SEAL's Justice: A Navy SEAL Romantic Suspense Novel

by Ferrari, Flora

  When I entered his shop I receive the same greeting. The same tea. Again there was a new young girl serving it up. She had the same reserved politeness as the others before her.

  “I have thought about your proposal,” he began. He wasn’t playing his cards yet. He was waiting to see how enthusiastic I become. He took a sip of his tea.

  “I am looking to expand. I am looking into other ideas. Your plan has come along at a very good time. Perfect for both of these reasons.”

  I waited for the, but.

  “But, right now I must focus on the refugees. They are bringing me a lot of money. They are also helping me establish ties with important people. European people. People who I can work with. People I can grow with.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “But this does not mean your idea will go to waste. I know of another man. He may be better suited for this business. He will not take a meeting with you, but if you wish I can contact him.”

  “Thank you. Thank you for thinking of a potential partner for me. I must say though, for a business such as this I think it is important to know who I am working with. To sit and meet eye-to-eye.”

  “I agree. I think he will agree too. Eventually. At first he will not.”

  I thought for a second. “I don’t mean to insult you, but if there is some commission involved we can work that out. You are arranging the relationship. That is valuable. You deserve to be compensated for this. I would still like to meet this man face-to-face.”

  “I am sure the answer will be no, but as you wish. I will ask when I contact him.”

  “Thank you. Do you know when that will be?”

  “When you walk out that door. Of course I do not know what he will think. Even how much time he will need.”

  The Turk was right. We all need a little time. Just like how Smith needed a little more time in that jungle swamp.

  They had found a hole in the underwater fencing and made their way through. Smith and his partner Williams. They had two hours of light left in the day. One hour to get out. That left one hour to forge deeper.

  They moved through the swamp perfectly concealed. They looked like a log floating down the river. A disgustingly beautiful river of dirt that snaked through the country and emptied into the sea. They were nowhere near the sea now. They were in deep. They spotted a security guard on the perimeter. He looked alert, but he also looked preoccupied with the jaguar in the tree overhead.

  With dusk approaching the jaguar was preparing to hunt. The guard knew it. Living in the jungle he also knew the odds of the jaguar trying to make him his final meal were slim to none. He seemed more preoccupied out of sheer curiosity. Probably that and boredom. And of course you don’t want to turn your back on a cat of that size.

  The good news is he was at the edge of darting range. Even better with a perfect shot he’d be down and the jaguar would be having dinner. A scream was likely. That would alert the others and put Smith and Williams in a world of hurt.

  They decided to let him be. The jaguar would keep him preoccupied while they swam around a bit deeper into the compound. Gather more intel on the perimeter security. Mapping the entire security setup would provide a huge quick start when the day for go time arrived.

  They pushed further and further. Making mental notes of the structure and guards. They decided to head back. Back to the underwater fence and out the way they came. As they made their way back they kept a safe distance. Close, but far enough apart so to provide alternate firing positions upon incoming rounds if need be.

  A caiman pushed off the bank thirty-five yards ahead. They had been warned to keep a look out of them. Especially the black caiman. They grow up to eighteen feet. This one appeared to be about half that size. They weren’t too concerned about the caiman. At least that’s what the report said. There had been jokes in the barracks about encountering one.

  Smith new they hunted mostly on land. And at night. Using their eyes and ears to catch white-lipped peccary. Basically a rainforest pig. He was a student of animals. When most guys were out downing beers after a long day, Smith was in the barracks, watching Animal Planet.

  They kept on their way. Keeping one eye on the remaining guard who was still in eyesight and one eye on the lookout for the caiman, which was nowhere to be found. They got about five yards from the underwater fence when all hell broke loose.

  Thrashing, splashing, rolling, and twisting. The caiman had caught itself in the fence trying to pass through. It might have been chasing prey. It might have just been minding its own business. Neither mattered now, because the caiman’s business was the guard’s business.

  The guard fired a shot at the jaguar. Dropping it from the tree. A cat that big needs a shot to its vitals to drop. The guard hadn’t missed his target. The other guards came around the side of the building to see what was going on. When they saw the caiman thrashing they decided to take turns. The problem wasn’t being spotted. Smith and the other SEAL stayed hidden. The problem was the guard’s aim.

  The guards were bored from a long day of doing nothing and watching even less. The caiman provided comic relief. They took turns shooting at the trapped carnivorous reptile.

  Devlin was out on his balcony entertaining two blonde prostitutes he had flown in from Riga, Latvia with promises of wild weekends and shopping trips. One would later escape and volunteer to testify against him. She was found strangled to death in a five star St. Petersburg hotel the morning she was to give her first interview to reporters about her time with Devlin in the jungle. Her tongue had been cut out and nailed to the wall. A sign that talking wasn’t appreciated. The Russian police never followed up.

  Always one to exert his power Devlin came down to show he was the best shot. He proved he was and he proved he wasn’t with the first round out of the chamber.

  His shot missed the caiman by three yards. It didn’t miss Smith. Smith had been underwater with a blowpipe for air. He was slowly moving backwards the more erratically the gunfire became and the more the caiman struggled.

  Smith and Williams had been stuck. Not able to go forward. A trapped predator blocking the path. Not able to go down. The dark, murky depths of the river. Not able to go back. Further into the belly of the beast. Deeper into enemy camp. And not able to go up. They would be seen and shot. Devlin’s bullet changed all that.

  His bullet hit Smith square in the head. The bullet would be removed at an autopsy performed stateside thirty-six hours later. Williams knew the round had been fatal on impact. Even so, he was going to try to save him just incase. Always one to look out for his brother he reached and grabbed his body in the murky river as darkness approached. He lifted the body back and tried to get the nose and mouth out of the water and underneath the decoy log he had used to maneuver into the camp.

  No response.

  Williams did the best he could. He had to keep Smith’s body from floating. He had little weight with him available to keep Smith’s body down and what he did have wasn’t going to cut it. He tried to float Smith around the caiman but there wasn’t enough room. He pulled out his mini bolt cutters and began working on the fence. Before his second cut the caiman broke free.

  The guards were beyond angry their fun was about to end. They emptied their clips into the river. Smith’s partner said it was like a hailstorm of bullets. Bullets not only from Devlin and his men, but from other directions. Some guards had been tailing them and slipped in behind them on the shore. Smith’s body provided the only protection. The guards noticed some movement and went back into the house to retrieve larger caliber weapons.

  Williams knew his troubles were about to multiply. He dove down. Pushing Smith’s body through the hole in the underwater fence first. Forcing himself through immediately after.

  Smith’s body was now floating. Easily made out to be a military commando from the balcony. Determining which unit and from which country would be impossible just on sight. Devlin and his team knew. Only the SEALs would have the guts to attempt
such a mission. Not only the guts, but it was the American government with the most to lose. Devlin knew they’d be sending their best.

  Williams’ mission had rapidly changed. First tasked to gather intel, he now had two new objectives. Get out alive. Get out with Smith’s body. He would die with him before he would leave the body behind.

  The only advantage Williams had was the mini periscope. It wouldn’t be visible from the shore. Painted to match the murky brown water. Williams released Smith’s body one last time. He swam to the bottom of the river and began to feel. Feel for anything heavy. Heavy enough to serve as a weight. The same kind of weight a scuba diver might use. He found a rock. It would have to do. He dislodged the rock with his ka-bar. He reached down to pick it up. Too heavy. He dropped to a squat position. Rocked back and forth. Back and forth until the rock was dislodged and into the open water. He got as low as he could. A low squat position. Williams had drownproofed himself before. Many time during training, but even in drownproofing you are able to come up for some air. The time for air was now. He was out.

  He got the rock to his right shoulder. Squatted as deep as he could and exploded upwards. What started as an explosion was quickly reduced to next to nothing as the weight of the rock pushed back. He kicked and kicked and kicked. Fought with all he had to move the rock upwards. He continued upward, breaching the surface and in one movement shoving the rock horizontally onto the midsection of Smith.

  It worked. Smith began to sink. Smith’s buoyancy negated by the rock’s weight had worked. The body rested just three feet below the water’s surface. Yin and yang. Williams removed two bungee cords from his cargo pocket and secured the rock to Smith. From his other pocket he removed a makeshift plastic tube the SEALs were carrying in case a situation like this was encountered. It was rudimentary and very crude, but this wasn’t a time to question whatever tools were available. He cleared the tube like a snorkel. He had a breathing tube, a mini periscope, and a body to transport.

  For the last hour of light and into the night, Williams would transport the body through the snaking river ways and back to base. The debrief report stated that Devlin and his band of criminals would follow Williams along the waterway for three hundred and seventy five yards before giving up. They did not even know Williams, with Smith’s body, was less than thirty meters from the banks of the river on which they searched. Random shots were fired. None came as close as the ones during the exit from the compound’s perimeter at the fence.

  Williams would later be awarded the Navy Distinguished Service Medal. He dedicated the award to Smith. It now rests above the fireplace of Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan and Kathy Smith in Baytown, Texas. Next to a photo of their son. Their son standing on top of a hill in Afghanistan. Standing with me.

  I took the ferry back over to Kos. Took a cab back to the DEA war room.

  “How’d it go?” Abby asked.

  “He said he’d check. Doesn’t look so good.”

  “Well, I have some news that might cheer you up.”

  “Anything.”

  “We found Hassan in our system. Real name Harjeet Hoysala.”

  “That doesn’t sound Arabic.”

  “Because it’s not. Southern Indian.”

  “Southern Indian?”

  “Yep. He blew it with Hassan. Tried to get cute.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know how The Turk, goes by The Turk? Well our buddy Harjeet Hoysala goes by Hassan, because he’s from Hassan. Hassan, India.”

  “And it works perfectly because it’s an Arabic surname.”

  “Exactly. He uses it to try and blend right into their culture. Easy to remember because he’s from there. But that’s not the only connection he has to the city.”

  “Go on.”

  “Ready for this? He’s manufacturing condoms there. A lot, lot, lot of condoms.”

  “Which explains the boxes we found on his yacht.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So he manufacturers the condoms there, brings them up through Pakistan and into Afghanistan.”

  “Right. And there he can put the heroin in the condoms for shipment. Shipments via trucks, cars, and of course people. They swallow the condoms filled with heroin and they can transport them anywhere.”

  “But why would he have so many condoms on his boat. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense. He’s dropping them with The Turk. The Turk gives them to his Syrian refugees. Those refugees become drug mules to pay for their transport across the sea from Bodrum to Kos. Making €1000 to transport a refugee is nothing when you can have that refugee smuggle millions of euros worth of heroin over instead.”

  “Right inside their belly.”

  “Right inside their belly. Neatly wrapped in the condoms provided by Hoysala.”

  “Too easy for these guys.” I paused to think. “Where does Devlin fit into all of this?”

  “We don’t know, but we’re making progress. Seems he has a huge villa in Bahrain.”

  “Bahrain? What’s he doing there?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  “He actually lives there?”

  “It seems, but he’s gone often. Amsterdam, Macau, Thailand, and Berlin a lot. We’re looking for properties there. Haven’t come up with anything yet. If we can get a property there we can work with local authorities to begin surveillance.”

  “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Wait a minute.”

  “He lives in Bahrain?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you see what part?”

  “Yeah, we have the address.”

  “Pull it up, can you?”

  “Sure.” Abbey went over to her computer.

  “Here it is. How familiar are you with Bahrain?” she said.

  “I conducted some training there years ago. Naval Support Activity Bahrain. I know it a little. The area should be divided up into blocks.”

  “You’re right. Says here it’s in Block 340.”

  “And you said he flies to Thailand a lot. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “What airport? Utapao-Rayong?”

  “Probably Bangkok, but let me check.” I saw her type at her laptop and hit enter. “Yeah, you’re right. Utapao-Rayong. How’d you know that?”

  “And Harjeet Hoysala is from Hassan, India. Is that part of Karnataka?”

  “Let me Google that.”

  “Yeah, it is. What’s going on, Zamora?”

  I ran as quickly as I could to the bathroom toilet. I wasn’t fast enough. I vomited all over the tile in the bathroom floor. I was on my hand and knees. I vomited again. My eyes were watering. I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach. I was breathing heavy. I had never felt so sick in my life.

  “Zamora! What’s going on? Are you OK?”

  “Open the window. I need some air.”

  Abbey opened the window. I stayed on my hands and knees a full two minutes. After I stopped dry heaving I went to the kitchen. Washed out my mouth. Gargled with salt water. Stuffed my mouth with olives to get the taste out of my mouth. Spit them right back out into the sink. I couldn’t eat now. I walked over and sat on the bed. Abbey was furiously cleaning the head. When she finished she ran the bags outside to the dumpster. Came back in and switched on the fan. I was hunched over on the bed. I couldn’t believe it.

  “Zamora! Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Don’t you see?”

  “No!”

  “What are all these locations connected to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What illegal activity?”

  “Drugs! Come on we know that already.”

  “You don’t get it. Yeah, there might be drugs in these areas. Almost for sure there are, but it’s not drugs.”

  “Come on. Just please tell me. Come out with it already.”

  “Abbey, these guys aren’t into drugs. These guys are into prostitu
tion.”

  “Prostitution?”

  “Not just prostitution. The worst possible kind. Child prostitution. Human trafficking. They’re trafficking kids for prostitution.”

  Abbey’s legs collapsed underneath her. Luckily she didn’t hit her head on the way down. She was on the floor. Her arms were on the side of the bed. Her head was in her arms. I could hear her crying. I put my hand on the back of her head to comfort her. She lifted her head.

  “We are going to get these sick, disgusting people. No. They’re not even people! They are not even human. They are human waste. They are nothing. Uhhh! I am going to lock them away and make sure that key gets thrown away forever.”