by Steve Richer
“Go!”
This was as high as they would ever be and he was relieved that Gina didn’t freeze. She took her arms away from his waist and, at the same time, they leapt off the watercraft, landing hard on the rocks. The good news was that they weren’t on the water anymore as the jet ski was shattered against the rock wall.
The next wave splashed against the rocks, sending a torrent of cold water over them. Rogan reached for Gina’s hand, making sure she wouldn’t be dragged back into the sea.
“I’m okay,” she said. “I’m okay.”
He had a feeling she was speaking to herself more than she was giving him a status report. Still, he pulled her with him until they were twenty feet from the water’s edge.
Then he kneeled and she took position next to him, not asking what was going on. They had to be fifty feet from the heart of the fire, but they could feel its comforting heat. It was a nice contrast to the hammering rain and wind.
“There,” he said.
“What there?”
He pointed toward the right. “Between the marina and the staff house, there’s a lot of vegetation. You can hide there. You’ll be safe.”
“What?” she asked, equal parts confused and irritated. “You want to leave me alone in the woods?”
“Like I said, you’ll be safe. Nobody’s going to find you there. Remember, Blake is still out there. You don’t want to make it easy for him, do you? I mean, if you want we can just go to the beach and surrender. That’s something we can do, it’s on the table. The downside, obviously, is getting shot in the head a few seconds later. That’s not really how I pictured spending the weekend.”
“I want to come with you, Rogan.”
He shook his head, giving her the USB drive for safekeeping. “No way in hell. I have to climb that hill and, to use an expression I used to hear all the time on Mr. Rogers, it’s gonna be a bitch. I have to do this alone.”
“You don’t even know if there’s a way to transmit up there,” she said in defeat.
“One more reason why it would be stupid to risk two lives instead of just one. You go hide, I do my thing, and in the morning we’ll laugh about this over chocolate chip waffles. Sounds like a plan?”
“But I’m not hiding in the woods. The staff house is on the way, you said so yourself.”
Rogan thought this over and was willing to make this concession. The house was large enough that she’d be able to hide, not to mention that she would be protected from the elements. There was no telling where Blake was at the moment, but that place was as good as any.
“All right, let’s go.”
The few moments of rest were a godsend and they jogged away, going around the burning marina, heading north. They stayed low, away from the road.
Rogan looked at the hill up ahead. With the hurricane growing in strength, it might as well have been Mount Everest. Whose bright idea had it been to climb that again?
Chapter 43
The jungle was thick and it slowed Rogan down. It was exhausting even walking up the road, which he eventually resorted to because hiking through the foliage was proving too difficult.
The road was muddy. It must have been years since a car had driven up here. Rogan stayed on the edge where it was somewhat firmer. After ten minutes or so—it felt like an hour though—he searched the vegetation and found a thick branch on the ground. He used it as a walking stick.
It was also a makeshift weapon. However, he wasn’t looking forward to using it. The branch was crooked and the surface was rough. He would get splinters and blisters, ending up hurting himself more than he would an opponent.
Besides, Blake had guns. If he ran into him, Rogan was a dead man. That wasn’t an option. The only way Gina and he would stay alive was if he reached the tower above. There had to be a radio up there, their lives depended on it. On top of that, the thing had to work.
Shit, he thought. What if it didn’t? What if he was hiking up this goddamn mountain for nothing?
There was no time to think about that, though. He had to look at the ground which wasn’t easy in near complete darkness. Just as scary as the notion of Blake ambushing him was the prospect stepping on a wet stone and rolling his ankle. He would probably end up sliding down the hill, unable to get back up.
He would be a sitting duck for the mercenary.
Focus, man. He worked on his breathing, thinking only about putting one foot in front of the other. He dismissed the rain slapping him across the face. He forgot about the wind which was slowing him down like nothing had before.
He even denied himself the fantasy of reaching the tower, finding a working radio, and calling for help. It would be too disappointing if it didn’t work out this way. Failure meant certain death, if not by Blake then by being stranded on an eventual deserted island.
The strenuous effort reminded Rogan of boot camp. The Marine Corps had been particularly fond of marches, and that went double for rainy nights. It was as if drill instructors took pleasure in inflicting as much torture as they could.
In hindsight, it was a good thing. Rogan knew that he could do it. He had hiked hills in terrible conditions before so he could do it again. On the other hand, he was more than fifteen years older now.
But he would succeed. He had to. Gina was stashed in the staff house. He had to get back to her before Blake found where she was hiding. Rogan also wanted to go back home. He wanted to see Shiloh and his dog.
That’s what you get for doing favors, he grumbled. Instead of doing this for the FBI, he could have spent the weekend at home, having drinks and barbecue. There was this potato salad recipe he’d been meaning to try. Instead, he was in this fucking place trying to stay alive.
The last fifty yards was the worst stretch. Rogan was out of breath and even the pouring rain couldn’t wash the sweat away. The higher he climbed and the denser the jungle became. The trees and bushes had overgrown the road. He had to push through the palm fronds as they whipped back against him.
But then there was a clearing. He had reached the top of the hill and the large antenna loomed ahead. At the base was a small shack made of cinderblocks. It was simple but sturdy.
Clutching his stick and feeling more energy flowing through his body, Rogan sped up toward the building. Before reaching the metal door, he hazarded a glance over his shoulder. He could see the entire island. The clearing made it easier.
The fires still raged below, at the marina and on the helipad. He was tempted to keep looking in order to see if he could spot Blake, but the important thing right now was to radio for help.
He hurried and opened the door, pushing it in. He walked in and was relieved to be out of the rain for the first time since leaving the yacht. It was how long ago, hours? Less? It felt like days.
It wasn’t dark inside. There was a lit bulb screwed into a socket on the ceiling. The shack consisted of a single room, about ten-foot square. There was a window to his left, most likely to let in cool air, but it was shuttered. There was a table, chair, and old radio equipment. But the most surprising thing was that there was a man standing in front of him.
The guy was wearing khakis and a camp shirt, just like Sabatini’s security personnel.
“Who are you?”
Rogan decided that telling the truth was a risky endeavor and said, “Orland Lush. You?”
The man had a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt and he had his hand on his holstered pistol. More importantly, there was a rifle propped against the wall. It was a Heckler-Koch 416 with a mounted scope. It occurred to Rogan that this elevated position was perfect for a sniper doing surveillance.
“I heard what’s been happening,” he replied. “Crazy.”
“Yeah, a real shit storm, on top of the regular storm. Did you call for help?”
Rogan pointed at the radio and ran a hand through his hair, doing his best to remove as much water as he could.
“I did. I managed to get the US Coast Guard on the line. They said that they’re sending he
lp, but with this hurricane it could be a while.”
“Makes sense.”
What didn’t make sense though was that Sabatini hadn’t mentioned him. In everything they’d been through, and all they’d done to try to survive the situation, he had never mentioned that he had an ace in the hole. Why?
And then there was something else that popped into Rogan’s head. It had seemed like a random statement at the time, but now he wasn’t so sure. Blake had said that his team was twelve solid men, his exact words.
Rogan began to count. The guys at the staff house. The big man, the small Asian dude. The guys he had rescued Gina from. He didn’t think that the yacht’s crew counted. They were there in support. Special ops guys, as much as they appreciated support units, they didn’t include them as part of their team. They were a tightknit group and everyone else was an outsider. So that brought the total to eleven.
Who was the twelfth man?
Chapter 44
“Sit down, sir. Take a load off. You look beat.”
Rogan smiled graciously. “Thanks, I am. It’s been a long day.”
He went toward the guy on his way to the chair, and he noticed that he still had a hand on his gun.
If he had been part of Blake’s team, he would’ve been dressed in fatigues, yes? Not necessarily, Rogan decided. This guy had to be the failsafe. He’d dressed like he was part of the staff in case he had to mingle. He’d put good money that the guy had snuck onto the island a day or two before.
Unless he was imagining things?
“Say, mister? Is everybody dead down there?”
“Yeah,” Rogan answered. “It’s just you and me. You have a deck of cards or something? I’m a sucker for gin rummy.”
He tossed his stick to the right and it had the intended effect. The man turned his head to follow the movement. At the exact same time, Rogan moved left.
He punched the guy in the face and swiftly grabbed his wrist before he could close his fingers around the weapon.
Rogan seized him by the throat and squeezed his windpipe until the fight left him. He had no choice but to fall to his knees, not even having strength to retaliate.
“Are you gonna tell me who you really are?”
He looked at Rogan defiantly, his free arm flailing. Rogan maintained the pressure because he knew that if he eased up, he would get punched. The man would then draw his weapon and kill him.
“Are you gonna play nice?”
There was still no sign that he wanted to cooperate. Then the walkie-talkie chirped.
“Omega, come in. This is Alpha. Over.”
While this confirmed Rogan’s suspicions, he was still surprised. This was Blake’s voice. This guy was his secret backup plan.
“Omega, come in. Bricks is back on shore. Be alert.”
Without hesitation, Rogan quickly took a step to get around Omega, never letting go of his trachea. But for what he wanted to do he needed both hands. He had to take the risk.
He let go of his right wrist and got a chokehold on the bad guy. Using his other hand, he pushed the back of Omega’s head and twisted to the left.
Sure enough, Omega reached for his pistol and took it out of the holster. The gun was thrust up and back toward Rogan. He would be shot within the next second.
Taking a deep breath, Rogan twisted the man’s head further and back until bone crunched. The neck was broken and the fake security guard collapsed on the concrete floor. He was dead.
Rogan felt very little relief. He was exhausted and sick of this weekend. There was no time to celebrate just because he’d had a small victory. Besides, killing someone brought him no joy. He’d done enough of that for several lifetimes.
He turned toward the radio. Would it even work? One part of the equation was resolved: they had power up here. Even though the mercenaries had blown up the power station for the entire island, the antenna shack had to be working on a different grid. The light bulb on the ceiling was proof enough. There must’ve been a generator operating nearby.
He searched for the ON switch on the radio and flipped it. Nothing happened.
“Come on…”
Not taking any chances, he came back and wrenched Omega’s gun away, checking the magazine. It seemed fully loaded. Next, he went to the rifle and did the same. There was no telling if—when—he’d have to use violence again. He put the HK against the wall again and shoved the black pistol into his waistband.
He returned to the radio and he stopped breathing when he saw faint light beginning to flicker behind the frequency dial. It was coming to life!
Doing his best to control his breathing so he wouldn’t hyperventilate, Rogan sat down and wiped his hands on his pants, which did absolutely nothing to dry them. He slid the microphone closer and put on the ancient headset. It didn’t fit well on his head and the cracked leather was moldy. That was the last of his worries.
As soon as he heard static, he leaned forward and clicked the microphone. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! Does anyone copy?”
Jesus, his radio training was ages ago. What was the frequency the Coast Guard monitored?
“Think… Think…”
His hopes soared as he remembered the four digits: twenty-one eighty-two! He’d spent two weeks as a young Marine doing exercises on an aircraft carrier and he remembered being taught that 2182 kHz was one of the frequencies you needed to know in case of an emergency at sea.
But just as he clicked the microphone to repeat his distress signal, he remembered sobering news. That frequency had been discontinued a few years ago. Everything was digital now. When ships went down, automatic beacons went off, picked up by satellites, analyzed by computers.
“Shit.”
The alternative was to scan the frequencies, repeating his call for help over and over again until some ham radio operator heard him. Then he could use the autopatch feature to make a phone call. He snorted and rolled his eyes. Who the hell was he going to call, 911? Hell, all his numbers were stored on his regular phone which he’d left at home. He wouldn’t know who to contact and how.
He was sulking into the chair when the answer came to him. Channel sixteen!
156.8 MHz was the international calling and distress frequency. All radio operators, such as commercial ships, were supposed to switch to channel sixteen when not actively communicating, just to monitor the frequency.
“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday!”
As he waited for a response, Rogan looked around to see if this station’s call sign was printed anywhere. It wasn’t. To hell with correct procedure, he decided.
“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! My name is Rogan Bricks. I’m located on Murder Island, in the Bahamas.”
He wished he had the GPS coordinates of the place. He had to sound like a crank caller. He repeated the call twice more, waiting thirty seconds between each attempt.
“Mr. Brooks, this is US Coast Guard cutter Bernard C. Webber. What is the nature of your emergency? Over.”
Rogan’s heart was in his throat. Yes!
“US Coast Guard…” He stopped talking. Blake was still out there. Maybe he could listen in somehow. “This line isn’t secure, Bernard C. Webber. Can we change frequencies? Over.”
There was a pause. “Go to Coast Guard channel eighty-three, 157.125 MHz. Acknowledge?”
“Standby.”
Rogan turned the dial and wished he wasn’t pushing his luck. There was static, more static, and finally it became clearer.
“Coast Guard Webber, come in.”
“Reading you five. What’s your emergency? Over.”
“My name is Rogan Bricks. Currently working for the FBI. I’m on Murder Island, halfway between Bimini and Nassau, in the Bahamas. Don’t have precise coordinates. We have been attacked by armed men. Dozens of casualties. Need immediate assistance. Acknowledge?”
“Sir, is your ship sinking? Over.”
Ship?!
“I’m not a fucking ship! I’m on a deserted island with mercenaries! Need immediate evacuati
on! Over.”
“Copy, sir.” The voice was calm, detached. Rogan began to wonder if he was being taken seriously. “Current weather conditions might slow down rescue efforts. Over.”
As angry as he was, Rogan couldn’t fault the woman. They had to be busy with this hurricane and there was no way they could fly a helicopter to them. In any case, he gave her the names of Krause and Khoury at the FBI to check out his story. They might also be in a position to give the precise GPS coordinates of the island.
“We’ll do all we can, sir. Good luck. Over.”
“Thank you, Bernard C. Webber. I’m gonna need it. Out.”
He waited for the radio to turn silent before removing the headset and pushing the microphone away. That’s when he heard the rain getting louder. The door was being opened.
Someone was coming in.
Chapter 45
Captain Nemec never got seasick. Even when he first began his career in the Volksmarine—the navy of East Germany—he never felt nauseated.
Whether it was a small training ship off the coast of Rostock or on board a Koni-class frigate in joint operations with the Soviet Union, hunting for NATO submarines, he never once had to excuse himself to go throw up, as so many other young officers serving with him did.
He remembered one night in the middle of the Baltic Sea. Tensions were running high because the Perestroika in Moscow wasn’t being accepted by everyone. There was talk of a possible coup, a regime change.
This would be a perfect time for the Americans to launch a preemptive nuclear strike, everyone believed. An Ohio-class ballistic missile sub was lurking beneath as a November storm raged. Most men had been sick that night as they contemplated that it could be their last patrol. Not Nemec. He had never even felt queasy.
Until now.
He pushed himself from the helm, bent over before he could leave the bridge, and vomited what little he’d been able to eat today. He wasn’t fast enough to reach the waste bin in the corner, near the door. It landed flatly against the plush carpet.
