by David DeLee
Bannon looked at each of them in turn. “We ready?”
They nodded.
He said, “Two minute to breech.”
They moved toward their assigned access points.
Bannon and Singleton reached the pilothouse together. Bannon said, “You’ll find the stairwell behind the helm and left of the chart table, Chief. Wait for my signal.”
“What’s the signal?”
Bannon offered a grim smile. “You’ll know it when you hear it.” He clasped the man’s shoulder. “Good luck.”
Singleton turned his baseball cap to the rear. “Back at ya.”
Bannon rushed forward and knelt down next to the forward hatch cover. Directly below it was the crew’s quarters. He pulled the grenade secured to his vest, pulled the pin, and held the spool down with his thumb. He checked his dive watch and counted down the seconds.
When the sweeping second hand reached twelve, under his breath, he said, “Mark.”
He opened the hatch and dropped the grenade through the opening. He heard it hit the deck below and bounce once before it exploded.
Micro-seconds later, he heard two more explosions. Tara and Kayla had initiated their assaults as well. It was time to move.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
At the stern of the sub-chaser, Tara opened her hand, releasing her grenade. It dropped through the open hatch to the crew quarter’s below. It pinged off a metal rung of the ladder and exploded before it hit the deck below, in quick secession with Kayla and Bannon’s exploding grenades.
A puff of gray smoke bloomed from the open hatch.
Tara double checked to ensure the haladie was secure in its sheath on her hip and tightened her grip on the Sig. She leaped over the lip of the hatch and grabbed the ladder. She descended down the rungs quickly, leaping from rung to rung the way rock climbers repel down the side of a cliff into the darkness below.
With her feet bare, she landed on the cold metal floor and twisted away from the ladder. By the ominous dim red exit lights over the room’s doors—one forward and one aft—she took in the space with a glance. There wasn’t much to see. Eight bunkbed-style berths. Shelves that folded down from the bulkhead with a thin mattress on each. They smelled moldy. Between the bunks were dresser drawers and a writing surface built into the bulkhead. Each had a lamp and a metal chair. Taped to the wall was a calendar with bikini clad models. July 2007.
Grenade smoke fouled the air and stung Tara’s eyes. She blinked, trying to adjust her eyes more rapidly to the darkness. She steadied her breathing, listening for the slightest sound, anything to reveal if someone was hiding in the room’s dark spaces. She heard nothing.
The rear door led to the lazarette: the rudder and tiller equipment room. She’d need to clear that before she could move forward to assist the others. She crossed the room quickly, heading for the oval and heavy steel door.
Too quickly as it turned out.
From the shadowy corner to her left, a bare foot kicked her gun from her hand. The Sig hit the metal bulkhead, then the deck. She heard it skid across the floor, in the darkness, away from her. A fist slammed into the side of her neck from the right at nearly the same time. She cried out more in surprise than in pain as the Sanu twins seemingly stepped out of the darkness, like ghosts.
Or ninjas.
Tall and impossibly thin, they were shirtless and wore only baggy black pants that gathered around their ankles. The bottom half of the traditional ninja-yoroi, or ninja armor. Their full body, colorful, ink tattoos glowed like embers, reflected by the room’s red glow off the slick irezumi ink.
She twisted away from her attackers, stepping back.
“Damn, ninjas.” She waved at them, inviting their attack. “Well, come on then.”
Together they charged. In the tight quarters, she had the advantage. She hit the twin to her left—Kin, his eye still bruised and swollen—with a savage snap kick to his gut. It sent him backward with a woof of air. She drove a fist into Kyo’s face, hitting him just above the eye. He landed a jab into her stomach and a forearm slam across her chest. The two blows sent her reeling.
She fell against the bunk behind her.
Kyo rushed forward and tried to kick her. Tara blocked the attempt, knocked his leg to the side, and clipped his jaw with a swing of her elbow. The contact sent a numbing pain up her arm. She grabbed the lamp from the built-in desk and swung it around fast. It shattered across Kyo’s face, cutting his cheek.
He spun away from her, his hand on his cheek. Blood leaked through his fingers.
Kin leaped over his brother and kicked his feet wildly. Unlike in the movies or at the local dojo, their attacks were quiet. The twins didn’t call out. There were no high-pitched hiyahs to telegraph their attacks.
Ninjutsu wasn’t the discipline of stealth assassins for nothing, Tara reminded herself.
She grabbed the chair by the desk, swung it up at him with all her strength. Kin’s feet got tangled in the chair’s legs. It cut his leap short and he crashed to the deck, landing on his back with a grunt.
Tara unsnapped the flash bang from her vest and tossed it at Kin.
She turned away and covered her eyes and closed her eyes.
The device went off, surprisingly loud in the dark, cramped space. But then, that was the point.
Kin cried out.
Tara jumped off the bunk and pounced on him, still laying on the deck. The side of his face burned, he clasped his hands to his ears. She drove two solid punches into his face. She felt teeth break under her knuckles.
Kyo charged from the other side of the room. He body slammed her, knocking her off Kin and across the length of the narrow space.
She curled up, but her back slammed into the metal hatch that led to the midship galley. Tara cried out. It felt like he’d broken her back.
He felt the impact as well. He stepped back. Tara slipped down to one knee, the wind knocked out of her. Kin untangled himself for the chair. He tossed it aside, his face charred and with one eye swollen shut, he rushed forward, pushing his brother out of the way. Still suffering the lingering affect of the flashbang, the hearing loss putting him off balance, he grabbed Tara by her ballistic vest and pulled her up off the deck.
She was marginally aware of hearing gunfire from somewhere deeper in the ship, a mix of automatic fire and a shotgun blast. She worried her friends needed her help. Her damp hair hung in her face. She wheezed trying to take in a breath as Kin lifted her to her feet.
He threw a punch, aiming for her face. She managed to use a forearm block. Pain reverberated up and down her arm. When he tried again, she had her hand around the grip of the haladie. She pulled it free of its sheath and plunged the curved blade into his stomach. His eyes went wide with surprise. She twisted the blade and he gasped. He took a staggered step back. She yanked the weapon up toward his sternum, gutting him like a fish.
Warm blood coated her hand. She yanked harder.
Kyo realized what she’d done by the guttural sounds Kin choked out.
He pulled his brother away, saw where Kin held his stomach. Blood leaked through his fingers, covered his hands, covered his intricate tattoos. Kin staggered back. He dropped to a sitting position on the deck, hands still clutching his wound. Blood spilled out of his open mouth.
Kyo grabbed Tara’s vest and yanked her towards him. She sliced the bloody haladie blade through his forearm, cutting him down to the bone.
He snarled and snatched his hand back, cradling his arm.
Tara swung her fist that gripped the haladie toward Kyo, intending to slice his throat open, but the ninja arched back, avoiding the strike and only getting cut across the cheek instead. Tara kicked him between the legs, a blow Kyo couldn’t avoid. He doubled over, dropping to his knees. Tara grabbed a fistful of his hair. She yanked his head back, exposing his neck. With her second attempt she opened up Kyo’s throat. A spray of warm blood splashed across her face, covered her vest and wetsuit, and spilled on the floor.
Kyo
’s eyes rolled up in his head. He collapsed into a crumbled pile at Tara’s feet.
Kin sat cross-legged on the deck, trying to hold his gut together. He watched Tara advance on him. She kicked him in the chest, knocking him onto his back. He kept his hands on his wound and stared up at her. His expression showed no fear, only hatred. She knelt beside him.
“How many people have you killed?”
He didn’t answer.
“How many deaths are you responsible for?”
He coughed up blood but remained silent.
She raised the haladie over her head in a two-handed grip and plunged it into his chest, killing him instantly.
Tara climbed to her feet, staggered grabbed for the bunk to keep herself on her feet. Breathless, wet hair in her face, she stared down at the bodies, watched the pools of blood spread, then merged, to form one slick red puddle.
Like Bannon, she had no remorse over what she’d done. In war, there were sides. Winners and losers. She’d been fighting one war or another her whole adult life. Stakes always that high for her. In a fight to the death, she was going to win…Every. Single. Time.
She wiped the blades of the haladie clean across the thin military blankets on the bunk and sheathed it. She found and retrieved her gun from the corner of the room. She heard a flash bang go off. Kayla. At the sound of more gunfire, she ran barefooted through the blood, charging through the hatch.
The dead were dead.
It was the living…her friends that mattered now.
CHAPTER FORTY
After his grenade exploded, Bannon tossed the hatch the rest of the way open. He pressed his feet and his hands against the outside of the ladder and slid down into the darkness. Like Tara, he found himself in a darkened bunkroom, though smaller, being in the narrower bow of the ship. The room had been stripped down. It contained bunks and empty dressers and writing surface. Nothing more.
Barefoot, he moved toward the hatch that would connect to the captain’s berth.
Before he was completely across the room, gunfire erupted from the other side of the door. Then a flashbang.
That put the hostiles at midship. Damn it.
He’d played the odds, figuring it most likely Palmer would’ve been held in the crew quarters. He hoped the smaller one, his. But that wasn’t the case. Instead, he’d dropped Kayla and Singleton right into the mix.
With his 9mm in hand, Bannon reached for the hatch. From the other side he heard a shotgun blast and shouting. Someone crying out in pain. Several someones.
Suddenly the hatch burst inward on him, swinging painfully into his gun hand. Stunned, he backpedaled as two figures backed into the room, one pulling the struggling body of another along with him. Using him as a human shield.
Kwon using Billy Palmer as a human shield. He was alive.
“End of the line, Kwon,” Bannon said.
Frantic, Kwon spun around. “You!”
In his arm’s Palmer sagged against his chest. Held at knife point, the blade pressed across Palmer’s throat. A handgun in Kwon’s other hand, under Palmer’s armpit, pointed at Bannon.
Dried blood caked the young man’s face from a cut over his right eye. His face was puffy and black and blue. One eye was swollen shut. His right hand was wrapped in a bloody bandage. From the way it was tied, Bannon could see he was missing two fingers. His clothes were covered in blood, too. Some of it dried, some fresh.
“So, this was what you were after all along,” Kwon snarled, slamming the hatch shut. “You and McMurphy.”
In the next room, the gunfire continued, the screaming continued. As did the dying.
Worried about the others, Bannon tried to shut it out of his mind. He couldn’t be distracted by concern. Not now. He had to focus, compartmentalize, the way he’d been trained.
“Let him go, Kwon.”
“What is this to you?” Kwon asked. “Who are you?”
“The person shutting you down.”
Kwon licked his lips. “I’ll pay you. I can make you a very rich man, Bannon.”
“I don’t want your money.”
Kwon seemed genuinely surprised by that. His greed made it inconceivable to him there were people out there that weren’t driven by, consumed by, money and the pursuit of it. “Then what do you want?”
“I’m here for him.” Bannon nodded toward Palmer. “Let him go.”
Kwon replied with a squeeze of the trigger.
The slug dug into Bannon vest and drove him backward. A burning pain bloomed inside his chest. He’d been shot in a vest before, and he’d taken a bullet before, too. He knew how it felt, and knew the difference between the two.
The bullet hadn’t penetrated Bannon’s vest. It lodged in a pocket between two spare magazines. Still it hurt like hell. With nothing more serious than bruised ribs, he returned fire.
His shot went wide, intentionally. He hadn’t come this far to shoot Palmer by accident.
Kwon flinched. He ducked further behind Palmer. Coward.
Palmer tried to push away, break free of the stronger man’s grasp, but failed. Too weak from whatever torture he’d endured over the last few days.
Kwon nicked the young man’s throat with the tip of his knife, reminding him he held the blade.
Bannon charged across the room and slammed into both men, propelling them onto the bunk behind them.
All three of them sprawled across the thin mattress, a tangle of struggling arms and legs and curses. Bannon grabbed Kwon’s gun wrist, keeping him from aiming at either him or Palmer.
Kwon squeezed off another shot. The gun went off next to Bannon’s ear. He recoiled from the thunderous noise. The bullet pinged harmlessly off the ceiling. Palmer knocked the knife from Kwon’s grip. It skidded across the deck. Palmer broke free and rolled to one side then off the bunk, crawling across the deck to curl up in a ball in the corner. A trail of streaky blood left in his wake.
Bannon didn’t blame him.
Still on top of Kwon, Bannon bashed the butt of his gun into Kwon’s face. He felt a bone break in the oyabun’s cheek. A spray of blood burst from the man’s nose. Broken.
Kwon roared with anger and pain and thrust Bannon off him.
Bannon hit his head hit against the overhead bunk. A kaleidoscope of stars burst like fireworks in his vision as he tumbled to the deck.
Palmer cowered in the corner, looking every bit like the wounded being he was.
Bannon found himself on his back, on the deck, the wind knocked from his lungs. His head pounding from the blow he’d received.
Kwon pounced on him. He sat on Bannon’s chest, pinning his gun arm to the deck with his knees. With a bloody, crooked smile—and a freshly missing tooth—Kwon pressed the barrel of his gun to Bannon’s forehead. “You’re here trying to be a hero. At least you can die like one.”
Bannon swallowed hard. This was it.
But Kwon didn’t fire.
His eyes went wide. Followed by a sharp cry and the sickening sound of smashing bones, Kwon tumbled to the side, falling to the deck. Standing over him, the halligan bar in his hand, the blunt axe end smeared with bloody, Singleton readied to swing the bar again, seemingly happy to pretend Kwon’s head was a baseball. Kwon remained curled up in a fetal position, clutching his head and moaning.
“Let’s see the Bambino beat that one.” He held out a hand and hauled Bannon off the deck.
Tara stepped over to Kwon and kicked his gun away from him. To Singleton, she said, “You could’ve killed him.”
“Naw,” the cop insisted. “It was just a love tap.”
“Blades, you okay?” Bannon asked, noting the blood that coated Tara’s face, vest, and wetsuit and the nasty looking bruise forming under her right eye. He noticed her bloody bare feet, too.
“You should see the other guys,” she said.
“Guys?” Bannon asked. “The twins?”
“Yeah.”
“They dead? Both of them?”
“Yeah.”
Banno
n nodded. “Kayla?”
“She’s good,” Tara said. “In the other room securing the others. The ones still alive anyway.”
Singleton secured Kwon by cinching zip ties around his wrists and his ankles. He hauled him to his feet and pushed him to the bunk. The back of his head matted with blood from Singleton’s homerun swing.
The cop handcuffed him to the bunk’s support chain. When Singleton turned back around, Bannon saw the cop’s shoulder was soaked in blood. “You’ve been shot.”
Singleton glanced down at the blood, as if noticing it for the first time. “A flesh wound. Ain’t the first time I’ve taken a bullet.” He grinned. “Reminds me of the good old days.”
Tara pulled out a chair and helped get Billy Palmer into it. Hunched over, he cradled his bandaged wrapped hand in his lap and stared at the deck, his gaze as far away as any Bannon had ever seen. Tara stepped away and then returned, helping him drink from a bottle of water. His lips were dry and cracked. He winced, but drank the fluid thirstily, water dripping down his chin.
“Who…who are you people? Did Mr. LaSala send you?”
“No, Billy,” Bannon said. “We don’t work for LaSala, but we are here to help you.”
“Hampton Police,” Singleton said, showing Palmer his badge.
“Cops. I can’t talk to the cops.”
Bannon squatted down beside him. “Billy, listen to me. I’m not with the police. We know all about what you do for LaSala. The money laundering, the offshore accounts you manage, we don’t care about any of that.”
“Speak for yourself,” Singleton said. Bannon glared at him over his shoulder. Singleton put his hands in the air, surrendering. “Just saying.”
Bannon returned his attention to Palmer. “This has gotten a lot bigger than you and Alex Riggi, Billy.”
“Alex. He’s dead, isn’t he?” Palmer asked, knowing the answer but somehow hoping against hope.
“Yes. He’s dead.”
The young man’s shoulders sagged.
Bannon put his hand gently on the man’s knee. “Here’s the thing, Billy. You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you anymore, but we need your help.”
