Operation Zulu Redemption: Hazardous Duty - Part 3 (10 page)

Lukewarm. Jesus threatened to spew those who were lukewarm out of his mouth, but Sam couldn’t quite bring himself to that point regarding Annie. She hadn’t been nearly as warm with him as she had been that night on the deck. Then again, Trace Weston hadn’t been there.

Was the guy as tripped up on power and as dangerous as Francesca Solomon had said? Sam hadn’t seen proof of that, even if his own jealous streak over the way the guy looked at Annie bordered on ballistic. They had history.

“A yacht,” Trace muttered again. “That’s tricky.”

Sam edged into the room, listening. Yacht meant water. He was trained on water. Would they let him run another op? Would that prove to Annie that he could hold his own? Crazy how she felt the need to protect him when he’d vowed back in Manson to do that very thing for her. If it hadn’t been so ridiculous, he might be offended that she tried to do that.

“Houston,” Boone asked from the station. “What’ve you got on that boat?”

“Almost got it,” Houston muttered, his fingers working quickly. “Okay—it left port. . .ha! Left port the night of Annie’s escape.”

“Running.”

When the eyes in the room turned to Sam, he realized he’d said that out loud.

Trace nodded. “Agreed.”

“Makes it more challenging to get onboard,” Boone said.

Sam grinned. “Not for me.”

The team commander’s green eyes held his. For a long time. Silence chilled the room.

“No,” Annie finally said, moving not to Sam but to Trace. “You can’t do this. We can’t ask Sam to do this.”

He scowled. “Nobody asked me.” Had to admit, she’d dented his pride with a sledgehammer this time. “I volunteered.” He met Trace’s assessing gaze. “You know this makes sense.”

“Can you get onboard with it moving?”

Not without killing myself.
“Yes.”

“And without being seen?”

If I have an invisibility cloak.
“Yes.”

Trace just stared.

Sam took the leap. “When do I leave?”

Sam stretched out on the roof of the ultrafast patrol boat beside Annie’s friend with the weird name. It was easier for him to call her Noodle, but somehow, that felt a bit insulting. She had a sniper rifle snug against her and long-range binoculars pressed to her eyes.

“What’ve you got?” Sam asked quietly, waiting for his turn.

She handed over the nocs. “Two armed guards walking the boat. Four passengers inside—the Stoffels and Batsakis plus one.”

Sam verified what she reported with his own assessment. He lowered the binoculars and stared out with his bare eyes, unable to see anything but the glint of moonlight off the dark sea. “You can take out the patrols.”

“Can, but won’t,” she said, her voice sweet, soft, and confident.

Sam glanced at her.

She met his gaze, looked away, then jerked her gaze back. “If I hit him from this distance, there won’t be much left of his chest or head. If I do that, they’ll know it was long-range, and every boat in the area will be searched.”

Sam nodded. “Good, good.”

“What?”

“Thinking it through.” He sighed, his mind whiplashing back to two nights ago when he volunteered for this gig. “How many were on your team?”

Nuala glanced down. “You know I can’t answer that.”

“Can you answer why Ashland hates me?”

“Oh, she doesn’t hate you,” Nuala said. “In fact, I’d just about say she loved you with the way she doesn’t want you out here.”

“That makes no sense. Explain that to me.”

Nuala smiled. “You have a lot to learn about women.”

“Apparently.” He borrowed the nocs again and stared at the yacht he’d board in the next hour. “She makes out with me like a fiend one night, then the next time we see each other, I’d swear she’d rather kill me.”

“She doesn’t want to kill you,” Nuala said softly. “She wants you alive.”

Sam considered her with a sigh. “I’m going to guess something really bad went down with your team.”

Her wide, pale eyes came to his. “Why would you say that?”

“Because both of you said the same thing. That tells me there’s probably a pretty significant loss that occurred for her to think she has to protect a Navy SEAL and for you to believe that’s what she’s doing.”

The roof of the wheelhouse banged, his signal from Leo that they were in position and ready. Sam clambered down and paused at the rail, watching the waves that churned beneath the ultrafast patrol boat, but his mind was on the mission. Getting onboard the yacht without being detected. Retrieving the necessary information. Returning to the dive prop, which would get him back to the boat and Annie.

She hadn’t spoken much to him since he ignored her protests regarding his doing this. What would it take to convince her this was what he did, that she didn’t need to protect him, that he’d do this and more just for her? Just to convince her of his feelings for her.

He glanced at the gear he’d already prepped and checked. The vest, the regulator, the tank valve, the air pressure. All good. Any number of things could go wrong with a water insertion, but this is what he knew better than anything.

Two men, associates of his Navy buddy who owned this boat, emerged from the wheelhouse. Leo, the older, balding diver, nodded. “Harry said it’s time.”

Fins on, Sam shouldered into the vest, hoisting the tank onto his back. Leo double-checked his weight belt for right-hand release, tangles, and trapped equipment, as Sam verified the coms device strapped to his arm. He’d relay information through that to the team during the mission.

Leo patted his shoulder, giving Sam the okay. Strapped to his leg, his gun would provide an extra layer of assurance should he get into trouble. Sitting on the side of the boat, Sam reached for his mask.

Annie’s white-blond hair anchored his attention to where she stood. The interior lights of the wheelhouse behind her haloed around her curls. They needed to have a talk. About this whole mess. About them. About the future.

But did she even want that?

Arms wrapped around her midsection, she eased away from the safety of that lit area and stepped into his darkness. A kiss for good luck? Is that what she was coming to do?

“You don’t have to prove anything,” she said softly—but loud enough to be heard over the ripping wind and the engine noise.

Sam gave a snort. “I’m not
proving
anything.” He took hold of her waist, pulling her closer. “This is what I do. I’m a SEAL. I dive.”

“You got out.”

“I contract now. You know that.”

“But this,” she said, hesitating. “What you’re involved in is crazy dangerous, Sam. Those people will kill you if they catch you.”

He couldn’t help the grin, squeezing the hold he had on her waist and tugging her closer. “Most enemies will.”

She scowled at him.

“Annie, if you expected me to just be a doting house-husband, you picked the wrong guy.”

“I never expected—that’s not—” Her nostrils flared.

Sam smiled. “There’s a lot of mystery surrounding your past, and if you aren’t going to let me in, then I can’t establish my place. Especially if you want me to be some weak-kneed—”

“I want you
alive
.”

“What happened back then, Annie? What did this to you, made you terrified of caring about someone because they’ll die?”

She visibly flinched and snapped her gaze down. “This is wrong. It’s not your fight.”

“Are you dive qualified?”

She pressed her lips together.

“Are either of your handlers dive qualified?”

She flared her nostrils again.

“And your team members?”

“Sam, this isn’t fair.”

“That’s how I felt when you walked out of my life the night I kissed you.”

“I had no choice.”

“We always have a choice, Ash.” He cringed, the nickname he’d grown fond of wasn’t even really her name. “And my choice is to make this dive because it will help you.”

“We
don’t
know that. It’s not clear-cut.”

“Life doesn’t have guarantees, I get that. But if this can cut the anchors from your life that have held you back, scared you from making good on what I see in your eyes when you look at me, then it’s worth it.”

“There’s more at stake than whether I’ve slept with you.”

Stunned, Sam winged up his eyebrows. “Never said anything of the sort.”

Annie stepped back. “You shouldn’t be doing this. It’s our mess—my team’s,” she said. “I don’t want you dying for a mistake we made.”

That was interesting. “What mistake?”

Annie let her hand fall away. “
This.
Trace and Boone letting you do this.” No. . .no, that wasn’t the mistake she meant, but she’d covered her real intention with a well-placed lie. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“You want me to leave?” When she didn’t say anything, Sam tensed. “You were okay with me being a SEAL back in Manson.”

“Back in Manson, we were safe.”

“Is that what you call that sniper?”

“Don’t twist my words.”

“You’re doing a pretty good job of that yourself.” Even as he sat there, powerless as she grew angrier with each word they spoke, Sam wondered if he’d made a mistake to find her.

“Time,” Leo shouted from the door of the wheelhouse.

Eyes on Annie, who moved away from him, her expression livid, Sam slipped in his regulator then shoved over the back of the boat. He had to end that conversation because things were shifting southward fast. If they’d kept talking, Annie would’ve ended up mad. He would’ve been, too.

The water cocooned him and dragged him down. He righted himself and kicked back to the surface. Leo leaned over, setting the dive propulsion vehicle in the water. Sam gave a thumbs-up, indicating his gear was fine. After one more look to Annie—he saw her return to the wheelhouse—he caught the prop, released the tether, and rolled onto it. He aimed it downward, once more enveloped by the water. The Fusion dry suit not only kept him dry but eliminated unnecessary drag as he drove the two miles toward the yacht.

Annie and Boone would wait for him on the patrol boat with Leo and his crew. They’d monitor his position and progress but remain a safe distance away so they didn’t alert or alarm the
Aegean Mercy
. As he closed in on the luxury ship, Sam tethered the prop to the underbelly, removed his regulator, then swam to the stern. Slow and with as much incredible stealth so he barely disturbed the water, Sam eased upward. He let his forehead break the surface only until he could see. On the water, even with the lights moderately dimmed, the ship seemed well lit. He eased up to the yacht’s swim ladder and took hold. Awareness spread through him of being alone. Of not having his team, his SEAL brothers working in unison and synchronicity. One shooting, another catching the target before he hit the water or ground. Softening the landing.

Sam hauled himself up over the back and crouched. As he pushed himself upright, he heard the thump of the guard’s boots. Sam shoved himself down, waiting. The guard came right past where he crouched, yawning, and started away.

Aiming, Sam sent a drugged dart into the guy’s neck. The guard stumbled and Sam rushed up behind him, catching him before he could make a loud noise. He eased him to the deck and rushed on, toward the front, where he knew the other guard should be. Spine against the hull, he slid toward the bow. Peeked out. Spotted the guy sitting on a padded bench, smoking a cigarette.

Sam steadied his breathing and stepped out. Fired a dart straight into the guy’s neck, just like the first one.

Only, the guard had lifted his hand. Accidentally deflected the dart.

Confusion bled into the man’s face as he stared at the feathered tail sticking out of his hand. In a split second, he went from a frown to alarm. He punched to his feet with a strangled shout.

Sam fired another dart. And a third. But the man was punch-drunk on adrenaline now. The dart would take longer. Sam rushed him, knowing he had to silence him or the whole mission was shot.

Eyes wide, the man shoved away from Sam. Drew a weapon. Aimed.

Seconds took on the weight of death.

Sam knew the guy would shoot him before he could.

“Do you have the shot?”

A golf ball–sized lump lodged in Annie’s throat. She couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t breathe. Sam wore a shoulder-mounted camera so she and Boone could see in real time what was happening. Right now he was staring down the barrel of a weapon.

“I have joy,” came Nuala’s unnaturally calm voice.

“Take the shot.”

Annie held her breath, her gaze tempting her to look to the roof where Nuala lay nested for high, unobstructed vision.
C’mon, c’mon.
Time felt anchored in death, waiting for the kill shot.

“Target down,” Nuala said quietly even as Annie watched the guy tumble over the side of the boat.

She covered her mouth as Sam rushed to the rail.

“Copy,” Boone said. “Moving to a safe distance.”

The patrol boat eased away from the yacht, so they wouldn’t be seen but close enough to help Sam if trouble reared its ugly head again. Annie remained focused on Sam and what he was seeing.

“Houston, you reading us?”

“Loud and clear.” Houston’s voice came through as if he sat in the galley, not in a country across the Atlantic. “The feed is a bit grainy, but it’ll do.”

Most likely Trace, the Lorings, and Téya were watching via the live feed as well. Trace had opted out of going, saying he had commitments to take care of. What could be more important than the mission at hand? Than clearing Zulu’s name? Truth was, Annie was mad at him. For not coming. For sending Sam. For confusing the tar out of her with that near kiss on the plane. What was she supposed to do with that?

She cared deeply for Sam. Had they been given the chance, she might’ve loved him—maybe. She didn’t know.

Trace, on the other hand, she
had
loved. Maybe she still did. She didn’t know.

That was just it—she didn’t know what she felt. And having Sam in front of her only mangled things. Made it harder to sort out. She ached for that night on her deck overlooking Wapato Lake. Things were simple then. She was falling in love. He loved her back. For the first time in years, she felt like the sun had found her once more.

“He’s in,” Boone said.

Annie straightened, her mind whipping back to the present. To the black-and-white feed with Sam easing down a narrow hall on the yacht. They would maintain radio silence as much as possible while he was onboard. That luxury boat had more technology and satellites spinning than they had at the bunker.

“Copy,” Houston said. “I’m in the yacht’s security system.” Thanks to a transmitter Sam had on him. “Baby, what I wouldn’t do for a ship like this. Then again, I’d go for a super-yacht—”

“Houston.” Trace’s impatience was evident.

Relief filled Annie as quiet once more fell over the mission. Strange, deafening silence. They couldn’t hear anything Sam heard or did, but they could see it. Making his way down a narrow corridor—weren’t they all narrow on a ship?—Sam moved decisively and stealthily. At a corner, he slowed, the camera seeming to hesitate on a dark-paneled wall. Then he went left. The angle swung around and Sam was in a small, tight room. The office. Which seemed more like a small walk-in closet than an office. But the wall of books and the glass desk verified the setting.

Hands gloved, Sam searched the desk. Ran his hands along the edges. Turned to the wall of shelves.

Annie’s palms grew sweaty, thinking of how much time he was in there. The minutes falling off the clock, each one more opportunity for someone to wake up and discover him. What was taking him so long?

“There’s no computer,” Houston said, practically reading her mind.

No computer? That was the whole point of the mission, for him to install the USB that would upload Houston’s program.

“He needs to find at least a laptop or get to the engine room.”

“Engine room?”

“That ship has a lot of technology. Something has to be driving it. Maybe we can find something for him to plug into there.”

“Okay, all quiet. I’m going to tell him,” Trace said. “Squid, Lighthouse.”

“Copy,” came Sam’s deep but quiet voice. He moved to a wall and angled the camera around. “You see my problem?”

“Roger.”

“Going below. Looking for portable device.”

Annie glanced at Boone. “Portable?”

“Laptop.”

“Negative,” Trace ordered. “Stay—”

But Sam was still moving out of the office and now headed for a set of stairs. “He’s not listening,” Annie muttered, her stress level skyrocketing. Stomach clenched, she covered her mouth.

“Squid, you are ordered—”

Sam stopped. Lifted the camera and shone it on his face. “Trust me.”

Silence gaped, and while Annie’s heart thundered in protest, she had a feeling Trace’s was probably doing the same. If Sam was caught or got hurt. . .or died. . .

She turned away, sick at the thought of anything happening to him.

“Ten mikes.”

Without another word, Sam reattached the camera and proceeded down the hall. Darkness pressed in on the camera, gray and white graininess that felt more like the
Blair Witch Project
than an orchestrated mission. Shadows tested her ability to make out anything and forced Annie to hold her breath with each step Sam took.

“Bedroom,” Houston whispered, apparently feeling the strain of seeing Sam open a door.

Annie covered her mouth, but not before she sucked in a breath.

Boone slid a glance toward her but didn’t meet her gaze before refocusing on the feed. “He only has three darts left, if I’ve counted right.”

Three darts. But four passengers. Annie’s breath climbed up into her throat. “But he has his weapon,” Annie said. Hoping that would be enough. “He knows what he’s doing.” Her words had conviction she didn’t feel. But she was right. Sam
did
know, had been trained to do this.

“He better.” Boone shifted in his seat and cracked his knuckles. He keyed his mic. “Noodle, stay alert.”

“Roger.”

None of it comforted Annie.

Sam slid into a room, darkness harboring the passengers. Though thermal imaging showed two forms, there was no telling if it was the Stoffels or Batsakis.

But Sam must’ve noticed something because he backed out and closed the door. He moved deeper into the darkness. Swells of light along the corridor only made the feed wash out then back in, rather than lighting the passage. It might, for Sam, be working out okay, but every blinding glare knotted her stomach.

He neared another room, light glowing around the partially open door. Sam’s hand reached into view to push it open.

Suddenly, he swung in the opposite direction.

Sam’s weapon snapped up at a dark form. Movement blurred.

Annie’s pulse flung through the roof. “What happened?”

Attention rapt, Boone watched silently. The video answered her question when they could make out Sam hauling a body back into a room. He shifted and turned, and Annie caught a reflection—Sam’s reflection.
Bathroom.
He moved backward and closed the door. Someone had come out of a bathroom and Sam had tranqed her.

“Two darts,” Boone muttered, counting down the number of tranquilizers left.

“He’s fine,” she said. “He’s fine.” Somehow saying it twice gave her little comfort. It was ridiculous to worry like this. Sam was a SEAL. They endured brutal training, far more rigorous than what Trace put her and the rest of Zulu through. Sam had probably carried out innumerable missions that she could never know about. This was probably a walk in the park for him.

The camera panned and Sam entered the room he’d reached before knocking the woman out with the tranq. She imagined the door creaking as he opened it. The soft pad of his feet, soundless with his training. Sam moved toward the bed where a man lay partially propped up with a pillow beneath his head. Beside him, a woman slept on her side.

Sam eased around the room and moved in deeper. Farther from the exit. Closer to trouble.

The camera angled toward the bedside table.
There!
Her heart jogged in her chest at the sight of a laptop sitting there. The camera went lower and lower, the room seeming to shrink.
He’s sitting.
But why?

“What is he doing?” Boone asked, his voice quiet and thoughtful.

“Sitting,” Annie muttered.

“Why is he sitting?”

Annie flicked Boone, urging him to be quiet. Truth be told, she had no idea why Sam was sitting. What if he wasn’t
sitting
? What if something had happened to him in the hall with the bathroom lady? What if he was injured?

“Annie,” Houston’s voice crackled through the coms, making her jump.

She turned away, her hands trembling. “What?”

“He plugged the USB in, but the laptop’s not on. Tell him to power it on.”

“How do you know he did that?”

“The USB sent a signal, but it’s stalling.”

Annie nodded to Boone, who sat up and leaned toward the monitor, keying his mic. “Squid, this is Lighthouse.”

Two staticky taps. He couldn’t talk. That was Sam’s signal that he heard Boone.

“Bunker needs power.”

Chewing her thumbnail, Annie waited. Would Sam understand what that meant? It felt like minutes ticked by without a response.

“Maybe he didn’t—”

Two staticky taps.

She blew out a breath and watched as the camera seemed to jiggle. A hand stretched out, then froze. And beyond it, Annie saw the man shifting in his sleep. Turning over. Turning into the direction of the camera.

Annie held her breath, willing the man to stay asleep.

“He’s running out of time,” Boone said.

Sam’s hand extended farther. His fingers pried open the laptop. Another inch. Sam must be huddled in the corner, out of sight, but within reach of the nightstand.

“Why doesn’t he just take it?” Annie silently begged him to get out of there.

“Number of reasons,” Boone said. “If Batsakis wakes up and finds it gone, he’ll know someone messed with it.”

“He could unplug it and bring it back.”

“Greater chance of getting caught.”

“What if the laptop is dead?” Annie asked.

“That would be a problem.”

Sam eased closer, pressed a button.

Light exploded from the laptop, the screen coming to life apparently. It illuminated the man’s face. Batsakis grimaced in his sleep, slapped the laptop shut, then rolled over in the other direction.

Annie shook her head. “It’s still on, though. Right?”

Boone shrugged.

“We’re good,” Houston spoke through the coms. “The program is uploading. Just a few more minutes.”

But even as the words were spoken, Annie saw the shape of Batsakis shift again. His feet swung over the edge of the bed. Frozen, wondering if Sam would be discovered, Annie stared. Gripped Boone’s shoulder.

The camera edged away. Slowly. Very slowly.
Too slowly.
Even as Batsakis, head down, and scratching his bare chest, made his way across the room, the camera angle darkened. Light exploded through the room again, then collapsed as a door was shut.

Bathroom. “He’s in the bathroom.”

Sam had a minute, three at most.

“How much longer?” Annie asked, bending forward, as if gripping the monitor would give her more control over this situation. Give her a better chance of getting Sam back safely. “C’mon, Sam, c’mon. Move. . .”

But Sam seemed to be investigating. Looking around.

Annie’s stomach squeezed. She felt sick.
Get out of there, Sam.

And then he was in motion. He retrieved the USB and went for the door.

But brightness flooded the hall.

Bouncing hard, the camera went jerky. Bobbing rapidly. Up and down.

“What. . .what’s happening?”

It went down and right suddenly. Then seemed to scan the floor, then veered up and blurred.

“What’s going on?” Annie asked, her voice more frantic.

“Easy, easy,” Boone said, though his tone didn’t comfort her. “He’s just moving fast. Job’s done. He’s getting out of there.”

“Oh. . .” Annie didn’t buy it. Was she worrying for nothing? But he was still racing up the stairs. Across the living area. “He’s not slowing down.”

“Guys,” Houston said. “Guys, he’s got company.”

“What do you mean?” Boone came out of his chair.

“Another yacht is on approach.”

Annie stayed glued to the camera feed. He’d almost made it to the top level. He was in a dead run. He ducked to one side, coming to a quick stop. The camera wobbled up and down. He shifted outward, and the camera swept the darkness and revealed a boat coming alongside.

Men were hopping over the rail onto the
Aegean Mercy
.

Sam sprinted toward the front. Skidded to a stop. The camera took in the full form of Titus Batsakis with a weapon. He aimed it at Sam.

Annie froze.

A tiny burst of light.

Then blackness.

Wait. No, not blackness.
Stars!
Annie’s mind aligned the camera with Sam’s body. Realized he would have to be lying down to get that angle of the starry sky. Which meant. . .he was flying backward.