by Steve Richer
The rear door opened and he knew they were getting close to the drop zone. It was time for a final checklist. He had flippers on his feet and the altimeter as well as GPS on his wrist. His chute was on, his weapons were secure. The helmet on his head was tight and so was his bailout oxygen tank. He tugged on the hundred pounds of equipment strapped in front of him.
The loadmaster gave him a thumbs-up and Rogan strained to sit up. He was unsteady on his feet but managed to waddle toward the open door. The entire flight had taken less than an hour but it seemed like an eternity with Shiloh’s life in the balance.
The light turned green and he vaguely heard Hewes shouting “Go, go, go!”
Without thinking about anything, Rogan ran forward as best as he could and hurled himself into the void.
The cold was worse than the most extreme temperatures he’d felt in Alaska and still that barely registered. His body was plummeting weightily through the dark night. He became conscious of how weak he was after having gotten beaten up. Stretching his arms took all his strength but it was necessary.
After long seconds he managed to do it, positioning his body horizontally. The world stopped turning and he reached terminal velocity, about 150 miles per hour considering all his gear. There was nothing but darkness everywhere. He had to trust his equipment to work properly.
He counted ten seconds and his ADD – automatic activation device – was triggered. The parachute deployed from its pack and the canopy caught the air. Instantly, Rogan’s body was jerked upward, the straps digging into him with brutal force. Hadn’t he’d done this only a few days before? The memory almost made him burst out in laughter. Almost.
He unhooked the bag from his chest and it fell a few feet below his legs although it remained tethered. It was a relief to have more mobility again. He swung the carbine in front of him and grabbed the ropes of his parachute, pulling so he turned left.
The beauty of a HAHO dive was that the aircraft didn’t have to be over your target. You jumped, deployed at high altitude, and navigated to your designated landing zone. You could land more than 40 miles away from where you jumped this way, ideal to avoid radar detection.
Rogan checked his GPS and compass, made a correction, and continued to fall.
He made out lights in the distance. According to his coordinate, this was the boat. It was roughly 10 miles out so he stopped gliding and focused on falling straight down.
Thirty feet above the Caribbean Sea, he unhooked his equipment bag and it splashed into the water. The good thing about it was that it floated, it was designed to. Rogan lengthened his legs, lifted them into a sitting position, and it was a textbook water landing.
Now the hard part began. One wrong move and he was dead.
His legs kicking, keeping him emerged, he took off his mask and helmet, quickly followed by his parachute pack which was liable to send him to the bottom of the ocean if it got too deep under the surface. He felt immediate relief once it was off his shoulders.
Next order of business was opening his bag. It wasn’t easy in the rolling waves, especially as most of his efforts were focused on keeping him afloat. He unzipped it and threw it open, making a sort of buoyant table. Only it wouldn’t be stable long. It was already taking on water.
Ideally, he would remove his jumpsuit but he was too tired. Between the skydiving, the stress, and treading water to avoid sinking, he didn’t have the necessary energy reserves to accomplish the maneuver.
“Shit…”
He grabbed a netting pouch filled with goodies and slung it around his neck. Then, it was time for the main toy: the electric sea scooter. It wasn’t much bigger than an oxygen tank and in fact there was one of those strapped to it along with a rebreather apparatus.
Rogan took hold of the goggles hooked to the device, put them on, and then made the scooter sink into the water so he could clip it to his chest.
He started to sink deeper at once!
Before panic set in, he shoved the regulator into his mouth, opened the air valve, and switched on the scooter. The blade began spinning and he lurched forward at seven knots.
~ ~ ~ ~
I’m not scared of getting raped, Shiloh told herself, gritting her teeth, now lying on the bed.
Gregor was kneeling next to her on the mattress and he was running his fingertips up and down her body. No, resist! That was the trick to this making this kind of torture ineffective, as she had been taught during her training with MI6.
They wanted to frighten her with the possibilities and if that failed, they would subject her to sexual violation, robbing her of her dignity. The way around it was to embrace it. Getting beat up was tolerable. And the rape proper? You had to tell yourself it was just like a bad one-night stand.
She could do that, yes?
Another way of coping was to scream and put up a fight so at least they knew they were getting to you. If you didn’t, they would just fuck you harder, do anything to hurt you physically and emotionally.
In theory it made sense. Shiloh had this theory committed to memory. Nevertheless, her skin was crawling as the thug leered at her, licking his lips with appetite. He had a hand between her legs, coming closer, taking his time.
In truth, she was terrified.
What made it worse was Carranza standing at the foot of the bed, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. She was enjoying this.
“It can stop right now,” she said. “You tell us what you know and I send Gregor back to his room so he can jerk off in peace.”
Shiloh shook her head. She was no longer gagged but she chose not to speak.
Gregor took that as an invitation and he cupped her breasts, one after the other. “I bet you want this, uh? They all do. Bitches like you all want their cunt stuffed by a real man.”
“Personally, I think this is disgusting,” Cass said. “But I can’t stop him from acting according to his nature. Thankfully, I have a leash, Shiloh. I have a very powerful leash and I can reel him in. All you have to do is tell me what I need to know.”
“Bugger off, you treacherous twat!”
“I have to hand it to you, you British sure have a way with words. Gregor…”
The man punched Shiloh in the face, drawing blood and making her yelp. Then he yanked open her blouse, making buttons fly halfway across the stateroom. He produced a hunting knife and cut off her bra.
I can do this, Shiloh repeated in her head. It’s nothing I haven’t done before.
She closed her eyes and against her will tears began to flow.
“Let’s do this again, all right?” Cass said with exasperation. “We know the President of Kazakhstan gave you some files. It’s clear as day on your phone. Who did you e-mail the files to? Who’s the person hiding behind that e-mail address?”
Taking a deep breath and steeling her resolve, Shiloh decided she could handle it. If it could save Rogan’s life, she could handle anything.
“Come lie down next to me, luv. Maybe Gregor can do you after.”
The man squeezed her throat in response.
Cass was fuming. “Take her fucking pants off.”
Chapter 50
Rogan had lost all track of time as he had navigated underwater to the yacht. Her name, The 2679, was stenciled in bright blue letters on the side. From just under the surface, he had seen the lights of the luxury vessel and it had taken another 20 minutes to do what he had to do. Then he went aft to the yacht swim platform which was already lowered. With the boat anchored, there was no danger of getting caught in the propellers.
He got as close as possible while remaining underwater. Slowly, he poked his head out and scanned the area. He saw someone, right there on the lower deck, standing next to a chaise lounge. He was Asian, wearing a black windbreaker. However, the most conspicuous thing about him was the submachine gun hanging down from his neck.
Getting back to below the surface, Rogan removed his flippers and then zipped down his jumpsuit. He removed most of it with the scooter sti
ll attached but eventually he had to get rid of it. And that meant losing his oxygen. He unsnapped the rings, and the scooter and air tank fell to the bottom of the ocean.
Holding his breath, Rogan pushed down on the heavy overalls until he was wearing only the wetsuit and the carbine. Along his waist was a belt of magazines for his assault weapon as well as for the pistol fastened to his thigh. He had a diving knife at his ankle and he drew it.
He pulled his head out of the water once more, desperate for air, and he filled his lungs. The guard still hadn’t noticed him but he needed to for what Rogan had in mind. He went back under the surface and while in the middle of the swim platform he splashed water loudly.
The guard’s head snapped toward him though he couldn’t see Rogan. Cautiously, he stepped forward, raising his submachine gun.
Meanwhile, Rogan swam laterally to the corner of the platform and waited. His head was tilted back, just enough so that his goggles were underwater. He could see the man without being detected. The sentry didn’t come all the way to the edge before deciding there was nothing going on.
Fuck.
Rogan splashed again, slamming his hand into the water before sliding himself to the other corner. The guard was alerted again and this time he came closer. Rogan removed his goggles and tossed them in front of him to draw his attention.
As the Asian man whipped his head to the side, Rogan popped out of the water with his knife firmly in hand. He slashed his throat, sending blood spurting out, and the two of them fell back into the ocean.
As the corpse sank, Rogan lost his grip on the blade. He didn’t care, it was time for more firepower. He climbed out of the dark sea and kneeled on the platform to catch his breath. Gravity felt weird after falling from an airplane and then swimming underwater for an hour. He was dripping wet but at least the air was warm. He took off his gloves as well as the neoprene hood from his head, and dropped them into the sea.
He removed the plastic bag around his carbine, racked the slide to ensure it was functional, and started walking forward.
~ ~ ~ ~
“Aaaahh!” Shiloh screamed.
Her face was covered in blood, she had been badly pummeled. Her clothes were in tatters and the shame of being exposed was gone. Gregor had punched her everywhere and she knew from experience she had at least one broken rib.
Her sole consolation was that she hadn’t been raped after all. So far anyway. They had tied her spread-eagled on the bed. In addition to the blows, Carranza had gotten in on the action, striking her with a belt – with the buckle.
“Who have you told?”
Shiloh had no more tears. She clenched her teeth and shook her head.
“What do you want me to do?” Gregor asked. “I can get a couple of the others and we can really have a party with her.”
He smirked at Shiloh before licking the side of her face, from her neck to her eyebrow, not caring that he tasted her blood. She squirmed but couldn’t escape him.
“No,” Cass said. “We’ve wasted too much time already. Let’s kill the bitch and be done with it.”
She dropped the belt and pulled out a gun. Gregor lost his smile.
“Let me use my blade, it’s new and I’ve been itching to use it.”
“Fine.”
~ ~ ~ ~
Prudently, Rogan climbed to the main deck. There were no sentinels on the sheltered stern deck but there was light through the doors, into the salon. He had never owned a yacht but he had chartered one a few times for weeklong trips in the Mediterranean. He knew just enough about the layout to give himself a slim chance of success.
What he was sure of though was that a rescue operation on a ship – even a 200-foot yacht like this one – couldn’t be done by only one man. In ideal conditions, a team of at least eight was required. They would storm the vessel from all four corners at the same time and then half the team would work its way down while the others would clear the upper decks. It had to be done stealthily and swiftly.
Rogan didn’t have that luxury. He was aware that there was a possibility he would get there too late, that his wife would be dead. He prepared himself mentally for that possibility.
And if she was dead, he would murder every one of these fuckers with his bare hands.
He thought about going around the deck to dispatch any other lookouts but there was no time. It was a race. He padded to the sliding doors leading to the salon and went inside.
He was assaulted by cranked up air conditioning and he shivered right away, especially since he was still wet from his night swim. But why was it so cold when outside it was only about 75?
He scanned the room and saw that what had once been a fashionable lounging area had been transformed into a server room. Along the walls were rows of servers, their LED lights blinking quietly. This had to be the faction’s archives.
Next he noticed that the room wasn’t as deep as it should have been. It had been divided in half which meant there was another room beyond. He took a deep breath, put his finger inside the trigger guard, and walked toward the entrance ahead.
He opened the door and crouched, ready to kill anything that moved. But the room was empty. There was a dining table with eight chairs and the remnants of a dinner, half empty plates covering the table. He came forward and touched what had once been a steak. It was cold.
He marched on and opened a pair of pocket doors. A man was there, about to go down a set of stairs.
“What…”
Rogan didn’t let him finish his sentence. He fired two silenced bullets into his head and the corpse collapsed to the ground, reminding him of a puppeteer being tired of playing with his toy.
He tiptoed past the stairs and found the galley. It was empty. A passageway led forward and he was presented with four doors. These were bedrooms. It was the middle of the night, not quite three o’clock, so most people must be sleeping, he figured.
It occurred to him that maybe not everyone on the ship was involved with the faction. But that thought passed. When you aligned yourself with people who unscrupulously controlled the world, you weren’t innocent. There were no innocents here.
He systematically went into each room and killed everybody.
Chapter 51
The atmosphere becoming foreboding, Rogan reloaded and went to the upper deck. What if Shiloh wasn’t here after all?
No, he told himself. She had to be here, the chopper was right there on the helipad. He just needed to go faster. He encountered the second salon, what he remembered being referred to as a sky lounge on the yachts he had chartered. This time it hadn’t been turned into a workroom. It was your average TV room with expensive couches and chairs. There was no one here.
He stepped out on the exterior deck aft and it was also deserted. Remaining outside, he walked around until he reached the bridge. There were lights inside.
Coming closer and peeking through the tinted glass, he saw two people inside: one in a naval uniform and the other dressed like the first guard he had killed.
He threw open the door and rushed in.
“Get your hands up!”
The man with the windbreaker reached for the MP5 slung across his chest. Without hesitation, Rogan shot him. Three bullets caught him in the throat but it wasn’t fast enough. The man had time to pull the trigger. Rogan was unhurt, the rounds missing, but he shattered the windshield.
Rogan turned to who he assumed was the captain. “I said get your fucking hands up! Where is she, where’s the girl they brought in?”
The captain looked as if he was about to argue when he sprang toward the control panel. He hit a red alarm button. The klaxon roared through the entire ship, startling the FBI agent so much that he emptied the rest of his magazine into the older man.
He went further into the cockpit but he had no idea how to turn off the alarm. Most of all, he didn’t have time to look for a way to shut it down. It was too late anyway. They knew he was coming.
He had to find his wife now before the
y killed her!
The only thing above was the sundeck and he doubted that was where she was being held. He had to go back down.
He reloaded and sprinted back until he found the stairs again. He went past the main deck and he heard footsteps. Someone was coming up.
“Don’t move!” a black man with a Caribbean accent said as he pointed a pistol at him from below.
Rogan didn’t even stop descending and squeezed the trigger twice into his head. He ran even faster. He knew that this was a recipe for disaster but Shiloh couldn’t wait anymore. The alarm still blared but it was less noisy down here. Orange emergency lights on the ceiling blinked.
He went through the crew galley and then found a corridor leading to the crew berths. One man stood in his way and he gunned him down without thinking. Fuck, he should have asked him where his wife was first.
Then he saw light under the first door to his left. Harnessing his rage, he kicked the door in. It was a large stateroom for a crew member, it probably belonged to the captain.
“Hmmm!” Shiloh tried to scream, a portion of her cut-up blouse stuffed into her mouth.
A big man was holding a knife to her throat and Cass was next to them, aiming a gun at her head.
“Let her go!” Rogan said as he went further into the room, still pointing his carbine forward.
He stopped when he was near the outer bulkhead because he didn’t want to be in the doorway in case someone jumped him from behind. He had the big dude directly in his sights although maybe Cass should be taken out first.
“Cadillac Rogue! I guess I underestimated your love for her. How did you find us? And how the hell did you get here so fast?”
“Let her go and I’ll leave you to use of your spleen, Cass.”
She smiled palely. “You got here just in time for the gang rape, make yourself comfortable, pull up a chair. Listen, put your gun down and maybe we don’t have to go that far, though it’ll certainly piss off Gregor. Go on, lower your weapon.”
Rogan did no such thing. He stared at Shiloh. She still had some pieces of clothing hanging on her, covering most of her breasts and crotch. Her skin was black and blue where it wasn’t outright covered with blood. Her hair was matted, her face streaked with dried tears and caked blood.
