Norton gestured at the radio.“There was a woman out there.Not in crew uniform.Black fatigues.”
Emma tapped the radio’s antenna against her lip.“Chinese or Haitian woman?”
“Chinese.”
She raised an eyebrow.“Shall I answer?”
Peña’s lips pursed, then he said, “Worth a shot.Say you encountered resistance, but you’re headed back soon.”
Emma covered the microphone of the sophisticated handheld with the hem of her dress, clearly trying to slightly muffle her voice.She quickly rehearsed some Mandarin.It sounded like a nursery rhyme to Jerry.Then she cleared her throat and transmitted.As soon as Emma finished her transmission, Jerry said, “We need to move before they send someone to find out why they haven’t made it back yet.”
The voice came again, and Emma translated.“Asking how many hostages.”
Peña shook his head.“Stall him from now on.You’re busy securing the hostages and whatnot.”Emma nodded.Peña took the paper from Ege.“Okay, comms, then armory.”He looked at Ege again.“Where is that cargo bay in relation to the deck that has the loading dock for the tenders?”
Captain Ege took the paper back and quickly sketched out the ship.He explained the decks.“Cargo elevator would go down to decks one and two.”
“They shouldn’t be expecting resistance,” Jerry said.“They’ve removed all the passengers.”His mind shifted to Olive, and he intentionally shut that down.
“Obviously, they picked the wrong boat,” Peña said.He pointed to Emma.“I need you with us to translate the radio transmissions.”
“Yes, you do,” she said.“But I’ll do it from here.We don’t have gear, and I don’t want to be in the way.”
Jerry checked the time.They’d wasted five whole minutes.Tension tightened his neck.He said to Captain Ege, “Give us your badge.We don’t want to break down doors or get stalled at sealed steel portholes.”
Ege fumbled with his badge clipped to his crisp white uniform shirt.“Of course.My keypad code is 112233.”
“Original,” Jerry observed, pocketing the badge.
Peña said, “Listen up.Challenge is ‘white dress.’Password is ‘bowtie.’Straphangers, take rear guard.The rest of you stack up as usual.Stealth is the one ROE until we get loud.We’ll use these suppressed pistols, blades, or hands and feet until we have to pivot.Clear?”
Everyone said, “Roger.”
“Absolutely no one,” Peña said, “And I mean no one is authorized to get himself killed.I do not need that kind of paperwork hassle.Jerry.You’re my senior NCO.All set?”
Somehow, the fact that Jerry was the most senior non-commissioned officer present had eluded him in his concern for Olive.Jerry nodded, “Semper Paratus, Daddy.”Always prepared.
Norton put his hand on Ege’s arm and said, “Thank you, sir.We’ll get your ship back.Listen to the agents.”He released Ege’s arm and turned to Chaplain’s Assistant Tyler Blackwell.“You and the Chaplain better get some prayers going.I’d join you, but we’re pressed for time.”
“Yes, sir,” Blackwell said.
Peña said, “Good.Let’s roll.”
Between the available rifles and pistols, they all left armed.Ibrahim took point going down the staircase.They moved as one unit, silently, communicating with hand signals and gestures—two fingers, forward; fist clenched, hold.Anderson impressed Jerry, staying with them, following their lead, even though he’d never trained with them.He also moved quietly for a man of his bulk, much like Brock.
They encountered no one.The ship’s usual hum—voices, laughter, piped music, regular announcements —had vanished, replaced by a hollow silence that pressed against Jerry’s ears like tinnitus.The bad guys must have swept through deck by deck and cleared each one before coming to the chapel.
At the stairwell door to Deck Eleven, Ibrahim froze, fist raised.The team sank into a crouch, weapons up, breaths shallow.Jerry knew if he were in charge of the invading force, he’d have guards at comms.But they needed to move silently and swiftly.Peña dispatched Brock and Sanders to conduct reconnaissance.Jerry slipped out of the doorway and crouched in the corner of the corridor, his weapon ready.What he wouldn’t give for a nice high perch and his beloved Cassie.
Swanson, his old sniper spotter, crouched on the other side of the corner.They made eye contact, nodded once, then focused their attention down the corridor.
Olive’s eyelids fluttered open, but harsh and very bright white LED light stabbed into her eyes like shards of glass, forcing her to squeeze them shut once more.A vicious throb exploded behind her temples, sending waves of nausea churning through her stomach, as if the ship’s gentle sway had turned into a violent storm.
What happened?
She let out a low, involuntary moan, her hand drifting instinctively to her head.Her fingers brushed the swollen, tender spot at her temple, and she flinched, the contact sending fresh sparks of pain radiating outward.Fragments of memory clawed their way back: she had been rushing down the promenade, late for the wedding.
Then...
