by Katie Reus
“Good. Because you’re going to tell us everything we want to know. . . .” He trailed off as another man walked into the room.
Mihails Balodis. She recognized him immediately, from the picture she’d seen. He was actually handsome—for a murdering terrorist.
He was also tall, with blue eyes and blond hair. His eyes weren’t dead exactly, but he was still scary. He said something to Oto in a language she didn’t understand. His words were harsh, angry. Oto said something back, his tone just as furious. Mihails didn’t respond, just stared at him until Oto gritted his teeth and stormed out.
Then Mihails turned back to her, pinning her with his icy stare.
Maria wished the floor would just open up and swallow her. Trying to move back in her chair was a fruitless effort. It didn’t matter how small she wanted to appear; she was in his line of sight and there was no escape.
“You know who I am?” he asked as he went to sit on the edge of the queen-sized bed.
She tracked his movements from her chair, not letting him out of her line of sight. It wasn’t as if she could do anything to defend herself, tied up as she was, but if he was going to hurt her she wanted to see the blow coming. “I do. Mihails Balodis.” Her voice was still so raspy.
When she spoke, his lips pulled down a fraction. His gaze flicked to her neck for a moment. “I’m sorry about your throat.”
Unable to stop herself, she let out an almost maniacal laugh, made worse by her hoarse throat. “You’re sorry?” She snorted in disbelief, not wanting to hear his lies. She just wanted to know what he wanted. Obviously there was a reason she wasn’t dead yet.
“I am sorry. Oto shouldn’t have handled you so roughly.”
“What about killing my mother?” She tried to shout, but the question was harsh and shaky. “Are you sorry for that?” Rage like nothing she’d ever known built inside her, wanting an outlet. The man who’d killed her mother was right in front of her. What she wouldn’t give to put a bullet right through his black heart. She thrashed against her bindings, but it was useless. With willpower she didn’t realize she had, she forced herself to stop, knowing she would only tire herself out. Right now she needed her energy. She had no clue what they had in store for her, but she had to be alert. And for all she knew, he probably liked seeing her struggle. Sick bastard.
For a moment she thought she saw a trickle of guilt on his face, but his expression hardened. “How did you know about Clay Ervin or the hotel?”
She hadn’t known about the hotel beforehand, but she chose not to tell him. However, she decided to be somewhat honest. She had no reason not to be. “I overheard you shouting at the Westwood mansion. I was sick and needed privacy in one of the back bedrooms.”
His expression remained stony. “How did you even get there?”
“A friend—who you murdered—showed me. She left me and went to get my mother so they could—” Her voice broke and she looked away from him. She hated that she couldn’t turn away or leave altogether, but she didn’t even want to see his face right now. Taking a few deep breaths, she tried to push all her rage and agony down. She couldn’t have a breakdown while talking to this monster. Staying composed was necessary to her survival.
When she looked back at him, he was frowning, likely racking his brain trying to remember that night. After her flashbacks everything was crystal clear for her. She just wished she’d remembered everything sooner.
“Why didn’t you come forward earlier? Why not turn in Moran? Why let him . . .” He trailed off and she realized what he’d been about to say. Why let Moran attend her mother’s funeral?
She fought the burn of tears, blinking rapidly. “I didn’t remember,” she rasped out. “I blocked everything out. From shock, probably. When Moran tried to kill me at the safe house, the explosion triggered something in my memory. . . . Why haven’t you killed me? Why send Moran to kill me? You had the chance when you ran me off the road.” She didn’t want to die, but she wanted to know what game he was playing. His friend had nearly choked her to death. She wanted to know why Oto had stopped. There wasn’t much information she could give them.
“Moran wasn’t supposed to kill you. And right now you are useful, so I’m letting you live. What else did you hear?”
“The Freedom Tower. I heard you shout about its symbolism.” It was a small target. That was what Cade had told her. She could give this information away and not feel guilty about it.
“What else?”
She frowned. “I didn’t hear anything else.”
He watched her carefully, his expression grim. “I don’t believe you.”
“It doesn’t matter what you believe,” she said, sounding a hell of a lot braver than she felt. She swallowed, trying to clear her throat, even though it did no good. Not with the bruising.
Sighing, he stood and went to the door. With his back to her, he spoke. “Tell me what else you heard. I don’t want to let Oto hurt you, but I will.”
Her stomach dropped as she imagined what kind of pain the other man could put her through. Probably in ways she couldn’t fathom. “You know what you talked about that night. Why . . .” She trailed off, realizing he must not remember everything. He’d been shouting, angry, and he hadn’t actually mentioned the Opulen, yet law enforcement had shown up. He obviously thought she’d told them about the location. Maybe he was questioning his memory. She decided to change tactics, hoping she could appeal to his humanity—not that she was certain he even had any. “Why are you doing this? You killed so many innocent people.”
He straightened and turned back to face her, his hands tightening into fists as he glared at her. There was so much rage and anger there. “I’m doing this for my sisters. They deserve justice after what was done to them. After they were abused, raped—worse than raped. Monsters used them and thousands of women for their own sick pleasures. No one, certainly not your government, stepped in to stop it and it’s been going on for years. On your soil! They had to have known about it. Now the world will see what happens when the United States turns a blind eye to atrocities.”
She didn’t know how to respond, but he didn’t seem to expect an answer as he continued ranting. “Decades ago your fucking country pushed and pushed for the fall of Communism. Then you left my country in a state of economic turmoil! My sisters had to look for work elsewhere, and the same country that nearly destroyed mine destroyed both of them!” He was all-out shouting now, but it was as if he wasn’t even seeing her. Just raging words he’d likely said hundreds of times before. It was almost like a practiced speech. One he obviously believed.
If it was true, she felt terrible for what had happened to his sisters. But to kill so many people in the name of revenge? There was no way to justify that.
Eventually his breathing evened out, but the anger still glittered in his blue eyes. “Your country mourns over a few school shootings. You know nothing of real pain. But you will.” At that chilling announcement, he turned and opened the door. He stepped out into the hallway, looked to his left and right, then froze.
Quickly he moved back into the room, his body rigid, and shut the door firmly behind him. Sensing something was wrong, she swallowed hard as he pulled out a radio. In a language she didn’t understand, he spoke into it in low, savage undertones. No response. He tried again three more times. Still no response.
Jaw clenched tight, he pulled a switchblade out of his pocket. The sharp blade sprang free and she flinched as he took a step toward her. Pulse racing, she tried to scramble away, but the chair wouldn’t budge.
Ignoring her, he lifted the blade and . . . cut her wrist free. Moving quickly, he started to cut all her bindings, freeing her other wrist and both her ankles. What the hell? Once she was free, he grabbed her by the upper arm and yanked her to her feet.
He started to say something, but she hauled back and head-butted him.
He shouted
in agony as her skull connected with his nose. Blood sprayed everywhere.
She surprised herself, but the action was just instinctual. Working where she did, she’d taken so many self-defense courses she’d lost track. But this move her brother had taught her years ago when they were kids. Ignoring the pain that shot through her head from the impact, she tried to yank her arm free.
His fingers dug into her flesh, making her cry out in pain. He yanked her tighter to him instead of letting her go as she’d hoped. Kicking out, she started to struggle but froze when he pressed the blade to her throat. An icy shiver rippled through her.
“I can’t get hold of my men, so you are coming with me. One wrong move and I slit your throat.” Turning her toward the door, he kept her in front of him and wrapped his arm around her neck, putting pressure on her already tender throat.
She heard the click of the knife as he folded the blade in and for one brief moment contemplated fighting him again. Then she felt the muzzle of a gun press into her side. Another bit of ice slithered through her veins, making her incredibly aware of her own mortality.
“Open the door,” he ordered, his voice an animalistic growl as he used her as a human shield.
Trembling, she did as he said. Slowly she stepped out into what was a narrow hallway with a polished wooden floor. The walls on either side were lined with expensive art, but on the left wall she saw portholes like the ones in the bedroom. Only these were a little bigger. They were definitely on a yacht, out at sea.
“What now?” she asked, her voice trembling. She didn’t want to grasp onto the hope surging through her, but the fact that he couldn’t get in touch with his men was a good thing. Maybe Cade had found her after all.
Mihails’s grip tightened as he directed her down the hall. The muzzle of the gun dug harder into her side. “Walk.”
It was difficult to move with him pressed so tightly against her, but she forced her feet forward. As they neared another door on the right, he slowed, his hold around her neck tightening.
Coughing, she instinctively started to struggle, bringing her hands up to his arm to relieve the pressure. Her fingers dug into his arm like claws. His arm loosened a fraction. Sucking in a gasp of air, she started to turn when the gun went off.
Chapter 24
Military phonetic alphabet: all branches of the United States armed services currently use the ICAO (International Civil Aviation Organization) alphabet for radio communication; the current alphabet was adopted by the U.S. armed services in the 1950s.
Twenty minutes earlier
“This is the best way,” Jack said to Cade as the four-man team hurriedly stripped down to nothing, their feet bare against the wooden floor of the NSA’s forty-five-foot cabin cruiser.
For a long moment Cade didn’t respond as he grabbed one of the specially made wet suits. They were designed to mold to their bodies like a second skin and retain heat.
After being tracked all over Miami, Mihails and his team had finally stopped at a large, well-populated marina. People didn’t just dock their boats and yachts here; a lot of them lived here too. Lots of families. Which was why Burkhart had ordered this operation completely under the radar. They didn’t need any more civilians caught in the cross fire.
Cade might understand that, but he didn’t like it. He’d wanted to go after Maria when the men were transporting her to their yacht. Maria was literally thirty yards away from him on a yacht the NSA had linked to a shell company. He had no clue how she was doing. If she was even still alive. What was happening to her . . . He shook off that thought. He wouldn’t do her or his team any good if his focus was split.
The NSA was prepared for pretty much damn near any scenario. The cabin cruiser was a prime example. After coordinating with the marina owner, they’d managed to get this boat docked close to the yacht without anyone being the wiser. Cade and his team had been on it before docking, so if Mihails had lookouts they hadn’t spotted yet, no one had seen the NSA team boarding.
Even the FBI was in on this operation. While the NSA was monitoring from the sky, the FBI had other plainclothes men and women on the ground near the yacht. They were all professionals, not like those idiots portrayed on TV wearing visible earpieces. No, these agents knew how to blend in. People’s lives—Maria’s life—depended on it.
“How would you feel if it was your wife?” Cade finally asked Jack as he pulled the side zipper up to his armpit, cursing the way his hand shook. Actually shook. Lifting his arms above his head, he twisted back and forth, making sure the synthetic neoprene material fit well. He knew Maria wasn’t his wife, but he still loved her. And he wanted the chance to tell her that. Hell, he wanted more than that. They deserved a shot at happiness.
“Sophie was kidnapped last year. Her kidnapper called me and I had to listen to him cut her with a knife and threaten to do worse.” Jack didn’t look at him as he checked his own wet suit, but an uncharacteristic note of rage threaded through every word.
Cade raised his eyebrows. Maybe that was why the other man had retired. “Did you kill the fucker?”
“Yep.”
“Good.” He strapped two blades on, one against each outer thigh, then slid his Glock into his gun belt and secured it. It was one of the few firearms that could be submersed in water and still shoot well. Next he visually checked his belt to make sure it had everything he might need. For the most part he just needed a weapon and his hands. In hand-to-hand combat, he had no doubt he could take down any of these fuckers. Not arrogance, just a lot of damn training and experience. Since the NSA wanted at least some of these guys alive, they’d provided a few other choice methods with which to incapacitate them.
Cade and the other three men finished gearing up at the same time, the energy in the cabin high. They were all ready to go.
Ortiz passed out the waterproof earpieces to them. For this op, he was team leader. Cade didn’t give a shit who was in charge as long as he was able to bring Maria home. The truth was, once they were on that yacht, he’d do any damn thing to save her, even if it meant losing his job. If he had to break the rules for her, he would.
Once they’d all put them in, Ortiz tapped his. “Testing.”
They all nodded. The channel had been preprogrammed so they had a private frequency, but they wouldn’t be talking unless absolutely necessary.
“You guys know the drill. O’Reilly, you’re taking the aft deck, Stone, the main deck. Freeman, you’ve got the wheelhouse and I’m taking the sundeck.” Ortiz looked at all of them, waiting for affirmative nods.
They’d all been over this and had been given a layout of the three-level yacht, but this was a last-minute op. It didn’t hurt to be overly prepared. Once they made it on board, they would move inward, neutralizing targets—eliminating if necessary—and sweeping each level until they found Maria and secured all the terrorists.
They strode out of the master suite into the interior cabin to find Burkhart and four analysts with computers set up at the round dining table.
“The engine’s started. You guys are clear out the back. It’s time to move,” Burkhart said, his expression tight.
Shit. They had to move now. It would take more than a few minutes for a vessel of that size to be ready to leave, but if the engine had started, Cade and his teammates needed to be on it before it left the dock. Otherwise Burkhart would implement the backup plan, and that gave Maria a substantially less chance at survival.
The aft of the NSA’s cabin cruiser faced away from the yacht, and if Burkhart said they were clear, they were. Falling in line behind the other three men, Cade put the thought of Maria aside and drew on years of training to focus on the job at hand.
One after the other, they slipped into the chilly water. Even with the thermal insulation provided by the suit and the protective dive slippers, the drop in temperature was still a shock to his system.
Using
the dock as cover, the four of them swam steadily until they reached the yacht.
“We’re ready,” Ortiz said quietly, his words barely discernible over the hum of the engine.
“Oscar, Sierra, go now. No visible tangos,” Burkhart said. For this mission they’d gone with the simplest of codes to identify one another using the phonetic military alphabet. Ortiz was Oscar, Stone was Sierra, Freeman was Foxtrot, and Cade was Charlie. Normally Cade was Oscar because his last name was O’Reilly, but with two O’s, he’d been designated C.
Immediately Jack and Ortiz dove underwater, heading for the front of the vessel. The adrenaline pumping through Cade was like nothing he’d ever experienced. Jagged and out of control.
“Foxtrot, Charlie, go.”
Like a starter pistol signaling a race, the command shot Cade into action as Freeman dove underwater, heading to the port side of the boat. Unlike the others, Cade was taking the aft and didn’t have far to go. He also didn’t need to employ a handheld grappling hook like the others. The small device was a smaller version of what the Navy SEALs used—and not on the market anywhere. With three hundred psi behind it, the others would have no problem scaling the vessel.
From his position, Cade was too low in the water to see if there were guards, but if Burkhart gave the all-clear, he believed him. Once Cade was directly behind the boat, he hoisted himself up onto the flat aft deck and withdrew his Glock. He still couldn’t see anything because of his position. Weapon drawn, he ascended the west set of stairs and was able to scan the outer dining area. It was clear.
All the terrorists were likely belowdecks where the guest cabins were. They wouldn’t want to expose themselves outside. Not when they knew they were being hunted by every law enforcement agency. No, they’d remain hidden until they hit international waters. At least. And even then they’d want to keep out of sight of any drones or satellites tracking them.
Hating that he was leaving a wet trail behind him, but knowing there was nothing he could do about it, Cade hurried across the smooth wooden floor toward the set of stairs leading to the lower deck. The traction from his dive shoes prevented him from slipping. Even better, they were noiseless.
