Surrender at Dawn (3 page)

She smiled up at him and stepped into the boat.

Jack checked the GPS on his watch. He was just where he wanted to be, and only a few minutes behind schedule. He took another look through the night-vision binoculars before turning and handing them to Charlotte, who was seated beside him on the narrow wooden seat.

“Here, have a look.”

She lifted the binos to her face as he glanced around for landmarks. They’d motored their way to within two miles of the island, and then Jack had cut the engine and rowed, to minimize sound. They’d been going against the current, and now he was covered with sweat and had a good dose of adrenaline pumping through his veins.

“You see the guards?” he asked her.

“Where?”

“There’s one on the beach, leaning up against a palm tree. Another pair is positioned near the Quonset hut at the top of the hill.”

“Okay, I see them,” she said. “What does it mean for your plan?”

“The man on the beach looks asleep. The two men on the hill are conducting a patrol. Which tells me there’s something in that hut up there worth guarding.”

“You think it’s Davey?” she asked, and he heard the hope in her voice.

“Possibly,” he said. Though not likely. Charlotte had shown Jack a photo of her brother. The man wasn’t exactly a bodybuilder, so it should have been no problem for Chanarong’s men to keep him in check, even if he wanted to leave. Jack felt pretty sure those guards were more about keeping people out than in.

“Look again at the shoreline,” Jack said. “The rest of the activity is concentrated in two buildings down on the beach, near the boat docks. I’m guessing that’s where Chanarong is, assuming he’s on the island.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Two generators and a satellite dish. He’s got power, television, access to boats. It looks a lot more comfortable than that hut on top of the hill.”

Charlotte lifted the binoculars again. She sighed quietly, and the little female sound tugged at him. She was worried. And scared. For the past hour, she’d been practically vibrating with nerves.

She turned to look at him. “How well do you know Mark Colter?” she asked.

“Well enough. Why?”

“Because this is an incredible amount of trouble to go to as a favor for an Army buddy.”

“Navy,” he said, taking the binoculars. “And anyway, I don’t think of it as trouble. I’d swim through shark infested waters for that guy,” Jack said. He had, in fact.

“That’s crazy.”

“That’s the way it works in the teams. He’d do the same for me.”

She paused, digesting this. The SEAL code was hard for most civilians to understand.

“If you feel so strongly about it, why did you quit?”

“I didn’t.” He stowed the binoculars under the seat.

“But why--”

“Injury,” he said, and left it at that. He didn’t really want to talk about how he’d shattered his knee falling off a mountain in Afghanistan. He didn’t want to talk about how even after three surgeries, he’d never be the same, and how he’d chosen to leave the teams rather than be the weak link that someday, somewhere got one of his teammates killed. He never discussed that part of his past with anyone, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to discuss it now, with Charlotte Whiteside, while he needed to be prepping for an op.

Jack rummaged through his bag, inventorying gear: SIG Sauer 9mm, ammo, knife, radio. He tossed a couple extra flashbangs into his pack just for good measure. Then he stripped off his T-shirt and pulled his fins on over his coral boots.

“You’re swimming from
here
?”

He glanced at Charlotte. It was too dim to see her face well, but he heard the emotion in her voice.

“It’s no big deal.”

“Yeah, right.” She snorted. “A half-mile swim. With all that stuff on your back.”

“Trust me, this is nothing. I once swam twice this distance in forty-degree water carrying a twenty-two-pound haversack full of explosives.”

She went silent at that, and he wasn’t sure whether he’d alleviated her fear or made it worse.

What was it with this woman? He couldn’t remember the last time someone had worried about him, and her concern was getting to him.

Or maybe it was the image he couldn’t get out of his head, the image from this morning. In one of life’s nicer surprises, he’d learned that Charlotte Whiteside liked to sleep in the buff.

“Jack, I’m scared.” She edged closer to him now on the narrow seat. “Maybe we should try this another way. Davey’s never been a strong swimmer.”

“He doesn’t need to swim a stroke.”

“But how can you possibly--”

“Relax.” He took her hand, which he could tell surprised her. “I’ve pulled people out of much worse situations than this. This is going to be fine.”
Provided he’s still alive in there.

Her hand was cool in his, and damp too, which for some reason made him feel good. He’d be willing to bet this woman had never been so terrified in her life. And yet she was sitting here, trusting
him
to do the most important job she’d ever asked of anyone. He planned to do it, too, and it wasn’t just because of Mark.

“Remember what I told you about the radio,” he said. “Silence means you wait for me here, but if I call and give the signal, then I need you to move around to the other side. Stay away from the reef. Just wait for me about fifty yards out.” He dropped her hand and picked up his mask. “And if anything goes
boom
, that means my plan to tiptoe in and out of there is shot to hell, and I’ll need you to meet me at the easiest extraction point possible, which is that strip of beach. You got it?”

“I got it.”

He pulled his backup weapon from his rucksack and folded her hand around the grip. “You ever used a Glock before?”

“No.”

“Just point and shoot,” he said. “No safety. Don’t be afraid to use it.”

He looked at her wide brown eyes and knew that it was a ridiculous thing to say. She was afraid of all of this. But she nodded anyway and put on a brave face--so brave, in fact, that he wanted to kiss her.

Instead, he swung his legs over the side of the raft. “Listen for that radio.”

“Wait.” She caught his arm. And then she kissed
him
. It was an explosive kiss. A bomb blast. Her mouth fused with his and sent a shot of fire straight to his groin. She smelled good. She tasted like heaven and sin rolled into one. And when she finally pulled back, he could barely remember his own name.

He stared at her.

“Come back quick,” she said.

He pulled on his mask and slipped into the water.

In the clear, warm waters of the Andaman Sea, a night swim is a psychedelic experience. Phosphorescent particles swirl around. Fish dart by, leaving little glowing trails in their wake. Jack loved the ocean, and normally it was one of those weird nature shows that he really appreciated. But when embarking on a mission it was fucking distracting.

About forty yards from the shore, he surfaced and filled his lungs. Then it was a straight shot underwater until turbulence told him he’d neared land.

He removed his fins and clipped them to his rucksack, then hit the beach. A sprint across the sand had him concealed in the jungle inside of three seconds.

He crouched at the base of a coconut palm, motionless for a moment as he got his bearings. Noise from the Quonset huts on the shore. The hum of one--no, make it two separate generators. Nothing but silence and shadows behind him.

Jack slipped into the darkness without a sound. The terrain went from flat, to steep, to nearly vertical, and he used branches and tree roots to haul himself up the hillside. There was definitely an easier path to the top, but he wasn’t feeling particularly social tonight, so he’d opted for the steep and solitary route. When he reached the top, he turned north, toward the structure he’d seen from the boat. He moved to the edge of the thicket where he’d be more exposed but less likely to make a sound.

Cigarette smoke drifted over on the breeze, beckoning him directly to the hut where a pair of clowns with AK-47s were talking loudly and sharing a smoke. These guys were strictly amateurs--Jack could tell from the way they held those Kalashnikovs. Their voices provided extra cover as he crept around the building and peered into the sole back window.

A kerosene lamp glowed from the center of the room, atop a table covered with papers. Beside the lantern--looking completely out of place--was a sleek silver laptop computer.

Jack’s gaze skimmed over the chairs and overturned crates scattered across the floor. No hostages stashed in the corners. No inhabitants at all, in fact. What the hell were these guys guarding? But the instant the thought entered his head, he knew. He shifted his position so he could see the part of the wall directly beneath the window.

A narrow bed. And on it, a lump. A pale hand dangled off the edge of the mattress, attached to the bed frame by a handcuff.

He’d located the hostage.

But that wrist didn’t belong to a man.

The lump shifted, and a sneaker peeked out from under the grungy blanket. It was definitely a woman’s shoe, with a lavender Nike swoosh.

Jack gritted his teeth and went through a silent litany of curses.

Okay, change of plan. A female hostage was a no-brainer, but it sure as shit complicated things.

The lump shifted again, and Jack settled on a plan. Good thing he’d skipped the face paint. If he’d bothered to cammy up, he’d no doubt scare the spit out of this girl. He tapped, as lightly as possible, on the window pane.

She bolted upright and turned to face the glass. She had a mane of tangled brown hair, grimy cheeks, and green eyes that had gone wide with terror.

Don’t scream.

Jack flashed a peace sign, followed by the universal signal for
shut the hell up
.

He pointed at the window lock. Fear flitted across her face. She cast a frantic look at the door, then turned back and used her free hand to unlock the window. The pane didn’t want to budge, but Jack used his knife to pry it up. Silently, he slipped into the hut and crouched beside the metal bed.

He motioned again for her to keep it zipped. He didn’t know if she even spoke English, but her rumpled Northwestern University T-shirt and denim cutoffs told him she was most likely American. He made quick work of taking apart the metal bed frame, then slipped off her cuff.

“Can you walk?” he whispered.

She scrambled to her feet in response. He started to pull her to the window, but she jerked her hand away and pointed at the table. Jack followed her across the room and watched as she lifted the corner of the big map and pulled out a pair of passports. She stuffed them into her pocket and crept back toward the window as Jack frowned down at the map.

He recognized the city. And his blood ran cold as he recognized the building circled in red. A metal squeak at the window snapped his attention back to the job at hand. She was getting the hell out of Dodge. Jack rushed over and poked his head outside to check for threats. He helped her through and quickly followed. Then he took her arm and led her into the woods, but she suddenly freaked out and tried to pull away. He kept a grip on her until he knew they were out of earshot.

“We have to go back,” she whispered. “My boyfriend’s back there.”

“Where?” Jack hissed.

“The other hut. The wooden one.” She tugged his arm urgently. “They beat him to a pulp. I think he’s unconscious.”

“What’s his name?”

“David Whiteside.”

Charlotte thought she knew what fear was when Jack had pulled on his scuba mask and left her alone in this dinghy. But that was nothing compared to the raw, stark terror she felt right now as she heard the roar of a boat motor closing in on her. She had no cover, nowhere to hide. She thought about starting the engine and taking off, but the very last thing she wanted to do was tip anyone off to her presence.

She flattened herself against the bottom of the boat and prayed for the moon to stay hidden behind clouds. The noise drew nearer and nearer, and then finally--just when she thought she was about to get run down--the roar receded. The dinghy bobbed over a huge swell, and she knew they’d left her in their wake.

But they were going toward the island.

Charlotte peeked over the side. She groped for the binoculars and peered through them in time to see the motorboat pull up to the dock. The base camp hopped with activity now as newcomers piled off the boat. Six, seven, eight… when she reached twelve, she stopped counting and grabbed the radio.

“Are you there?”

Nothing. She waited. And waited. And her mouth went dry as she watched the men assembling near one of the Quonset huts. They carried big black guns and milled around like some sort of ragtag militia.

“Hello? Bravo, you there?” Still nothing. What was she doing wrong?

“Bravo here.”

“Do
not
, I repeat, do
not
return to the beach.” She clutched the radio in her quivering hand as she surveyed the activity on shore. “There’s a boatload of new arrivals, and they’re heavily armed.”

Silence on the other end.

“Did you hear--”

“Roger that.” He sounded out of breath, like he was running. With a heavy load. “Go to Plan B, over.”

“Plan B.” Plan B was the other side of the island. “I’m there, over.”

Did he have Davey? He must, or he wouldn’t be leaving. She clung to the thought as she scrambled into the seat and picked up the oars. She was too scared to start the engine, at least until she put some distance between herself and that crowd of armed men. She rowed for all she was worth until her shoulders screamed in pain and her arms felt like they were on fire. The current picked up as she neared the tip of the island. Finally, she stashed the oars and found the pull cord Jack had shown her when he’d demonstrated how to start the engine. Just one simple pull….

After the third unsuccessful attempt, she was nearly in tears. She got up off her knees and stood in the middle of the boat. She gripped the handle and took a deep breath. She yanked fiercely, and the engine sputtered to life.