The man with the AK ordered the machine gunner to hang out bumpers to protect the boats from damaging each other. As the gunner abandoned his gun, Chris thought shooting them might actually be the better option. The man with the AK motioned to Chris. “Come here!”
Chris slowly walked to midship.
The gunner barely finished hanging the last bumper before the two vessels came together. “Tie up the boat and then tie him up!” AK commanded. The gunner proceeded to secure the patrol boat to the yacht, and AK motioned for Chris to board his boat. “What are you doing out here by yourself on this yacht so late at night?!
Chris hopped from his yacht onto the patrol boat. The man with the AK aggressively walked toward him. Chris proceeded cautiously with his hands up.
AK closed the gap between them. “Why don’t you answer me? Are you deaf?” He shouted the last bit, shoving the gun toward Chris’s chest.
Chris didn’t enjoy killing, but he didn’t want to be tortured and hung from a tree for the whole world to see, either. In the absence of divine intervention, Chris chose frogman intervention. He dropped his hands from the surrender position and his left hand slapped the AK away. Meanwhile, his right hand drew the pistol. He fired low from the hip, so he wouldn’t shoot his other arm before he could pull it out of the way. Two shots struck AK in the lower gut, and he fell on his back.
The gunner turned and ran for his weapon.
Now Chris had both hands on his pistol as he placed his sights on the gunner’s back and blasted him twice before he could reach the machine gun. The gunner’s back arched as he fell forward.
Then Chris hurried to the pilothouse and threw open the door. The pilot chattered frantically into the radio, but Chris popped him in the head, ending the transmission. On his way off the patrol boat, he administered the coups de grace for the gunner and AK. He’d wanted to avoid a fight, but they hadn’t left him a choice.
He returned to his yacht and sailed north. He wasn’t a random killing machine, and he didn’t carry the emotional baggage of being one. It was part of his job—a necessary evil. He didn’t have the luxury of carrying that baggage while simultaneously trying to help Hannah and Jim Bob. Although he attempted to stay positive about the situation, the light in his heart dimmed.
Over an hour later, when Chris arrived at the Ras al-Basit Marina, the darkness in the sky had surrendered to the morning light. There were some fishermen in their boats and on the pier but no sign of security.
When he saw the Agency yacht in the harbor, his heart brightened. Not knowing if Victor was still on it, he docked his vessel with one eye on the Agency yacht. After tying up, he wanted to draw his pistol, but he didn’t want to attract unwanted attention, so he kept it holstered as he walked quietly across the pier. Carefully observing his surroundings, he boarded. As he descended the ladder from the main deck to the lower cabin, he drew his pistol. Inside, blood splatter stained a wall—most likely Wolf’s blood. Chris searched for any traces of intel about where Hannah, Jim Bob, or Victor might be but found nothing significant. For a moment, he thought the bloodstains might be Hannah’s, but the thought distressed him, and he banished it. There was no sign of Victor or any clues. It was empty.
Chris went ashore and found a vehicle—a white sedan without maker markings. He commandeered the white sedan and drove southeast into town. With each building and road he passed, he found no new clues, and more and more, he realized he had no idea where he was going. He exhaled his frustration, but he couldn’t blow it all out.
At the north end of Ras al-Basit, the road curved around to the east. Another road headed north, following the Mediterranean coast. He passed the intersection and drove east before slowing and making a U-turn. Then he made the turn north before taking another U-turn. This time he turned around south toward Ras al-Basit, where he’d just come from. He was driving in circles. Chris pulled off the road and stopped the sedan. Hannah was still missing. As was Jim Bob. And Victor.
Failure squeezed the energy out of him.
He folded his arms, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply before saying a prayer. After he said amen, the disappointment and negative feelings flowed out of him. Serenity flowed in. The sun broke the horizon, its rays entering his windshield and warming the air around him. The warmth embraced him like some omniscient mercy. He’d relied more on his SEAL skills than his minister skills thus far, and he was more imperfect than perfect, so he didn’t feel worthy of mercy, but he accepted its embrace anyway.
More cars passed by, leaving him exposed like a deer in an open field waiting for hunting season to begin. He spotted a grey van heading south and followed it. The van took him back into Ras al-Basit, where Chris allowed a black Mercedes to pull in between his sedan and the van. At a traffic light, the van dragged it, waiting for a red light, so anyone behind would be forced to stop, then just before the light changed, the van passed through the intersection—maybe the driver was trying to ditch possible tails. The Mercedes ran the light and sped aggressively past the van. Chris stepped on the brake, and his sedan came to a standstill. As he waited for the light, the van pulled farther and farther away. Two cars entered the road behind the van, creating more obstacles between him and his target.
“Come on, please,” he begged the light. He could run it, but if Victor was in the van, he’d be checking his rearview mirror and notice Chris’s move. When the light finally turned green, he stepped on the gas. A large cargo truck pulled out in front of him before he could pick up speed. Chris wanted to pass it, but there were too many cars coming from the opposite direction. Soon he lost sight of the van.
When the opposite lane cleared, Chris passed the truck. Next, he overtook the two vehicles, but the van was nowhere in sight.
Did it already make a turn? Where would it go? Was that even the Agency van?
If it was, someone would have had to drive it, and another someone would’ve had to drive the yacht in order for both to arrive in Ras al-Basit. In such a scenario, there would be at least two people involved. Once again, he wondered if Jim Bob and Hannah were Victor’s co-conspirators.
Chris sped back to the marina and was relieved to find the Agency yacht still moored there. Whoever brought the Agency yacht here is likely to need it again. He spun the steering wheel to the right, then straightened out, but he had to collect himself so he wouldn’t fly into the marina like a flaming banshee. He eased off the accelerator.
He parked the sedan in a place that provided some concealment, but he’d stolen the sedan from the same parking lot, and the owner might return, so he exited it. He could wait outdoors, but passersby might spot him and become suspicious of his loitering, so he hid below deck in the cabin of the Agency yacht.
For breakfast, he scarfed down an energy bar and washed it down with water from his Camelbak. The morning wore on slowly, and images of home drifted into his mind. I’d be a lot safer if I packed up and went home to the States. But I can’t abandon Hannah and Jim Bob now.
In the afternoon, the noise of vehicles came and went from the direction of the parking lot. Voices and the sounds of boats came and went, too. He ran out of water, so he filled his Camelbak from the yacht’s supply.
It’d been hours, and isolation crept in as awareness of the situation around the yacht became stale. He peeked above deck—the blue-black sky dimmed with the quickening of evening. There was no sign of the Agency van in the parking lot. A group of well-dressed young partiers boarded the yacht to his right. The partiers couldn’t seem to make up their minds whether they were preparing to get underway or staying docked.
He returned to the cabin. It had become dark, but he didn’t want to turn on the light. It was too risky. He sat on the couch in the main cabin and prayed for Hannah’s and Jim Bob’s safety and for guidance about what to do next. Fatigue crept into his prayer, his mind wandered, and he had to start his prayer again from the beginning. On the third time of restarting his prayer, he thought about the possibility that Hannah and Jim Bob were ki
dnapped, and his thoughts strayed to his own experience as a kidnapped child—and how it had changed the course of his life.
12
_______
A quiet rustle startled him, and he realized he’d fallen asleep—and that someone had boarded the yacht. He opened his eyes, but the cabin was dark. He snapped to his feet, and the light came on. Chris’s arm twitched to just short of drawing his pistol. It was Victor, carrying a grey travel duffel bag in his left hand, and his reaction was similar to Chris’s. As they both recognized each other, they didn’t draw, but their hands remained near their pistols.
“What are you doing here?” Victor asked.
“Where are Hannah and Jim Bob?” Chris asked. “And the Switchblade Whisper?”
Victor stood silent, and his face was expressionless. His fingers wiggled slowly and deliberately, as if stretching before drawing and shooting his firearm.
Chris waited, staring at him. He, too, stretched his fingers. Moments later, footsteps sounded on the upper deck. The footsteps descended the stairs.
“Chris, you made it!” Jim Bob exclaimed. “I was so worried about you!”
“Well, I’m a little confused right now,” Chris said slowly. “Maybe you can help.”
“Confused?” Jim Bob said in his fatherly tone. “Are you injured?”
“Where’s Hannah?”
“I thought she was with you.” Jim Bob’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
Chris took a breath. “That’s not the response I was hoping for.”
“What response were you hoping for?” Jim Bob replied with concern in his voice that contrasted the emptiness of his words.
“The truth.”
Jim Bob appeared confused. “The truth?”
“Why don’t we start with the exploding SUV?”
Jim Bob gestured with open palms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Somebody planted explosives in the SUV, rigged to go off when the driver’s door was opened.” Chris’s jaw clenched. “That was meant for Hannah and me.”
“Oh, my,” Jim Bob said. “Who would do such a thing?”
“I thought it was Victor, but seeing you here is making me rethink things.” Chris tried to place the pieces of the puzzle together. “Victor could’ve taken me out when I finished planting the explosives. With his skill as a gunfighter, he’d be the logical choice—make sure the job was done right. Why didn’t he?”
Jim Bob shook his head.
Chris tried to put himself in Victor’s shoes. “I can only guess that maybe Victor isn’t the greatest fan of fratricide. I don’t doubt that he could’ve killed that guard in the office at the Latakia Marina. But who killed Wolf?” Chris pointed to the bloodstain on the wall.
Victor looked at it, and the edges of his mouth sagged. But Jim Bob didn’t look at it.
Chris’s voice became louder. “You can’t look at it, can you, Jim Bob?”
“Look at what?” Jim Bob gave a cursory glance at the bloodstain on the wall before returning his gaze to Chris. “I looked. You see? I looked.”
“Cut the good-ole-boy crap, and tell me where Hannah is!”
Jim Bob stopped speaking.
“Hannah isn’t with either of you, so that means she isn’t with either of you,” Chris said. “But you and Victor sold the Switchblade Whisper to the Chinese, didn’t you?”
Jim Bob sighed and shook his head. “What you’re saying is madness.”
“I’m sorry Hezbollah kidnapped and tortured you. I’m sorry the Agency didn’t rescue you. I would’ve been happy to risk my life to free you. Both of you,” Chris said.
“That’s just the way things happen,” Jim Bob said, his lips becoming taut.
“But God knows that doesn’t excuse you for putting Hannah in danger. And I know.”
“I’m not responsible for Hannah. I didn’t want her on this mission. Somebody upstairs wanted her.” Jim Bob fidgeted. “I don’t know if it was some equal opportunity horseshit or if somebody wanted her out of their corral for a season—maybe somebody didn’t trust me and wanted her to play mommy to us. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t get the green light for this mission without bringing her.”
“You tried to blow us up and left me on that mountain for dead!”
Jim Bob shook his head and motioned for Chris to cool down. “I don’t know anything about that. All I know is that she wanted you on this mission, and when I objected, she threatened to walk out.”
“Where is she?”
Jim Bob sighed. “I’d guess that she’s looking for you, but since she obviously hasn’t found you, I’d say she’s looking for the Switchblade Whisper.”
“And where is that?”
Jim Bob’s mouth twisted. “Victor, the stench is getting worse. It’s past time to take out the garbage.”
Chris shifted his gaze to Victor, who slowly put his duffel bag on the deck but otherwise kept still.
Jim Bob looked at Victor. “You didn’t want to do it before. But now do you see where that road has taken us?” Jim Bob said.
“Why don’t you kill me yourself, Jim Bob?” Chris asked.
“Jim Bob is a hero,” Victor said. “You’ve disrespected him enough.”
“He disrespected himself.”
Victor took a deep breath. “You know, Ron Hickok taught me personally.”
“Ron taught a lot of people. If I perish, I perish.”
Victor remained cold. “You don’t seem too concerned. But you should be.”
“Since I became a pastor, I’ve become closer to God than ever before in my life. I can’t think of a better time to die,” Chris said. “You, on the other hand, would be better off not drawing that pistol.”
Victor grinned. “Why’s that?”
“If you draw, I’ll be forced to draw, too, and I’ll do all I can to kill you. On the other hand, if you succeed in murdering a man of the cloth, it’d be better if you’d never been born.”
The corners of Victor’s smile drooped.
“There is no God,” Jim Bob hissed.
Victor’s eyes stayed on Chris. But he made no move toward his gun.
“Victor.” Jim Bob shook his head. “If we let Chris go, he’s going to peddle this loony story of his around Washington, and he’s going to find someone loony enough to buy it. Then you and I will pay for his lunacy.”
“I can’t go to jail,” Victor said. “I can’t go to jail.”
Jim Bob grinned as if he’d already won.
Victor’s shoulder twitched, but his pistol hand moved, too, as he went for his gun.
Chris performed as efficiently as he could, but he needed speed, too, and he wasn’t fast enough. As his hand grasped the pistol handle, Victor had already brought his pistol out of its holster. As soon as Chris’s muzzle cleared the holster, he rotated the muzzle in Victor’s direction while bringing the weapon up to fire. Without thinking, Chris squeezed the trigger. He should’ve heard or felt his weapon fire, but a tunnel blackened everything except Victor. His first round struck Victor in the knee.
Chris felt like he was outside of his body, deaf and motionless, when the second shot fired. It struck Victor in the pelvis, making him crumple like a paper ball. Victor lost his aim and brought his head down into Chris’s line of fire. Chris’s third shot hit Victor in the skull.
Pop. The heat of a bullet creased Chris’s brow. He twisted toward Jim Bob until the duplicitous good-ole-boy appeared in a blur. Jim Bob’s next projectile parted Chris’s hair.
Chris returned fire, punching Jim Bob in the chest. His next shot cracked Jim Bob’s nose, spraying a pink mist. Jim Bob fell forward, and his chin bounced off the deck.
Shaken and angry, Chris tried to take long, slow breaths—tried to rein in his pulsing adrenaline. “May God have mercy on your souls.” He said the words out of obligation, but in his heart, he hoped they burned in Hell.
Although he should’ve been worried about how the partiers in the nearby yacht would react to the shots fired and
about how he was going to find the Switchblade Whisper, he could only worry about one thing.
Where are you, Hannah?
PART TWO
All warfare is based on deception.
— SUN TZU
13
_______
Chris wanted to kill Jim Bob again, but resurrecting him just to drill him in the face once more wouldn’t bring Chris closer to finding Hannah. Chris had searched through the pockets of dead men before, but Iraq was so many years ago that his senses had forgotten what it was like, and now it felt like he was doing it for the first time. Jim Bob and Victor appeared to be asleep except for the awkward positioning of their bodies and that Victor’s eyes were still open. His unblinking eyes unnerved Chris, so he closed them. Jim Bob and Victor made no snoring or breathing sounds that sleeping men make. In spite of the morbidity of frisking dead men, Chris put aside their humanity and focused on his objective: gather intel.
He searched Victor’s body first, looking for anything that might give a clue as to Hannah’s whereabouts. Victor’s pockets were warm, and the muscles in his legs were at rest and unresponsive, as if he’d fallen into a drunken stupor. Chris discovered a cell phone along with a set of keys. Then he examined Jim Bob’s body and found his cell, too. At any moment, the late-night partiers on the other yacht could call the police and report the gunshots fired—time wasn’t on his side. After pocketing the phones and keys, he opened Victor’s duffel bag and looked inside: Jim Bob’s laptop, Victor’s handheld GPS tracker, an HK416 with a configuration similar to the one Chris had lost in the explosion, and magazines of 5.56 mm ammo. He zipped it back up and carried it by its shoulder strap before scurrying up the ladder to the main deck.
Topside, he observed the young partiers from the corner of his eye. Their mood had sobered, and they were watching him, but when he turned his head toward them, they turned away.
Should I kill them before they contact the authorities? It wasn’t a priestly thought, but it was a legitimate SEAL thought, though he felt guilty for thinking it.
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