She coughed a few times, looking at him with wide eyes, as the pale light of the flames reflected off the surrounding water. “Mitch, I’m sorry…”
“It’s just a boat.” Herron lied. “I just need you to hang tough for a minute and then I’ll get us out of here.”
She nodded, and he led them in a swim around to the other side of the burning yacht. He didn’t have far to go, but it was still a struggle given the punishment he’d taken from the Widow. They skirted the yacht and found the Zodiac boat that Smiley and the others who’d made it aboard had used…
It was a floating carcass, deflated rubber with bullet holes in it, with its engine nowhere in sight.
The Widow had been good to her word. She really had intended for them to burn alive on the yacht or drown when they escaped it. The boat was useless. He’d underestimated her. She was a formidable foe.
“Shit.” Herron’s voice was a whisper, because he didn’t want to alert Lynda to the fact that the situation was desperate. He turned to smile at Lynda. “We’re going to be okay.”
“The other boat is gone, Mitch.” Lynda saw the reality as clear as he did. “What are we going to do?”
Herron didn’t have a simple answer. His first plan had been to use one of his own lifeboats to get them to safety. Second, to use whichever Zodiac the Widow hadn’t taken. But his third was far more desperate, a plan that he found personally unsatisfactory but offered Lynda the best chance to survive.
Herron reached into his pocket and pulled out the nautical emergency beacon he’d taken from the wheelhouse. He popped off the plastic cover and his thumb hovered over the black button. As soon as he pressed it, a message would be sent that they needed help.
He felt ashamed for delaying for even a second, but he knew the second help arrived someone would piece it all together, figure out who he really was and arrest him. He’d be saving Lynda and condemning himself.
But he had no other choice.
He mashed the button.
The process was now in motion. They had no food or water, no way to dry themselves and no way to keep them warm. All they could do was wait, bobbing in the water, watching the carcass of his yacht be overcome by fire.
Seeing the boat burn, he felt regret. After he’d destroyed the Enclave and killed the Master, he’d been content with his nomadic life. But as the yacht succumbed, its husk slipping beneath the waves, he was unsure whether he’d been a fool to try hiding from his past.
Like it or not, he’d be back in the spotlight soon enough.
The yacht had long vanished under the sea, and Herron was growing ever more impatient for help to arrive. A few times, Lynda tried to speak with him, but he gave only the most basic responses. She soon got the point—understood his loss—and they had settled into silence—wet, cold, and powerless.
Eventually, he spotted the grey speck far off in the distance—a helicopter. Soon there was the thump-thump-thump drumbeat of rotors overhead and the United States Navy chopper was doing a long and lazy loop around them.
At last, it took up a position hovering near the Zodiac, and a sailor descended on a cable into the water. “Need some help?”
“You could say that,” Herron replied.
“Are either of you wounded?”
“Cuts and bruises.”
The sailor nodded and the rescue operation proceeded with all the usual efficiency of the United States forces. The sailor secured Lynda in a harness and winched her aboard the chopper first. A few minutes later, he returned and did the same for Herron. Neither man spoke—even if the roar of the rotor blades didn’t prevent chat, the sailor too focused on his work.
Herron had nothing to say, anyway.
He’d never expected to ride in a U.S. military transport chopper again. His entire career in the special forces had involved being flown in and out of remote places, tasked with completing the most tough missions. But he’d never felt such a sense of dread as he did now, because at any moment he’d be exposed and there was no way to avoid it. On top of the loss of his yacht, losing his false identity would herald a new beginning for Herron.
A forced rebirth.
Perhaps noticing the look of unease on his face, the sailor who’d rescued them tapped Herron’s arm and opened his headset comms. “What happened?”
“We were attacked by pirates.” Herron paused, because everything else was a lie. “They took our valuables then torched the boat.”
The sailor sighed. “If you’d sounded the alert earlier, we might have been able to save you from too much trouble.”
“It all happened so fast…” Herron could hardly say that he’d fought off almost all the pirates himself. “What’s the U.S. Navy doing this far out of the way?”
If the sailor noticed the change of topic, he didn’t mention it. “We’ve been on patrol in these waters for months—it’s a multinational effort to police piracy—but we’re spread pretty thin.”
“You were close enough to help us out.” Herron forced a smile. “So that’ll do me for the time being.”
“You’ll both be fine.” The sailor grinned. “Good old Uncle Sam will make sure you’re well taken care of.”
Herron’s nod masked his thoughts.
That’s what I’m worried about.
2
Herron had been out of the military for a decade—since he’d turned his back on the special forces and been enlisted by the Enclave—yet riding in the chopper felt like coming home. The canvas seat like sandpaper on his skin, the safety harness that didn’t fit quite right, the uniformed men seated across from him…
Dampened as it was by his headset, the constant thunder of the rotors was like a drumroll marking the end of this act of Herron’s life. He sat in silence, occasionally glancing at Lynda—who seemed relieved and relaxed after their near miss——and used the time to ready himself for what was to come.
Because he was sure conflict was on the way.
The voice of the sailor who’d rescued them filled Herron’s headset. “You’re both going to be just fine!”
Herron gave him a thumbs up, because his false identity would last even less time if he looked unhappy about being rescued. “I appreciate you helping us!”
“Anytime, pal.” The sailor smiled. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Dave Walsh.” Herron gave the name of one of his many false identities now at the bottom of the ocean. “Are we almost there?”
The sailor nodded and, a minute later, the pilot reported over comms that they were close to landing. Herron looked out the windows of the chopper until he spotted a speck off in the distance—most likely an Arleigh Burke class destroyer, the setting for the next chapter of this strange day.
The chopper arced wide around the destroyer before hovering above the rear helipad. Already on the deck, near to another helicopter, Herron could see a welcoming party of a handful of sailors. That alone didn’t trigger any alarm bells, but one other detail about the group sure as hell did.
Their assault rifles.
Herron kept as still as the dead while the chopper landed and powered down. The clatter of the rotors was replaced by the chatter of the crew, and he watched closely as one sailor climbed out of the chopper, then helped Lynda down onto the deck. He moved to follow.
“Not so fast, Mr Walsh.” The sailor who’d rescued them clamped a hand on his shoulder. His earlier cheer had been replaced by a steely expression. “Captain wants you in the officers’ wardroom.”
Herron’s muscles tensed instinctively, ready to explode with violence… but first he had to resolve this peacefully, for Lynda’s sake. “I want to go with her.”
“Your friend will be fine.” The sailor kept his hand on Herron’s shoulder. “You’re going for a debrief.”
Herron stared at him for a few seconds, but the meaning was clear, and the navy man would not back down. Keeping their heads low as they moved out of the rotor’s arc, he followed the sailor off the pad and towards Lynda.
; “End of the line for our partnership, Lynda.” Herron tried to force a smile, but he doubted it was convincing. “Go with these sailors. They’ll take care of you from here and see you safely back to Fiji.”
Her face was ashen, as if she’d only just realized they might be separated. “I stowed away so I could go with you, Mitch.”
“That’s not an option anymore.” He waited while the reality sank in, then didn’t back away when she sobbed and stepped forward to hug him. He wrapped his arms awkwardly around her. “It’ll be okay.”
“I’m sorry.” She pressed her head against his chest. “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have used the beacon and put yourself in danger.”
“You’re wrong.” Herron lied. She was a perceptive kid. “Go home, go to school and do something great with your life.”
She pulled away and smiled at him, clearly upset but trying to put a brave face on it, just like she had when they’d threatened her on the yacht. “You’ll come visit me in Fiji, won’t you? Mitch?”
Herron winced inwardly at her use of his real name—a quick glance at the nearby sailor showed that he’d caught the mistake—and then he nodded, although he knew he’d never see her again. She was whisked away by the unarmed sailors, his own path blocked by a pair of sailors armed with assault rifles.
Herron fronted up to the sailors. Their weapons were pointed at the deck, but their bodies were stiff and their faces hard, which was enough to show him where he stood. “Am I being arrested?”
“You’re being debriefed, but you can call it whatever you like.” One sailor replied, his voice hard. “Come with us voluntarily or we’ll drag you. Makes no difference to me.”
There was no point arguing—yet. Normally he’d fight or run or hide in the shadows, but that was useless on a U.S. Navy destroyer in the middle of the ocean. He’d known the second he hit the emergency distress beacon that his old life of quiet and seclusion was over—if it had ever been real to start with—and now there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Herron took a deep breath and looked around. In the faces of the sailors guarding him, he saw a bunch of children, junior ranks who were oblivious to the horrors of the battlefield. They weren’t part of some grand plot to bust him and deliver him stateside, at least not yet, rather regular sailors tasked to help civilians only to find one they weren’t sure about.
As if to illustrate the point, a medic stepped away from the welcoming party and moved across to him. She couldn’t be more than mid-twenties, fresh to the service. “Try to relax, you’re in good hands.”
“Sorry, I’m just on edge after the hijacking.” Herron spoke slowly. “I’m not used to seeing so many guns.”
“Understandable.” Her voice was kind and concerned. “Come with me. I’ll take care of your cuts and bruises while you wait for the captain….”
There was no other choice but to follow her off the deck and into his new life.
Herron winced as the medic applied antiseptic to a laceration down his left cheek, one of the many injuries on his face. “That hurts more than the cut did.”
“Then you should avoid getting cut.” She gave him an impish grin. “Anyway, I’m done with you now.”
“Glad to hear it.” He waited for her to take a step back, although not very far in the tiny cell he was in. “How’s Lynda doing?”
“The woman you arrived with?” The medic raised an eyebrow as she removed her latex gloves and pocketed them. “She’s fine now she’s dry and warm.”
“Okay.” Herron didn’t press the issue with her—she was a just a junior sailor doing her job—instead he’d hold his fire until the captain showed up. “Thanks.”
When she departed his cell at last, they left a guard outside the door. He hadn’t been left alone at any point, the sailors clearly keen to understand who they had in their midst before he was given any freedom.
That thought depressed him. Because if he was under such close guard now, how would the sailors react when they inevitably cracked the veneer of his false identity? His fake credentials were good, but would they stand up to a determined interrogation by an already suspicious crew?
One call to the CIA or the FBI, plus a bit of time, would probably be enough.
Still, if he had to wait around for the captain to show, he’d done it in worse places. He’d spent days laying prone in the mud—staring down a rifle scope, pissing and shitting in place, and getting no sleep—so waiting on a bed in a climate-controlled cell was easy.
An hour later, Herron almost choked when the captain walked through the door, limping heavily, but otherwise projecting authority. “You’ve got to be kidding me…”
“Walsh?” The new arrival, a tall and muscular man, grinned down at Herron. “Who the hell is Walsh?”
Any hope Herron’s false identity would hold up was detonated instantly. He sat up in the bed. “Laidlaw. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Captain Jerome Laidlaw laughed. “I’m not sure if I should shake your hand, arrest you or shoot you.”
Herron stood, reached out and shook Laidlaw’s hand. “Given where we left things in Sinaloa, I’d put good money on the latter.”
Laidlaw limped over to Herron and slapped him on the shoulder a few times. “It’s really damn good to see you again, Mitch.”
“Bullshit.” Herron scoffed. “You’ve got the most wanted man on the planet aboard your ship. There’s no way you’re happy about it.”
Laidlaw limped from the cell and returned a second later with a bottle of tequila and two glasses. He poured a hefty dose in each, then slid one to Herron. “Didn’t have any ice, so this will have to do.”
“Been a while.” Herron held his glass up in a makeshift salute, then took a sip of the drink. It burned and instantly reminded him of the last time he’d had it. “You owed me a bottle.”
Laidlaw grinned and took a sip of his own. “I haven’t forgotten. In fact, I developed a bit of a taste for it.”
The drink gave Herron a flashback to that time as well, serving with Laidlaw off the coast of Sinaloa, Mexico. Herron had been in charge of a small special forces unit charged with interdicting the supply of illegal narcotics into the United States, while Laidlaw had been in charge of the ship ferrying them around the coast.
The mission had gone for six months. It had been bloody work, with no quarter asked or given, a battle to the death against a cartel with billions of reasons to fight back. In months, Herron’s team had blown up a half-dozen manufacturing facilities and warehouses, destroyed several aircraft used to fly supply over the border, and assassinated over twenty high-value targets.
Eventually, the cartel had stopped trying to defend itself and fought back. Unable to find Herron’s team in the field, they’d instead targeted Laidlaw’s ship after a leak in the Mexican military had revealed its location. The ship had been attacked while in port to re-supply, several of the crew killed and many wounded, and Laidlaw had been shot in the leg.
Then Herron’s team had arrived.
Fresh from shove leave, the special forces squad had been low on sobriety but high on enthusiasm. They’d helped the sailors defending the ship to turn the tables. Herron himself had put down the sicario who’d been preparing to hold Laidlaw hostage to extract concessions from the U.S. government.
A bottle of tequila smashed over the killer’s head had ended that threat.
In the aftermath, the mission had been ended, the Pentagon declaring mission accomplished and not willing to risk further attacks. Herron had been moved on to other missions, Laidlaw had healed and then been given command of another vessel, and the two of them had never got to taste the brand of tequila in the bottle he’d smashed over the Mexican’s head.
Until now.
They spoke deep into the night, Laidlaw summarising his career since Herron had last seen him—long, distinguished, faultless. He had no family, a navy man who lived for the job and had been rewarded with command of a destroyer, one of the youngest captains to ever
notch that achievement and with plenty more to come. He still had the limp, but otherwise the attack in Sinaloa hadn’t impacted his career.
“What about you, Mitch?” Laidlaw’s voice suddenly took a serious tone. “I don’t buy this bullshit about you sailing the seven seas on your yacht.”
Herron briefly weighed-up whether he should tell Laidlaw the truth. If his name was fed into a computer all would be revealed anyway, but it was more than that. Did their shared history and the fact Laidlaw hadn’t already called in his identity mean he could trust his old comrade?
“When I left the military, I became a contract killer for a black-ops agency that purported to work for the US government.” Herron crossed his arms across his chest as Laidlaw listened in stone-faced silence. “They deceived me, so I destroyed them. Now every intelligence agency on Earth wants me dead.”
“That mess in London...” Laidlaw finally spoke. “I did wonder why you’d go to such lengths to put yourself on Interpol and the FBI’s shit list.”
“Now you know.” Herron took a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving Laidlaw. “So, what are you going to do?”
“I’m not going to expose you.” Laidlaw laughed and then scratched his chin, like he was properly considering an idea he’d only toyed with previously. “We might be able to help each other out.”
“Go on.”
“I have a problem your unique blend of conflict resolution might help with. In return for keeping your presence here hidden.”
“And the crew will go for it?”
“Sure, if it gets them home faster.” Laidlaw shrugged. “They’ve been stuck out here for months, away from families and friends, watching paint dry.”
“What’s the issue?”
“Like always, they have not given us enough resources to do the job properly.” Laidlaw scoffed. “Right now, we’ve been assigned three ships to cover half an ocean.”
The Azure Backlash Page 2