The Cessna’s buzzing intensified as the plane swooped in for the drop. The team used the distraction to spread out and execute their tasks.
She and Johansson moved to the stern stairwell. If Papa was on board, he’d probably be kept guarded in one of the cabins belowdecks.
They padded down the stairs with measured steps. Six Quantum team members, twenty-four dedicated crew, and likely ten hostiles. As in FATS—firearm training simulator—drills, they’d have to determine in seconds if the people they came across were friend or foe.
Pale yellow light from an overhead bulb cast a sickly glow in the narrow hallway. The group inched forward to the first room. Thea eased open the steel door. Empty. She signaled Johansson, and they crept down the hall.
A sound. Scratching. Moaning. Her father?
Footsteps clattered down the stairs. Her hand tightened on her silenced MP5. She and Johansson ducked into the first room, leaving the door cracked open an inch.
A man dressed in black fatigues strode down the hall, AK-47 in hand. He stopped, listened. Another soft moan. Mr. AK headed for the noise.
They had to neutralize him quickly. She nodded to Johansson.
Chapter Twenty-One
Rif and Jean-Luc crept along the deck toward the heliport. This operation had been designed on the fly because of the tight time line. Three teams executing three different missions simultaneously meant three opportunities for fuck-ups. But oddly, the riskier the situation, the calmer Rif became. And the upside was, they still hadn’t been detected by the kidnappers.
Even so, the deck was a covert operator’s nightmare. Open and expansive, it left very few places to hide as they moved toward the helipad. Large pipes spanned the length of the deck, sectioning off the starboard side. They squatted low, scanning the area before moving forward into the night.
Several loud thumps kick-started Rif’s pulse. The waterproof containers holding the ransom landed on the unforgiving deck as the Cessna buzzed by. They had to move quickly. Once the kidnappers confirmed the funds were enclosed, they’d load the containers into an incoming boat or the helicopter and take off.
Two soft beeps sounded in his earpiece. Team two, Brown and Stewart, identifying themselves. He waited. Three more beeps. Excellent. They’d rigged the pipes so the kidnappers couldn’t leak oil into the sea. A temporary fix, but at least they’d neutralized that threat.
One mission down, two to go. The timing was critical. He didn’t want to cause any commotion before Thea and Johansson had thoroughly searched the tanker. Hard to say whether Christos would be on board. It would’ve been easy enough to transport him from the Aphrodite to the Damocles in a Bell 206, but the billionaire could also be secreted in a faraway country by now. The whiplash turnaround of the ransom demand left little room for negotiation or investigation. Rif had been involved in enough of these operations to know that the kidnappers’ tactics were rare and concerning.
With their job done, Brown and Stewart would be joining the search for Christos. Time to disable the ship’s helicopter. He inched forward. Two dark shadows paced beside the Bell 206. Guards. Rif signaled to Jean-Luc.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Down below, Thea cracked open the stateroom’s door again so they could scan the passageway. A slight squeak from the hinges echoed in the eerie silence. The gunman turned, his AK-47 ready for action. Johansson fingered the trigger on his silenced MP5, firing three quick bullets into the man’s torso. He collapsed in a heap.
They dragged the corpse into the empty room and closed the door. She grabbed the kidnapper’s radio in case he received a transmission from the men on the bridge.
Another groan. They moved down the hall and positioned themselves on either side of the door.
She signaled to Johansson with her free hand. He grabbed the handle and turned. She entered first, MP5 raised. Her gaze landed on a bound and gagged man in uniform. Blood from a head wound dripped down his face.
Captain Magnusson. She fought off disappointment. Removing the captain’s gag, she undid the ropes binding his hands and feet while Johansson shielded them from the doorway.
“Ms. Paris, what are you doing on board?” Magnusson asked.
“We’re here to help.” Her blackened face and hands must be disconcerting.
The captain wiped blood from his eyes. “After we spoke, they beat me and locked me in here.”
“Ten men, right?”
“All armed to the gills with Kalashnikovs, machetes.”
“Is my father on board?”
“He wasn’t with them when they boarded.”
Her gut twisted. “What language do they speak?”
“Spanish.”
Weird. Even though over sixty percent of kidnaps took place in Latin America, the Damocles was currently off the coast of Greece—far, far away from the usual kidnapping hotbeds of Mexico, Colombia, and Venezuela.
“Do you know where they’re holding the crew?”
“Sorry, no idea.”