffic going in and out of the archives. Now what I want to know is, why did you go in search of the U-1309?”

  “Even if we told you the truth, I’m not sure you would believe us.”

  “Oh, you’re going to tell me the truth. Of that, I have no doubt.” The man leaned forward in his chair and fixed his gaze on Mitchell. His voice grew cold. “Now before we begin, I want you to understand that you are both dead men. How you die is up to you. If you cooperate and tell us what I need to know, I promise you that your deaths will be quick and painless. However, if you resist, I can guarantee you both a far more painful death.”

  “When you put it like that, I guess we don’t really have much of a choice,” said Mitchell.

  “Now, gentlemen, who hired you, and why?”

  For the next couple of minutes, Mitchell explained how they had been hired by General Alexander to find the missing treasure before a terrorist group got their hands on it and used the money to topple the Greek government.

  The blond-haired man sat there, stone-faced, taking in each word. When Mitchell finished, the man stared at his captives for a moment. “I find it quite ingenious that they decided to keep the location of the island recorded on the Iron Cross and not in the book.”

  “It may have been there as well,” pointed out Mitchell. “Unfortunately, the book burnt up along with some of your men, so we’ll never know.”

  “Yes, a most unforeseen incident. They were all good men. To be honest, over the years we had somehow lost all track of that bank account. Your company’s inquiry set off alarm bells on this side of the world. We had to react quickly. Regrettably, as you are aware, there were complications.”

  “It happens.”

  “Tell me Mister Mitchell, what shape is the U-1309 in?”

  “Considering that it has been sitting in a grotto for seventy years, I’d have to say that it is in remarkable condition,” replied Mitchell.

  The man shook his head. “It should have been destroyed when the cave entrance was sealed after the war.”

  “Whoever rigged it to blow did a lousy job,” said Jackson.

  “Your men took all of our equipment. They should have the pictures we took of it.” Mitchell said.

  “I suppose they do,” mused the man. “I haven’t had the time to see what they found on you when they took you prisoner. If you found it, others might, too. I guess I will have to have someone go back to the island and finish the job—properly this time.”

  “The Argentine and Chilean governments might have something to say about that,” said Mitchell.

  “I doubt it,” replied the man, curtly.

  Beck appeared like a ghost out of the dark. He bent over and whispered something into the blond-haired man’s ear. The man nodded his head a few times before looking over at Mitchell. “My associate tells me there is no such terrorist movement as The New Greek Dawn. Is there any other part of your story you would like to change before I leave?”

  “I can only tell you what I was told,” answered Mitchell. “General Alexander took the threat seriously enough to hire us.”

  “Speaking of the good General, he seems to have gone missing. He was supposed to be at a NATO meeting in Italy; however, none of my colleagues have been able to confirm his attendance.”

  Mitchell knew in an instant that Alexander was dead. Whoever had tried to kill his sister had gotten to him. “I couldn’t tell you where he is. Our job was to stop a terrorist group from getting their hands on your stolen money.”

  “Not stolen, liberated,” corrected the man.

  “I’ll bet there are several thousand families spread all around the world who would disagree with your interpretation of how you came into possession of billions of dollars of gold and other priceless artifacts.”

  “As my late father always said, possession is nine-tenths of the law, Mister Mitchell.”

  Mitchell chuckled. “I hope for your sake that your father wasn’t a lawyer. Theft is still theft no matter how you sugarcoat it.”

  Beck’s eyes narrowed. He stepped forward and slipped Mitchell hard across the face. He snarled, “How dare you speak to my master like that?”

  “Wanna try that on me?” said Jackson, glaring at Beck.

  “Why not?” replied Beck. He raised his hand to hit Jackson.

  “Enough!” snapped the blond-haired man. “Beck, leave us. Go and see that all is in order for my departure.”

  Beck slowly lowered his hand, begrudgingly nodded, and stepped back into the dark.

  “Now, where were we?” said the man. “Oh, yes, the treasure. Mister Mitchell, I regret that you and your colleague have been brought into something that is none of your business. I believe that you have told me the truth as you understand it.” He stood and looked down at his captives. “Excuse me a minute, I must confer with my colleagues.”

  Mitchell pulled at his bindings. He knew his life was now measured in minutes. He and Jackson had to find a way out of their predicament or they were both going to be shot in the head and their bodies dropped far out to sea.

  Yuri stepped over to the fence. He had a pair of wire cutters in his hand. While Petrenko covered him, he began to cut a hole large enough for him to get through.

  Yuri’s contact had come and gone in under five minutes. After checking that Petrenko’s bank account was valid and the money transferred, the man had handed over four Russian-made AK-74 carbines, and twenty fully loaded magazines. He also provided two Makarov 9mm pistols and ammunition. Along with the weapons, he produced wire cutters, gloves, and explosives, and a couple of stun grenades, stolen from the local police.

  Petrenko swore. “Why are we carrying two extra assault rifles?”

  Yuri finished cutting the wire fence and pulled the metal apart. “Because we’re outnumbered and outgunned. These are for my friends, once we free them. Now, no more questions. Get inside.”

  Both men slipped inside. Yuri pointed at a parked truck beside one of the warehouses. They hunched over and jogged to the vehicle. Already, Petrenko was huffing and puffing. Yuri looked back toward the armed guards at the front gate. His black-market contact had pretended to break down right in front of the entrance, and was busy trying to get the guards to help him. Yuri dug out his tracking device and checked it. It showed a long warehouse about two hundred meters away. Yuri motioned for Petrenko to say where he was. Warily, he moved forward until he could get a clear view of the building. He grinned when he saw four black BMWs parked outside of the warehouse.

  He had found them. Now he needed a plan to get them out. He drummed his fingers on the hard plastic forestock of his carbine while he pondered his next move. Like a light switch being turned on in a dark room, the solution to his problem was right in front of his eyes. He turned about and quickly made his way back to Petrenko. After outlining his scheme, Yuri looked into Petrenko’s eyes and saw disbelief.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve seen this done in movies,” said Yuri. “It’s bound to work.”

  Petrenko shook his head. “This is real life, not some cockamamie film.”

  Yuri patted him on the
back. “Come on, we’re wasting time.” With his weapon held tight in his hands, Yuri stepped off, closely followed by a reluctant Petrenko.

  It took only a couple of minutes for the blond-haired man to return. “Gentlemen, I have other matters to attend to. I thank you for your honesty. I think this unfortunate turn of events is something we can easily manage and control. Because I am a man of my word, you will both be dispatched with a shot to the head. You won’t feel a thing.”

  “You’re a real humanitarian,” Mitchell retorted.

  “Yeah, a caring individual,” added Jackson.

  “Adieu,” said the man before turning around and walking out of sight.

  Mitchell heard Beck’s voice and the sound of a door opening and closing. He gritted his teeth and pulled at the rope for all he was worth. He had to escape.

  A couple of seconds later, all of the lights in the warehouse were turned on. Mitchell could see that the large building was almost empty. Aside from a few crates stacked near a door, there was nothing. His gaze fixed on Beck and six other men. His stomach flipped when he saw that they were all carrying saws and pliers. The blond-haired man may have promised them a quick death; Beck, on the other hand, was coming to seek revenge for the deaths of his men.

  Yuri sat in the passenger seat of a two-ton truck, watching as a group of men in suits got into the BMWs and began to drive away. He could not be sure how many men remained in the warehouse. It did not matter; he was going in, and that was all there was to it. He looked over at Petrenko and said, “Drive.”

  Petrenko gulped and changed gears on the truck Yuri had hot-wired. He placed his foot down on the accelerator and turned the wheel.

  They drove past the BMWs, picking up speed by the second.

  Yuri glanced over at the mirror on his door and watched all of the cars disappear around the side of the building. In his right hand was his carbine in the other was one of the stun grenades.