Already, the bridge was under siege, guards inside firing through broken windows at the hijackers below. The pirates returned fire from behind containers, some on the left, some on the right, their torrent of bullets threatening to overwhelm the defenders. It was a stalemate, but Herron didn’t see how the beleaguered crew could hold out for long.
Not without help, anyway.
He charged forward and joined the hijackers behind cover near the left side staircase. “Sorry. Got held up…”
“There’s two guards giving us hell.” One of the other pirates looked around at Herron. He hesitated, taken aback by Herron’s exposed face. His exposed white face. “Lose your balaclava?”
“Something like that.” Herron aimed his pistol at the hijacker and cleared his throat. “There’s been a change of plans.”
The rest of the group turned to face him, and Herron was suddenly amused at his inability to see the confusion on their faces—they still wore their balaclavas. A second later, the first of them tried to aim a weapon at Herron, so he shot the guy in the knee. He dropped to the ground, writhing.
“The next person who tries anything gets one too.” Herron smiled. “Now, I want one of you to wrap something tight around his leg while the rest of you use zip ties to restrain your neighbour.”
The shouts of outrage began. The threats washed over him, because this whole band was about as hard as puppy shit—a collective of two-bit crims banded together to prey on vulnerable civilians. Herron could understand their resistance, but he couldn’t abide it.
He aimed at the apparent ringleader and took out his knee as well. As he fell, the others fell into line. As ordered, they dressed the wounds of the two kneecapped men, then used their own zip ties on each other—equipment that would otherwise have been used on the bridge crew.
When the job was done, four men were restrained on the deck, two of them with bullet wounds.
The attack on the bridge from the left thwarted, Herron was tempted to try the same on the right. But when several shots from the remaining hijackers pounded into the container he was sheltered behind, the decision was made for him. He popped up and fired at the hijackers, missing them all but forcing them to seek more cover.
It showed the crew on the bridge that he was a friend.
He hoped that was enough to keep him alive as he broke into a run, racing up the stairs. Each footfall clanged loudly, each step taking an eternity, but the bridge crew held their fire. He made it most of the way to the top, just three steps away, when a pair of hijackers popped up and opened fire on him.
“Shit!” Shots ricocheted off the steel steps and guard rails, which drowned out the sound of Herron hammering on the door of the bridge. “Let me in!”
His shots at the pirates, combined with the fact that the hijackers had fired at him, convinced the crew to help. The door was unlocked and opened, and Herron dived inside and to the ground to escape the gunfire.
Looking up, he saw one guard aiming a gun at him while another fired out at the hijackers. Herron grinned. “Hi guys, I’m Mitch. I’m here to help.”
As the guard kept the pistol trained on him, a third man stepped forward and stood over Herron. The captain. “You’re the newest addition to a very confusing situation. Explain yourself.”
Herron sat up but made no move to stand in case the guard had an itchy trigger finger. “I’m working undercover for the U.S. Government. I’m here to stop the raids on shipping.”
The captain scoffed. “Funny way of showing it.”
Herron fixed him with a hard gaze. “You can either accept my help and the chance I can get you out of this mess...”
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Or?”
“Or you detain me in the few moments you have before your boat, your cargo, your life and the lives of your crew are taken from you.”
As if to illustrate the choice, the guard near the window screamed and clutched his shoulder, blood oozing between his fingers. The captain had a split second to choose: trust Herron enough to peel his other security guy off and fight the hijackers, or keep Herron under guard while the hijackers storm up the stairs and waltz through the door.
Herron held his gaze. “I can help you push them back, but you’ve got two seconds to decide.”
The captain eyed him stonily, then nodded. “Okay.”
Herron climbed to his feet as his custodian ran over to take the place of the wounded man, opening fire at the hijackers as they started up the stairs. Herron grabbed the injured guard’s pistol from the deck and joined in.
They caught the attackers in the no-man's-land between the bridge and their cover.
One was shot in the leg. He screamed in pain and fell to the ground.
Another took two shots, one in the gut and one in the throat.
The last Herron drilled between the eyes.
Silence descended over the ship, broken only by the heavy sighs of relief from everyone left on the bridge—the captain, the guard who was still on his feet, and a pair of other unarmed crewmen. The wounded guard had passed out, but all four of the conscious crewmen were clearly stunned. They’d soon be in shock and would bear the scars of the attack for years.
Herron felt guilty that he’d let the attack go ahead at all, but it had been necessary to keep his only chance of climbing to the top of the pirate organisation’s power structure. Now, he owed it to the dead men to finish the job.
The captain clamped a fleshy hand down on his shoulder. “I appreciate you helping me to deal with those men. But what do we do now?”
“Well, I’d start by freeing the two guards I cuffed to the guard railing about halfway along the deck. As for the hijackers, do whatever you like with their bodies...”
“We’ve got a freezer section. We can put them on ice until we reach port. We’ll radio ahead to tell them that—”
Herron interrupted. “I need you to keep the attack quiet for a few days. Doing so will help dozens of other captains on dozens of other ships…”
The captain hesitated. “If I’m to understand you correctly, you’re telling me the problem is being dealt with?”
Herron nodded. “Two days.”
“What are you, CIA?” The captain raised an eyebrow when Herron didn’t respond. “I understand. You’ve got 48 hours before I report the attack. I’ll blame a broken radio.”
“Thank you. It will help to put these guys out of business for good.”
“I hope you have more success than those navy boys. We sure were happy when they got put on the beat, but they haven’t done a damn thing.” The captain scoffed. “Is that all you need from us?”
“Not quite.” Herron let the words hang for a moment. “The gang wanted to crack open a strongbox and steal the contents. I need to look inside. I’ve got the code.”
“You could ask to sleep with my wife and I might even consider it right now.” The captain laughed. “Follow me.”
5
Herron whistled a tune as he walked down the aisle of the small dollar store, plastic basket in hand. He’d packed it with all sorts of junk, but he wasn’t done yet. He still had two more large duffel bags to fill, so he kept pulling bulky stuff off the shelves and adding to his haul. The entire time, he could feel eyes on him—the shopkeeper behind the counter, confused by this strange shopping spree.
After he’d departed the container ship, Herron had taken one of the Zodiac boats back to the shore. As soon as he’d been back in cell range, he’d used Bautista’s phone to send a message to the only pre-saved number in its address book—lying that he had the loot from the strongbox and needed drop orders.
Then, while he’d waited for the orders to come in, he’d got to work trying to replicate the gold and platinum bars he’d found stored in the ship’s strongbox.
With his fourth basket filled, he walked to the counter, put it on top, grabbed another basket and kept on going. As he did, the store owner continued to tally the cost of his purchases, stuffing the goods into the large duf
fel bags Herron had provided. Already they were heavy with crap he had bought.
Herron repeated the process until the shopkeeper had filled a half-dozen duffel bags with many baskets full of junk. When the bags were as full as they could be, he zipped them all closed. A quick check confirmed they were heavy enough to pass for fake bars of precious metal. It was the best he could do at short notice.
He put a wad of cash on the counter and raised an eyebrow. “Good?”
“Yes.” The shopkeeper spoke passable English. “No change.”
Herron laughed at the gall of the man, but agreed. It didn’t matter. The shopkeeper was happy with the haul and Herron was happy to burn some cash to take the next step along the path to the hijacker leadership.
As if on cue, the phone in his pocket beeped.
He pulled out the handset, looked at the message, and frowned. He couldn’t understand it, so he held the screen up to the shopkeeper. “Can you read this?”
The man looked down at the phone. “Sure. It’s an address about fifteen minutes from here. Do you need directions?”
“I’ll punch it into the maps application.” Herron wrote the address in English and then pocketed the phone. “Now you can keep the change.”
With the shopkeeper still chuckling, Herron hefted a pair of the duffel bags and left the dollar store. The man followed with two more. Herron popped the trunk of Bautista’s car and stuffed the bags inside while the store owner went back inside for the last pair.
With a last nod at the owner, Herron slammed the trunk closed and rounded to the driver’s side. He opened the door, climbed inside the car, gunned the engine, and hit the road. Maybe it was his imagination, but the back of the car felt heavier, weighed down by the bags of junk.
With that idle thought still strong in his mind, he ordered the virtual assistant on the phone to pull up directions to the rendezvous. The device promptly displayed a map to the drop-off point, with an estimated drive time of fifteen minutes, a full forty-five earlier he needed to be there.
He kept the car going a few miles per hour slower than the speed limit, eager to avoid any attention from overzealous local law enforcement. Fifteen minutes later—right on time—he pulled his car down a quiet-looking side street. A handful of children played outside a handful of houses and beyond them stood a few small warehouses with signs Herron couldn’t read.
He slowed the car, his eyes darting between the phone and the properties he passed as he tried to figure out the exact rendezvous point. Then he found it: a secluded lane between two warehouses, little more than a dirt road, sunk in shadow from the monoliths on either side of it.
Herron cruised past. To any observer, he’d be just a white guy in a beaten-up car, out of place but unremarkable, with nothing to suggest he was the bagman for a network of international thieves. If the lane was under surveillance—and if he oversaw the drop-off and pickup, it would be—he hoped he’d avoided attention of any watchers.
He used the time he had up his sleeve to drive past another couple of times, but the story was the same—a quiet alleyway in a quiet street, the playing kids the only sign of activity. After the third lap, he was satisfied he’d done what he could to spot any observers.
He parked thirty yards from the alleyway, killed the engine, and checked his watch. Thirty-five minutes until the pickup. He settled in, using five minutes to suck down some supplies he’d purchased from the dollar store—a bottle of water and some snack food.
With thirty minutes to go before the pickup, the street seemed normal. But still the hairs on the back of Herron’s neck stood on end, telling him there was danger close by and that he should be cautious. It was an instinct that had served him well over the years, so as he drained the last of the water, he scanned the area for a way to deal with any potential threat.
He locked eyes on the group of kids and smiled.
It was amazing what twenty bucks could still buy you.
As Herron watched the kids haul the junk to the drop-off—two to a bag—he checked up ahead, then used the mirrors to scan the street behind him, knowing the hijackers could show up at any moment. There were still twenty minutes to go before the scheduled pickup, but Herron did not know if the crew was punctual.
Nobody had arrived by the time the kids were done. When they returned, he held a hand through the window with their cash in it. One of the kids snatched away. The boy—the oldest in the group—gave a conspiratorial grin, then set off back towards his house, his younger peers on his heels. Herron paid them no more heed, shifting his focus to the bags.
The kids had dropped them right where he’d told them to: near the entry to the alley and visible to anyone who passed, but likely to be written off quickly as garbage. They certainly weren’t of interest enough that anyone should stop their car to inspect them, although a curious pedestrian might stop for a look. If that happened, he’d have to warn them off as quickly as he could.
Fortunately, the next twenty minutes passed uneventfully. A few cars passed, so did a handful of pedestrians, but nobody took any interest in the bags, if they even noticed them there at all. The whole time, Herron tapped a tune on the wheel, eager to see what he’d have to deal with when the pickup crew arrived.
“Showtime.” Herron spotted a car in his rear-view. It slowed down as it passed him, then stopped right next to the bags by the alleyway. “Who do we have here?”
Unlike many of the cars in the area, this one was a far nicer model, a black Mercedes sedan that looked stupidly out of place in such a run-down part of town. It proved whoever oversaw the piracy operation lived a better life than Bautista and his ilk.
He stayed in his seat as the rear doors of the Mercedes opened and two suited Asian men climbed out. From this distance, he figured they were about twenty-five—too young to be the ringleaders but plenty old enough to be the muscle. They proved it a moment later when they hefted the bags into the trunk of the Mercedes, either not curious to check inside or ordered not to.
“Guess we’re doing this the easy way…” Herron murmured. “For once.”
If the goons had opened the bags and seen what was inside, it would’ve made following them much harder. As it was, he watched in silence as they loaded all six duffel bags inside the trunk and then slammed it closed. Less than sixty seconds after they’d climbed out of the car, the enforcers were getting back inside.
They hadn’t even looked up and down the street to check the coast was clear.
Their lack of caution was a dead giveaway—these men thought they had nothing to fear. They thought the bags contained millions of dollars’ worth of gold and platinum, and yet were totally confident they hadn’t been scammed or that any cops might be waiting nearby to make an arrest. They operated with impunity, gods of their own domain, both betrayal and failure impossible.
Herron’s bet that they were pros had paid off. They wouldn’t know their duffel bags were full of trash until it was too late, nor that a predator was now on their tail. All their attempts at operational security using encrypted messages, burner cell phones, and hired hijackers unknown to each other had been blown totally to hell.
He hit the gas. The car responded with a cough, then slowly gained speed. As he inched closer to the Mercedes, he kept far enough back to not raise the alarm, but given the lack of traffic on the roads he didn’t have to work very hard to stay on its tail.
Besides, even if he lost them, he had one more trick up his sleeve.
With one hand on the wheel, he dug through his pocket and pulled out the phone he’d taken from the hijackers. His eyes flickered between the road and the phone screen as he opened an app that would let him track the Mercedes with the help of a five-buck key chain locator he’d purchased, paired to the phone, and then thrown into one bag.
So far, it looked like it would do the job just fine.
He followed the enforcers until they arrived at a low-density industrial area and pulled to a stop in front of a warehouse. Herron continued past it
, even as the roller-door opened, and the Mercedes drove inside.
He parked further down the street. With one eye on his mirrors to make sure nobody emerged from the warehouse again, Herron counted to thirty and then climbed out of the car. He disappeared down an alleyway that ran down the side of the warehouse, moved around to the rear of the building, and searched for an entry point.
He found one quickly: a broken window that had been replaced with balsa. He needed to stand on a trash can to reach it, but once he did, it was child’s play to remove the panel. He dropped it to the ground, then quickly and quietly climbed through the space.
When he had his feet on the ground inside, he put on his balaclava, drew his pistol, and got to work.
“Of all the places…”
Herron screwed up his nose. The further inside the warehouse he stalked, the more the smell of fish overwhelmed him. The stench made his eyes water, a final flourish to an interior that was already dark, dank, and dusty. It also made him want to rush, but to do so could lead to a mistake; instead, he sucked it up and kept going.
He’d entered via some sort of office, lit only by the light from the window behind him. The furniture was old and covered in dust, which suggested the warehouse hadn’t been used for its original purpose for some time. It made sense the hijackers would base themselves somewhere unlikely to get attention, but a disused fish cannery?
What next? The mafia in a mausoleum? Terrorists in a tannery?
He pushed through the back areas of the warehouse quickly, confident everyone inside would be gathered around the car and eager to examine the bags the enforcers had collected. He still checked all the corners as he moved, keen to avoid an ambush, but he passed through several large rooms without incident.
The Azure Backlash Page 5