They parted ways at a juncture in the corridor.Jerry stayed with Brock and Norton.Peña, Ibrahim, and Sanders went the other way.
They moved as a single unit, with no need to direct or explain who needed to do what.They communicated with clicks and low voices in their comms, while listening for Anderson and Fisher to give them direction.Soon, they took their positions on the third deck, with each team on either side of the loading dock.
Jerry’s pulse thudded in his ears as he dropped to a pushup position, the cold deck pressing against his palms.He glided forward slowly, every muscle taut, aware that one wrong shift could expose him.His breath came shallow as he peered around the opening from less than a foot above the deck.The loading dock sprawled out below—crates stacked like jagged teeth, the rafted-up cargo vessel bobbing ominously against the ship.Armed figures clustered near the doorway, their postures rigid, rifles slung low but ready.One wrong glance their way, and it was over.
He reversed just as carefully, heart slamming against his ribs, and rose to his feet, bringing his newly acquired sniper rifle to the ready.Sweat trickled down his back, and blood trickled down his chest.He raised his hands, fingers flashing silent signals: control room up on the catwalk—clear line of sight over everything.Hostiles grouped, facing the door, alert and ready.
Norton clicked twice into the comms.Fisher came over, voice a low rasp.He relayed the room’s layout and pinpointed enemy positions like dots on a map.Jerry knew maps didn’t account for the human factor.
Finally, Peña quietly broadcast, “On my mark.”
The wait stretched like a wire about to snap.In the loading dock, a Chinese woman argued with a man at the cargo elevator, her voice sharp and rising.The man spun away, barking French into his radio, the words echoing faintly.Jerry’s grip tightened on the rifle; any second now, that radio could summon reinforcements or initiate executions of the passengers on the island.
At Peña’s whispered command of “Mark.Fire in the hole,” they tossed the Chinese stick grenades into the mix, then crouched and shielded themselves around the corner of the corridor until the grenades detonated.The blasts roared through the deck, a concussive wave that rattled Jerry’s teeth and sent debris skittering.
With no more need for quiet, they yelled directions to each other, staying in constant communication, voices cutting through the ringing in his ears.
The dock erupted in chaos as each three-man team surged forward, their feet clad in dress shoes sliding treacherously on the salt-slicked deck while pounding against the clamor of automatic fire.
Adrenaline surged as Jerry broke for the metal staircase leading up to the office overlooking the loading dock.Norton covered him.Shouts erupted from the dock—confused, angry.Gunshots broke out.Jerry half-expected a bullet to whine past his head.He took the stairs two at a time, thighs burning, rifle bouncing against his back.The door loomed at the top, slightly ajar.What if it wasn’t empty?What if someone hid inside in ambush?
He kicked it open hard, hitting his dress shoes like a hammer hits a nail, and swept the muzzle across the dim room—desks, shadows, nothing moving.Empty.For now.
He exhaled sharply, positioning himself at the window, scope scanning the smoke-filled dock below as the fight erupted in full.
He used the buttstock of his QBU to break the glass out of the window overlooking the operations below, scattering glass to the deck.He lined up on a target.“How are your optics, QB?”He squeezed the trigger, and his target went down from a dead-center shot.“Already knew my zero?You shouldn’t have.”
Jerry methodically started eliminating threats, one by one.He would observe the action below, identify the enemy combatant who posed the greatest threat to his team members, and remove that bandit from the board as if checking off tasks on a prioritized list.
“Hao Jun,” the first mate said, extending his hand, his voice steady despite the blood matting his dark hair along the crown of his skull, the drying rivulet down his temple that stained the collar of his white uniform.
“Olive Duncan,” she replied, rising from her corner to clasp his offered hand.It surprised her how much it hurt to move her jaw, so she tried not to move it as she spoke.Her voice came out slightly slurred as a result.
“Where are you from, Olive?”
“Tennessee.Little town near the Kentucky state line.”She studied his face in turn—the subtle wince as he shifted, the way his jaw tightened against the pain.“How are you feeling now that you’re up?”
He inclined his head in a small, formal bow, the motion careful, as if testing the waters of his own balance.“I would feel better if my head didn’t hurt so much,” he admitted, a wry twist touching his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes.
“I could say the same.”She eased back into the corner, turning her back to the unyielding wall of the cell—close enough to the bars to feel their chill radiate against her shoulder blades.“You took a pretty hard blow.”
“You, too,” Emanuel interjected from his perch on the bench.He lifted a finger to point at her face, tracing a slow, circular motion in the air over his own temple and jaw.“Bruising on your temple, your jaw.”
She shouldn’t have felt a flush of embarrassment creep up her neck—not after the raw violence that had dumped her here, bruised and caged like an unwanted pet dumped at the puppy pound—but the heat bloomed anyway, warming her cheeks.She ducked her chin slightly, fingers brushing self-consciously at the tender swell.“I fought back,” she said, the words tumbling out a touch sheepishly.“But that guy, Ming, can throw a punch.”
“Where is everyone else?”Hao asked, his tone shifting to something keener, more insistent.
Emanuel shook his head.“We don’t know, sir.She was in here when I got here.”
Hao’s brow furrowed.“Who brought you here?”
“One of the Director’s assistants, Marie Allard,” Emanuel replied.“The man had a cook’s uniform on, but I didn’t know him.”
“Ming,” Olive added, the syllable clipped.“The nametag on his uniform said his name is Ming.”
“I know Cook Ming.”Hao lowered himself onto the bench beside Emanuel.“He makes a chicken and mushroom soup that reminds me of what my Nainai would make.”His voice softened on the word, a faint smile ghosting his lips.“My grandmother.”
They sat silent for a while, the only noise Emanuel’s fingers drumming a silent rhythm on his thigh.
