Then, a distant explosion ripped through the air—a muffled thunderclap that swelled to fill the brig, vibrating the bars and rattling the control panel’s keys like chattering teeth.Hao surged to his feet.“What?”He craned his neck, eyes flicking upward to the ceiling as if he could pierce the decks above, then pressed close to the bars, straining to peer into the front room.
Another boom followed, then another nearly overlapped it—deeper, closer, shaking dust from the vents and sending a shiver through the floor.Gunfire cracked in its wake, sharp and erratic, a hail echoing from somewhere amidships, punctuated by muffled shouts that clawed through the bulkheads.
Olive pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.To be trapped here, listening to the sounds of the battle, alone and defenseless, with two men she did not know nor could she trust.
And her head hurt.A lot.And her jaw hurt.A lot more.
She did not want to show weakness in front of these men.Instead, she forced a calm expression and raised her head.But, inside, she began a litany of prayer.God, she thought, if that’s them, guard them.Keep them.Shield them.Help them find me.
Help Jerry find me.
Thirty-three enemies, each armed with rifles chattering wildly, should have cut them down in seconds.But their response revealed their lack of discipline and training.Panicked shouts in a foreign tongue, bullets spraying high and wide, sinking into wooden crates or ricocheting off metal decks with sharp pings that echoed like angry hornets.
With the smoke still curling from the grenade blasts burning his nose, Jerry steadied his breath and peered through the QBU’s optics, the crosshairs sweeping the chaotic loading dock below.The enemies—now down from thirty-three—numbered only twenty-seven strong.Fractured by panic, they scrambled for cover behind crates and machinery, their automatic fire wild and unfocused.
One combatant popped up from behind a forklift, rifle aimed at Peña’s position.Jerry’s finger caressed the trigger.The shot cracked sharp and true, dropping the man before he could fire.
“Strike one.Bow,” Jerry murmured into comms, his voice calm despite the adrenaline surging through him.Below, the team advanced in tight formation, Norton and Brock laid down suppressive bursts that pinned clusters of enemies, while Peña, Ibrahim, and Sanders flanked right, their movements a symphony of practiced precision.
Peña signaled forward, dodging a haphazard spray of bullets that chewed into the deck plating nearby.Jerry’s heart tightened—too close—but he refocused, spotting another enemy reloading clumsily on the rafted-up cargo ship’s gangway.Another squeeze, another enemy slumped.The rifle felt like an extension of his arm, familiar and reliable, even if it wasn’t his usual gear.
The dock thrummed with noise—people shouting, the roar of gunfire, metal pinging from ricochets.Sweat beaded on Jerry’s forehead, the office air thick with the scent of gunpowder and sea salt wafting up from below.A near-miss shattered more glass from the window frame, shards tinkling to the floor as a stray round whizzed past his left shoulder.He ducked instinctively, pulse racing, then rose again.What he wouldn’t give for a plated vest and a Kevlar helmet.
His team pushed hard, exploiting the enemy’s disarray —some combatants fumbled magazines, others argued amid the haze, shouting conflicting instructions, their coordination crumbling under pressure.
“Clearing central crates—cover the ramp!”Norton’s voice crackled.Jerry shifted his aim, eliminating threats emerging from the cargo ship’s shadow, their rifles barking futilely into the smoke.The team surged ahead, dress shoes slipping but steady on the debris-strewn deck.Brock vaulted a low barrier, firing on the move, while Ibrahim dragged a wounded teammate.
Who?
No, just a shadow.He missed Waller in his ear.Jerry blinked sweat from his eyes, scanning for the next priority.
As the last pockets of resistance faltered, Peña waved toward the dock.“Boarding now—Jerry, overwatch the deck!”
The five-man team below funneled toward the gangway as if they had practiced it a thousand times, weapons up, crossing the narrow gap to the rafted cargo ship.Jerry’s shots kept the pressure on, making the bandits keep their heads down.The vessel loomed like a steel behemoth, its hull groaning against the cruise ship’s side with each swell of the water.
An enemy leaned out.Jerry hastily fired and missed, the impact echoing faintly.But the man retreated.Brock saw the bandit and moved in.
Heart steadying with each breath, Jerry watched his team secure the boarding point.The fight wasn’t over—not with Olive still out there somewhere and an entire island of hostages—but they had gained ground.
“Moving,” he broadcast.He slung the QBU and moved to rejoin them below.Jerry, Brock, Ibraham, and Sanders cleared every corner of the loading dock while Peña and Norton kept the gangway covered.
Upon signaling the all clear, the six men moved inexorably up the gangway.Peña, Norton, and Sanders took the lead with Jerry, Ibraham, and Brock bringing up the rear and covering rear security.One by one, they boarded the ship.
Jerry’s senses sharpened in the dim, echoing corridors.The vessel’s hull groaned softly with the ocean’s rhythm.The ship appeared lightly manned by an all-Chinese crew, but the faint hum of machinery below decks could mask potential footsteps.
They moved swiftly yet tactically, stacking up in tight formation: Peña at point, weapon sweeping low; Norton covering high angles; Brock and Ibrahim alternating flanks while Sanders brought up the rear.Jerry, QBU ready, scanned for elevated threats.
His mind raced through contingencies.What if the crew had rigged traps?What if reinforcements hid in the engine room?
They cleared compartments methodically—breaching doors with controlled force, cutting into corners to expose threats slice by slice.In one narrow passageway, a crewman in black fatigues emerged suddenly from a side hatch, hands empty but eyes wide with alarm.
“Down!On the ground!”Peña barked in English-tinged Mandarin.Brock zip-tied him swiftly as the man complied without resistance.
“Mandarin, Jorge?”Norton observed.
“Married to Emma?I picked up some things.Important words, anyway.”
No shots fired—yet—but the encounter ratcheted Jerry’s tension.They pressed on, the air growing thicker with the scent of oil and salt and sweat despite the ventilation fans whirring overhead.A muffled shout echoed from deeper inside the ship—Chinese voices, urgent but indistinct.
