Savage Bay (2 page)

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Tank and Hawkeye slammed into the churning waves. The parachute canopy collapsed around them. The icy water brought Hawkeye back to consciousness as they sank beneath the surface. He opened his eyes as the cold water engulfed the two brothers. The parachute canopy clung to their bodies, weighing them down and blocking their vision.

Hawkeye reached back and slapped Tank’s thigh, hard, letting Tank know that he was back in the game. Tank rapped his fist against Hawkeye’s helmet, returning the greeting.

The impact knocked the wind out of Tank, and his lungs burned, desperate for oxygen. He twisted and kicked his legs, succeeding only in entangling them further in the canopy.

Hawkeye clawed at the nylon parachute, searching frantically for an opening. He was disoriented and couldn’t tell which way was up.

No, no, no.

Then strong hands grabbed each of his arms, lifting Tank and Hawkeye to the surface of the water. Both men gasped for air, pulling the wet parachute fabric from their faces.

Gator dragged the brothers toward the beach.

“Before he passed out, Hawkeye said he may have hypoxia,” said Tank between breaths.

“Dammit,” Gator replied. He cut through Tank’s harness with his knife, freeing the brothers as if he were separating conjoined Siamese twins.

“Help me get him on the beach,” he said.

Tank and Gator dragged Hawkeye out of the surf and laid him on his side. Tank removed Hawkeye’s tactical helmet. Then a voice crackled in their headsets.

“Movement in the tree-line,” said Shooter. “Five hostiles.” 

Shooter watched the approaching figures through her night-vision scope. They were menacing in appearance, wearing dark body armor cut in harsh angles that resembled the skin of a stealth bomber. Each of the commandos wore a helmet with a futuristic-looking visor. They carried a formidable assortment of weapons.   

“Where are they?” asked Tank.

“Three hundred meters west of your position,” she said. “Five targets. No, wait. Make that six. Six heavily-armed hostiles advancing toward the beach.”

THE FIGHT CLUB, IBIZA, SPAIN

18 HOURS BEFORE THE SAVAGE BAY HALO JUMP

Eighteen hours before the Titan Six special ops team parachuted onto Es Vedra Island, Hawkeye was hell bent on punishing both himself and his blood-thirsty opponent in a brutal, no-rules cage fight.

The riotous crowd at The Fight Club in Ibiza, Spain, was screaming for blood. The cavernous room thumped with electronic music that vibrated the walls and shook the floor. Laser lights and swirling mist from fog machines colored the air red, green and blue. In the center of the club, surrounded by terraced platforms packed with throngs of revelers, was the fight cage, illuminated by white spotlights from above.

Hawkeye slowly circled his opponent around the cage, facing off against a Croatian fighter who was taller and heavier by a large margin. The white mat was painted with pink and red stains from the evening’s earlier fights. Hawkeye and the Croatian were the main event, and the crowd was intoxicated with alcohol, drugs, and blood lust.

Hawkeye’s wrists and hands were taped, but he wore no gloves. His body was heavily muscled, but almost impossibly lean, giving sharp definition to the muscles that flexed and bulged beneath his skin. He was bare-chested, and his knuckles and torso were smeared with streaks of red. Most of the blood belonged to the Croatian. Some of it came from a gash on Hawkeye’s jaw.

A deafening cheer erupted from the crowd as the Croatian darted forward to throw a quick jab followed by a right cross that connected soundly with the side of Hawkeye’s head. The Croatian was strong, but slower than Hawkeye, and wasn’t quick enough to avoid the roundhouse kick that slammed into his side.

The Croatian grunted and backpedaled to avoid a second blow. The crowd booed his retreat, then cheered again as Hawkeye advanced and threw a flurry of punches, forcing the Croatian back across the cage.

Left jab.

Left jab.

Right cross.

Most of Hawkeye’s punches deflected off the Croatian’s arms held up in defensive posture to protect his face and head.

Then Hawkeye’s opponent took him by surprise with a front kick to the chest. When the blow struck Hawkeye’s torso, the sound was like a baseball bat smacking against a side of beef. The powerful kick stunned him for a heartbeat and knocked Hawkeye off balance.

The Croatian followed up with a left hook, then a right overhand. Hawkeye bobbed and weaved, avoiding most of the force of the blows.

The crowd became a seamless mass: yelling, screaming, and fist-pumping, surrendering themselves fully to the primal brutality of the blood match.

Hawkeye’s attention was momentarily captured by a face in the front row. It was his younger brother, Tank.

Tank had used his physical bulk to slowly bulldoze his way through the crowd, finally reaching the front row at the side of the cage.

Tank locked eyes with Hawkeye.

The brothers had not spoken in nearly three months. Before Hawkeye could even begin to contemplate how Tank had found him at The Fight Club, or why he had come, the Croatian roared and charged forward, throwing wild haymakers.

Hawkeye bobbed and ducked to evade the punches and dropped into a semi-crouch. The Croatian was close-in now and threw a shovel hook that landed hard on Hawkeye’s abdomen. A second punch pounded Hawkeye’s torso above his right kidney.

Hawkeye reeled with the force of the blows. Pain shot through his abdomen, and his knees threatened to buckle.

A left cross landed on Hawkeye’s jaw, snapping his head back. The Croatian’s next punch missed, but was quickly followed by a jab that split the skin over Hawkeye’s left eye.

Emboldened, the Croatian drew back to launch another haymaker. Ignoring his pain, Hawkeye spotted an opening between the Croatians upraised fists. He took a step forward, nearly colliding with his opponent, then slammed his head forward into the Croatian’s face.

The top of Hawkeye’s skull connected against the Croatian’s forehead with a loud crack. The Croation bellowed in pain and rage.

Hawkeye seized the momentary advantage. He pivoted on his right foot, spun in a tight circle, and brought a backfist hard against the side of the stunned Croatian’s head.

Tank yelled frantically from outside the cage. “Get in there, Hawkeye!  Finish him!” 

The crowd raged in frenzy, surging against the cage. The Croatian roared again, throwing out a meaty arm to fend off Hawkeye’s close-quarter assault. His sheer bulk pushed Hawkeye back a half-step. The Croatian threw a punch blindly, trying to force Hawkeye to cut off his attack.

Hawkeye met the blow with a hammer fist, bringing it down hard on the Croatian’s wrist. He cried out in pain.  

But the Croatian wasn’t finished. He was a veteran fighter, and his stamina and endurance exceeded that of most men. Summoning all his strength, the Croatian charged at Hawkeye. He took the full force of Hawkeye’s defensive punches before the two fighters collided.

The Croatian shot forward in a takedown move, trying to use his greater weight to force Hawkeye to the ground.

Hawkeye grabbed the Croatian’s neck between his forearms, then sprawled his legs out behind him to keep the Croatian from forcing him to the mat. He pivoted his body, turning into the Croatian’s momentum, keeping him off balance.

Tank roared from the sideline, beating his fists against the metal cage.

Hawkeye cocked his right knee. Then he pulled the Croatian’s head down with his arms, using his opponent’s momentum to draw him forward. Hawkeye brought his knee up hard, slamming it into  the Croatian’s face.

His knee shattered the Croatian’s nose. Blood poured from his nostrils, spattering red streaks across the white mat. The spectators went wild, drowning out the music in The Fight Club with deafening cheers and cries.  

And then the fight was over. The Croatian crashed to the mat like a fallen tree trunk, knocked out cold. Hawkeye raised his fists in victory and roared in triumph like a victorious gladiator, playing to the madness of the crowd.

. . .

Tank and Hawkeye sat alone in the makeshift locker room in the basement of The Fight Club. Hawkeye slowly unwrapped the tape from his hands and wrists. Tank sat opposite his brother on a wooden bench. The thumping bass of house music echoed from the club above. The air reeked of stale beer and sweat.

“Is this what you’ve been doing for three months?” asked Tank.

“Some of it,” said Hawkeye. “I’ve also been drinking quite a lot.”

“You look like hell. I’ll bet you’ve lost twenty pounds.”

“Doesn’t seem to hurt me in the cage, though, does it?” said Hawkeye as he peeled the last of the tape from his wrists and squeezed it into a ball.

“You know what your problem is?” asked Tank.

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Look, I’m not here to lecture you, or tell you that you’re being a complete ass - ”

“Well, that certainly is a relief,” interrupted Hawkeye.

“Look, we have a big problem,” continued Tank, ignoring Hawkeye’s sarcastic comment.

“We?”

“Yes, we,” said Tank. “And before you say it, yes, I know you’re on leave. Although I think its been entirely too long already.”

Hawkeye frowned and shook his head.

“You were there, Tank,” he said. “You saw what happened. Because of me, Touchdown will never walk again. I was responsible. It was my mistake. I’m not ready to come back. Not yet.”

“Why not?  So you can punish yourself some more by getting the shit kicked out of you in these cage fights?  Do you think you deserve this?  Is that it?”

“Maybe I do deserve it. Maybe this is my penance.”

“Does this make you happy?  Cage fighting?”

“It doesn’t make me sad.”

“Listen to me. The story you’re playing back over and over in your head about that night is not reality. You’ve warped your memories with your guilt. I want you to hear me:  when we raided that ship and took it back from those Somali pirates, no one knew it would go bad. What happened to Touchdown was an accident. Just bad luck. It had nothing to do with you.”

“It was my command,” said Hawkeye. “My responsibility.” 

“That doesn’t make it your fault. Touchdown doesn’t blame you. No one blames you. But that’s not the point.”

“What
is
the point then?”

“The point is there’s something more important happening. Look, there’s been an incident,” said Tank. “Caine sent me to find you. To bring you back to Titan Six.”

“You’re fully capable of leading Titan Six while I’m gone,” said Hawkeye. “And if you don’t want to do it, Titan Global employs four thousand of the world’s best ex-military operatives. Hell, it’s the world’s largest private military contractor. I’ll come back eventually, but not now. Not yet. I’m not ready.”

“I can command Titan Six. I’ve lead the team on three covert ops while you’ve been screwing around here in Ibiza, beating the holy hell out of these amateurs. At least when you’re capable of fighting on the nights you’re not drinking yourself into a stupor.”

“You were saying something about not lecturing me, I believe?”

“Fine. But listen. This is different. This is not a regular operation. Caine needs the best. And the best is Titan Six.”

Hawkeye sighed and threw the bloody towel hanging around his neck to the floor. He rose to his feet, pacing across the locker room.

“Caine’s daughter, Dominique, is missing,” said Tank.

Hawkeye stopped and looked up. “What?”

“She’s missing. For almost eighteen hours now.”

“What do you mean
missing
?” asked Hawkeye.

“Missing. As in Dominique Caine is not present. As in
we can’t find her
. Got it?”

“I’m listening.”

“Dominique is the project manager at a research facility called Savage Bay. It’s operated by Triad Genomics, one of Caine’s biotech companies. Do you know it?”

“I’ve heard of it,” said Hawkeye. “Genetics. Real high-tech stuff.”

“Right. Eighteen hours ago, Cain lost contact with Savage Bay. The whole facility went dark. No communications. The whole place just went silent.”

“Eighteen hours?”

“Yes,” said Tank. “We have no idea what’s happened, but it’s difficult to imagine a scenario that isn’t horribly bad.  So Caine is sending in a covert ops team. Titan Six. And she wants you to lead us.”

Hawkeye nodded, considering the gravity of what Tank had told him.

“You’re the best, Hawkeye. You always have been. Titan Six can survive without you, but we’re not at our best without
you
in command.”

“Tank, you’re just as -- ”

Tank held up a hand. “Stop. This is come-to-Jesus time. Don’t blow sunshine up my ass. I know I’m good. But you’re better.”

Hawkeye nodded.

“Caine needs you,” said Tank. “We owe her everything. She brought us in on the ground floor of Titan Global. She let us build the Titan Six team on
our
terms. Gave us virtually unlimited resources. We turned Titan Six into the best covert ops team on the planet. Governments around the world pay millions for our help in times of crisis. But now Caine needs
your
help.”

Hawkeye balled up his right fist and slammed it into a metal locker. He was silent for a moment, then turned back to Tank.

“Okay,” Hawkeye said. “I’ll come back.”

Tank smiled and clapped him on the shoulder.

“I knew you’d do the right thing,” he said. “But the clock is ticking. We need to leave right now. Is there anything you need to get form your apartment?”

“No,” said Hawkeye. “Nothing I can’t replace.”

“I’ve got a helicopter at the airport five minutes from here. But we have one stop to make first before we head back to the Ops Center. There’s someone else that’s essential to the operation. We have to go pick her up. I think you know her.  Isabella Cruz.

Hawkeye rolled his eyes. “Yes, we’re . . . acquainted.”

“Cruz is staying at a resort town in southern Spain. Not far by air.”

“Wait a minute,” said Hawkeye. “She doesn’t know we’re coming to get her, does she?”

Tank grinned. “No,” he replied. “She most certainly does not.”