by Brad Taylor
Jennifer poked him with her barrel and Knuckles took point again, this time jogging up to the top deck and the bridge. It took up the entire level, the topmost part of the ship, and had two doors on either end. The one in front of us was closed. The one on the far side was open. Knuckles slid down the wall, stopping short of entering. We heard shouting going on in two different languages. Then, in broken English, the command for everyone to line up.
This is it.
I grabbed Dylan and said, “You get inside there and stop them. You go deep inside the room, away from this door. When they’re focused on you, I want you to shout the number. Tell me what we’re up against.”
He said, “They’ll kill me. I can’t—”
I grabbed his collar and whipped him around, using the centrifugal force to fling him into the room. I heard shouting in Romanian, then Dylan screaming that Dragos had sent him. He began to babble, but I could hear him going deeper, away from us. Someone shouted a command I couldn’t understand, and Dylan screamed, “Costin, don’t. Please! There are men right outside that door. The academics! They’re going to kill us!”
Across the hatch, with my weapon at the ready, I smiled at Knuckles, knowing Costin wouldn’t believe whatever Dylan sprayed out of his mouth. Knuckles winked back, and we prepared to slaughter every single one of the assholes in the room.
Dylan continued babbling, the only question now whether he realized that the men in the room gave him less chance of survival than the ones who’d flung him into it.
He did.
I heard a smack; then I heard, “All four! All four are in here!”
I slapped Knuckles’s shoulder, and we entered the room near simultaneously, Knuckles hugging the wall to the right and me going left. I saw four crewmembers lined up against the front window, two men with guns on them. One other had a weapon against Dylan, and one was missing.
I began firing, letting loose controlled pairs, taking the threat to the crew first. Both dropped without getting off a single round. I indexed to the man on Dylan and he squeezed the trigger, splitting Dylan’s head open. He rotated to me and I snapped a double-tap, hitting him but not putting him down. He dove to the front, getting below the bridge console and out of my line of fire. Knuckles, on the far side, opened up, and the man flopped into view, dead.
I swiveled, looking for the final man but seeing nothing. I heard Jennifer fire outside and she bounded into the room.
“He came out the other door. He’s in the hallway, but he’s covered behind a section of metal. I can’t hit him.”
I went to the door and got on my belly, peeking around the corner. I saw the entrance to the stairwell we had come up. At the top it had a skirting of metal, which must be what Jennifer was talking about. The question was whether he’d gone down the stairs or was waiting in ambush.
I said, “Knuckles, if he’s hiding he’s got a clean shot through the far door. I need to know if he ran or if he’s waiting.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Go to the far door and see if he shoots.”
“What?”
“Yes. Get him to commit.”
He shook his head, then pulled off the backpack with the computer chips. He duckwalked to the left side of the door, put the backpack on the end of the MP7, and slid it into the opening. A burst of automatic fire shredded the bag, knocking it to the floor.
So he’s there. The metal may have protected him from Jennifer’s MP5, but it wouldn’t stop me. The cartridge for the MP7 was unique for a reason: It had been invented specifically to puncture body armor.
I took aim through the holosight and punched seven rounds in a crisscross pattern against the section of skirting. I heard a high-pitched yell; then Knuckles rolled to the doorway and fired a double-tap.
The room grew quiet, the only sound a single piece of brass still rolling on the floor. I said, “Give me an up.”
Jennifer, over with the crew, said, “Good here. Nobody hurt.”
Knuckles thumped the eyes of the first two I’d engaged, looking for a sign of life, and said, “All down. We’re clear.”
I said, “Only if that shitbag Dylan was telling the truth. Jennifer, get them to stop the boat and call for assistance. Knuckles, lock both doors and maintain security.”
I heard a thumping in the air that steadily grew louder. I recognized it.
Black Hawk.
Two Black Hawk helicopters flew by the bridge, their rotor blades giving off an eerie green glow from the static electricity, the birds so close I could see the lights in the cockpit.
Where the hell did they come from?
It dawned on me that we were off the coast of Cuba. Somehow, the Taskforce had managed to send in the Marines from Guantanamo Bay.
Boy, I’ll bet that required a few favors.
Knuckles watched them swoop over the deck and said, “Calvary’s here. We need to signal them before they come in shooting.”
I leaned against the console and said, “Well, this whole clusterfuck is your baby, mister vice president of maritime operations. What do you recommend? Raising the black flag? Letting them know pirates have control?”
He said, “I was thinking more along the lines of using the ship’s radio.”
Chapter 14
Two days later I was regretting making any comments about pirates. Grolier Recovery Services had been “asked” to stay in Jamaica until the local authorities could sort through the mess, and the Jamaicans were tossing around legal precedents from the 1700s, all involving some hanging of a pirate.
Drinking a beer across from me at a beat-up wooden picnic table, Brett said, “Looks like Knuckles gets his vacation after all.”
I watched him and Jennifer at the small bar — really no more than a plank of wood hammered into the side of a marina — and said, “Yeah, well, I ought to kick both of your asses for the privilege. Knuckles will be paying the tab for the honor; that’s for damn sure.”
“You think the Taskforce will pull some weight?”
“Not likely.”
The Taskforce had thrown us to the wolves. Kurt Hale, the commander, could not believe what we’d gotten involved in. I’d tried to toss Brett and Knuckles under the bus, since he’d sent them to me and it was their damn fault, but he was having none of it. He seemed to find it humorous that the Jamaicans were looking to accuse us of piracy. I’d begged for some official help, but all I’d gotten in return was, “You built the ship — you sail it.”
The only things going for us were the pirates Brett and Jennifer had captured. Luckily they weren’t killed like every other buccaneer on the boat. They were turning on each other and backing up our story, but we were still asked to remain. While the attack had occurred outside of Jamaican territorial waters, the container ship was from their harbor and was still within the economic zone. They were a little miffed that we hadn’t contacted them and incredulous that we had assaulted on our own.
Like I was going to trust Brett’s and Jennifer’s lives to a bunch of reggae sailors from the Jamaica Defence Force.
We were staying in the small town of Port Royal, just on the other side of the international airport and across the bay from the capitol of Kingston. The Jamaicans were paying our hotel bill — as a “courtesy”—which meant we weren’t going to be living it up at Hedonism or Sandals.
Brett watched Jennifer order and said, “You want to trade roommates? Knuckles is a little bit OCD. He has a cow if I don’t put the cap on the toothpaste, and he folds the towels for the maids.”
The Jamaicans had saved more money by making us double up. Which meant Brett got to put up with Knuckles, and I got to play Brer Rabbit in the briar patch.
“No way. I’ve had to live with him for years on deployments. Your turn now.”
Jennifer walked up holding some tall thing with a pineapple and an umbrella. She sat down across from me, with a view across the bay.
She said, “You know, at the end of the day, those pirates picked the right p
lace to launch from. Port Royal used to be swashbuckler central. This whole city was a walking pirate zoo. Blackbeard, Calico Jack, Henry Morgan, they all came here. In fact, this place was so infested, the city enlisted the aid of the pirates to defend it against Spain.”
I said, “Then why are they so fired up about using some ancient law against us? Seems they would understand.”
She said, “Well, that was all before they started hanging pirates.”
“Great. Perfect.”
“You know Calico Jack had a couple of female pirates. Anne Bonny and Mary Read.”
“What’s that matter?”
“Well, they hung his ass, but the females were only locked up. Anne actually made it back to her home. Charleston, South Carolina.”
I looked at her sideways and Brett started laughing. She grinned. “Just sayin’.”
Knuckles walked up with two more drinks, both like Jennifer’s, with a pineapple and an umbrella. He handed me one and I said, “What the hell is this?”
“A rumrunner. Hey, listen, the bartender says that if there were any treasure from Port Royal, it would be over on Lime Cay. And guess what? There’s a shuttle boat that goes there right from this bar.”
I looked at him as if he’d lost his mind, then decided to ignore his ridiculous comment about the treasure. I said, “Why on earth would I want a rumrunner?”
“Because that’s what all pirates drink.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brad Taylor, Lieutenant Colonel (ret.), is a twenty-one-year veteran of the U.S. Army Infantry and Special Forces, including eight years with the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment — Delta, popularly known as Delta Force. Taylor retired in 2010 after serving more than two decades and participating in Operation Enduring Freedom and Operation Iraqi Freedom, as well as classified operations around the globe. His final military post was as Assistant Professor of Military Science at the Citadel. His first four Pike Logan thrillers were New York Times bestsellers. He lives in Charleston, South Carolina.
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