“Strike two!”
They spoke into their comms, filtering out the explosions of shotgun blasts and men yelling, moving with precision and purpose.
Jerry emerged from behind the row of crates and suddenly pain sliced through his left cheek.He reacted, spinning to find the target, firing two shots at a woman with black and gray dreadlocks just as she brought her pistol to bear again.She gasped and fell backward without firing another shot.
Back behind cover, Jerry swiped his left hand to his cheek.He could feel the blood and the burn.Thankfully, it felt like the bullet had just grazed him, although the pain seemed disproportionate to a flesh wound.Annoyed, he superfluously used his sleeve to swipe at his face.He heard one of their opponents open fire with an automatic weapon.He moved back out from behind cover, his shotgun at the ready.
When the smoke cleared and the dust settled, none of the armed enemy surrendered.They had to take out all the armed opponents.Finally, the six remaining unarmed enemies threw up their hands.
Menacing them into compliance with their shotguns, Peña’s team shouted orders, “On your knees!On your knees!Hands on your heads!”
Brock set all his weapons on a crate and retrieved the zip-ties he had acquired in the kitchens.He towered over the prisoners, each of whom individually he outweighed by a hundred pounds or more.They did not resist as, one by one, Brock zipped their hands and ankles together.He then zipped them together in pairs.Peña kept them covered the entire time, his eyes hard.
When the second-to-last captive started to speak, Brock shoved him to the deck.Staring into the man’s eyes, Brock raised a finger to his lips in the universal symbol of silence.The man never said another word.
“Guys,” Swanson broadcast.“I have a bit of a personal problem.”
Meanwhile, Jerry and Norton verified that the casualties the team had shot were all beyond saving.They were.Special Forces soldiers never trained to wound.They trained for lethality and their real world execution of that training followed suit.
As they confirmed the elimination or capture of all potential threats, Waller’s voice came over the comms.“Bourbon here.We need Ozzy, over.”
Jerry rushed from behind the crates and dashed to where the team medic knelt over Swanson.
“Talk to me,” Osbourne said over the comms.
“Pot Pie caught one.Lower right abdomen.We need more than compression.”Jerry could hear the tension in Waller’s voice.
Ozzy responded, “Roger.Meet me in sickbay.Trout.Walk me in.”
Waller looked up at Jerry as he pressed on Swanson’s wound.“Nice face, Maguire.You need anything?”
Jerry realized that the wound on his face must look terrible.He felt blood sliding down his neck and into his dress shirt.He shrugged.“I’ll be fine.Just a graze.”
Marie sprinted across the loading dock of the cruise ship, her boots pounding the smooth deck.The clamor of forklifts beeping and the ocean slapping against the hull of the ship drowned out the sound.She lunged forward, fingers clamping around Henri’s arm like a vice, yanking him mid-stride from his inventory checks.“You need to go right now,” she hissed.
Her nephew’s eyes—wide, dark mirrors of her own—flared with instant alarm, the tremor in her grip translating straight to his bones.Without a word, he slapped the tablet in his hands to the top of a nearby crate.
“Where?”he demanded, already pivoting toward her, his lanky frame taut as a bowstring.
“Tell these men to get serious,” she gestured toward the six guards idling nearby.“Then, go to the cargo ship.”She jabbed a finger toward the hulking silhouette of their cargo vessel rafted up alongside the cruise liner, its ramp connecting the two vessels.
Marie spun away, eyes raking towering stacks of containers.There—Julien, hunched over the controls of a forklift, its yellow arms laden with a crate of ammunition.She bolted toward him, waving her arms like signal flags.He slammed the brake.
“Auntie Marie,” he called, twisting in the seat.His face creased with confusion, sweat beading along his brow in the humid press of the afternoon.“What’s the matter?”
“We have to go right now.”The words tumbled out sharp and unyielding.
He frowned.“But—”
“Now, nephew.”She vaulted onto the step beside him in one fluid surge, her face inches from his, nose brushing close enough to catch the faint soap scent clinging to his skin.“We are all about to die.This is a fail.Come with me now.”
“I don’t understand.”His voice cracked, gaze darting past her to the oblivious bustle of the workers unloading the cargo ship, searching for the threat.“Where’s Henri?”
“Already safe.Come on.”
He powered down the forklift and hopped down.“Where are we going?”
“Follow me.”She seized his wrist and led him to the cargo ship.
