She said, "It's not going to be pretty. There is no shame in backing out."

  "This is about Adder's kid, right?"

  "That's right."

  "What they do to one of us, they do to all of us. Now shut up and put it on. I've got some more toys here. And then we should probably get going."

  Cora was nodding. She said, "According to the woman back on that yacht, we have about another day until the girls at the compound are shipped out overseas. If that happens," she shook her head, "I'm not sure if we will ever see them again."

  And so, with quick motions, Cora pulled off her outer layer and put on the bulletproof vest. Then, returning her shirt, she accepted a new clip of ammunition and a tactical belt from which dangled two grenades. She took the flash bang from her own bag, attaching it to the belt; the two of them worked in grim silence, handing items and withdrawing as if they had been practicing the motions.

  They had gone on more than one mission together in the past. And in a way, the scent of saltwater on the air, it felt like the old days.

  This time, though, she wondered if they would make it out alive. She shivered at the thought. What if Johnny was shot? What if she failed Caitlin?

  Then again, questions like that didn't have good answers.

  No, it was far better to focus on the positive.

  In, out. The two of them against an army.

  Things would have to go their way, but at least they had the element of surprise. Two of them trained, SEALs with significant combat experience.

  They couldn't afford to take the enemy lightly, though.

  Their lives depended on it. Caitlin Johnson's life, and her entire future, depended on it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  Caitlin stood trembling, her arms prickling, goosebumps along her back. She wore a red dress cut at the knee. She could still smell the soap in her hair, where she had been told to clean and prepare.

  This was a far more comfortable outfit and atmosphere than her sprint through the jungle; now, she wore shoes, makeup, and perfume.

  Now, she had a belly satiated with food.

  And yet her current horror was far greater than what she had experienced back in the jungle, fleeing armed men.

  She stood in front of a room full of men.

  Older men with leering faces. Many of them dressed ostentatiously. The scent of alcohol lingered heavily on the air. Other women, also wearing red dresses, moved through the room, carrying drinks to various clients.

  The men all sat in a sort of theater arrangement.

  Caitlin stood on a wooden stage, shifting uncomfortably, watching one of the soldiers who had dragged her from the jungle.

  This man, with a thick beard and one pale eye, was addressing the others in the room, speaking a language she didn't understand.

  He had a small little gavel in one hand that he tapped against the counter every time he wanted their attention.

  And now, in the spacious room, standing on the stage, feeling more terror than she ever had, she watched as the men raised brochures, or cups, responding to comments made by the bearded soldier.

  In the back of the room, Caitlin had watched as a large man with a double chin and wearing many jeweled rings on his fingers had appeared.

  He was wearing a crimson suit, matching the color of the dresses that the women had been forced to wear.

  The man in the suit was nodding, reading various figures. More than thirty of the patrons, who had been responding to what she could only describe as an auction, had sat up, some had even regained their feet, and nodded in deference towards this newcomer.

  The man in the crimson suit with the jeweled rings moved to a place of honor at the largest seat in the center of the table.

  He smiled at a few of the girls serving drinks, gesturing for them to bring him new refreshments.

  Something about the look in his small eyes made her skin crawl; she had considered making a run for it. But this, she had eventually decided, would be a mistake.

  There were too many men. Soldiers with guns posted at the various doors that led out of the room. She was trapped.

  And the men were still bidding on her.

  The man with the beard gestured at her, frowning. "Sing," he said in English.

  She blinked in surprise.

  He waved at her, and snapped, "Dance, sing!"

  She swallowed slowly, feeling a flush of embarrassment.

  Most of the patrons were laughing, watching her.

  She could sense their arousal at her humiliation. Could sense the lecherous, predatory look in their demonic eyes.

  "Sing now!" snapped the bearded man.

  She hesitated, preparing to refuse. And just then, there was a sound of a loud explosion.

  For a moment, everyone's attention was diverted.

  Caitlin wrinkled her nose, glancing off.

  A few of the soldiers by the doors were pressing fingers to their ears, chattering into their radios.

  The large man in the crimson suit got to his feet now, wearing a look of horror. He was rattling off instructions to another man who was sitting next to him, carrying an AK-47.

  And then, there was the sound of a second explosion.

  Caitlin tensed, watching wide-eyed. Some of the other women in the room shared panicked looks.

  But their fright was nothing compared to the looks of terror on the faces of the patrons. Many of the wealthy, luxuriously dressed men tried to get to their feet, to start moving towards the exit, but the man in the crimson suit started shouting, waving his hands and ushering for them to remain seated.

  Soldiers were now filing towards the exits, weapons at the ready.

  The explosions were getting closer. And then, in the distance, Caitlin heard gunfire.

  This did not elicit the same terror from her that she could see in the faces around her. Rather, she found herself reacting with a surge of hope.

  Anything was better than what she was standing in. Any outcome was a definite improvement.

  The gunfire was getting closer, the explosions still ringing in her ears. The mutters of terror now lingering in the room, from the men who had been drinking and bidding on her as if she were a slab of meat, was music to her ears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  Cora hadn't meant to blow up the ship. The grenade, however, had hit a fuel tank.

  And then, all hell had broken loose.

  Johnny and Cora sat low in the stolen Coast Guard vessel, braced against the edge of the ship, as a salvo of bullets carved through the deck.

  Smoke and flames billowed in the air, coming from the boat that they had hit with the grenade.

  It had cost them the element of surprise. But five soldiers had been gathered on the boat—too good of an opportunity to pass up.

  Johnny now sat up, fired twice, and ducked again.

  He looked at her, eyes wide, grin even wider. "Two more," he muttered.

  He looked ecstatic, and his face was streaked with dark paint of browns and mottled green, intended to help blend in with the small island’s flora.

  They hadn't had time to wait for the evening.

  Cora had made the call to start their assault under the sunlight.

  They needed to find Caitlin, and they needed to move quickly.

  Their boat glided to shore, scraping the hull as it bit into the sand.

  The sudden cessation of the forward momentum sent the two of them stumbling. More bullets whipped through the air. Splinters of wood geysered off the rail.

  Quiet tinging sounds accompanied gunfire.

  Cora waited for a brief lull, then emerged. She glimpsed three men off to the left, standing by a shipping container that had been taken to shore. Three more men were sprinting from the direction of low buildings that looked like barracks. Others could be glimpsed, smaller, moving towards them.

  She aimed towards the men by the shipping container and squeezed twice.

  Burst fire.

  The men hit the ground, their guns going suddenly quiet.

  But now, the cover of their boat was nearly completely destroyed.

  "Johnny, move fast. Ready?"

  He glanced at her hand, which was gripping the flash bang, and he nodded once, his eyes flashing.

  She tensed, pulled the pin, and then flung the concussion grenade through the air in the direction of the largest clump of soldiers she had spotted earlier.

  She remained ducked for a few seconds, then heard a loud clap!

  "Now!" she yelled. The two of them vaulted the badly damaged railing, over the side of the sinking boat, whose perforation had failed to keep it afloat.

  The front of the boat still gouged in the sand, turning it up like wet pastry.

  For a brief moment, there was a lull in the gunfire, thanks to the grenade, as the two of them raced forward.

  Smoke billowed in her face, and Cora vaulted one of the bodies. The black plumes and red jets sprang in bounding flickers from the burning ship. She heard shouting in the distance now. The chatter of weapons.

  She flung herself to the ground, pushing Johnny. The two of them ate sand, hitting the sandy shore hard. But even as clumps of wet sand spewed with the insistence of bullets, she aimed and fired.

  Another soldier down. Johnny, meanwhile, was pulling one of the grenades. He launched.

  A pause. Something hot lanced across her arm.

  Then a boom!

  A tree toppled and three men went flying, their shouts of warning cut short.

  Cora and Johnny bolted forward, breaking to the trees, pausing to take their shots, then moving onto the next trunk for cover.

  More men were streaming from the compound.

  Johnny and Cora, both breathing heavily, stood with their backs to a large trunk. Sweat poured down Cora's face. Johnny was still grinning, his face streaked with ash from where the smoke had lingered.

  “Ready?” he hissed at her, unhooking a smoke from his belt.

  She frowned at him.

  He gave a quick shake. “Both of us can't move. They'll pin us against the compound wall. I'll keep 'em here. You move.”

  Cora frowned. “I'm not splitting up.”

  “That's not what you said three years ago.”

  She tried to retort, but a sudden burst of gunfire cut her short. Wood and bark erupted in splinters from the tree.

  She hissed, “Now's not the time for wisecracks.”

  But he had already pulled the pin, hefted the smoke grenade, aimed, and tossed it. A sudden hiss accompanied the arching incendiary. Smoke billowed in gray plumes, mingling with the black streaks arising from the burning hull in the dock.

  More shouting. A few more bursts of gunfire. But then, as the smoke spread, the shooting faded. Voices called out to one another. Figures moved through the smoke, tentatively. One, disoriented, came too close.

  Johnny put him down with a double tap to the head.

  “Go,” he whispered to her, giving a little nudge in the small of her back. “They're peeling off west. Take the eastern wall. Find this girl of yours.”

  Cora exhaled shakily. She didn't like the idea of leaving a team member alone. But Johnny knew how to take care of himself.

  Caitlin on the other hand...

  Cora reached a decision, patted him on the shoulder once, then broke into a sprint, racing through the trees without firing—she didn't want them to track her through the smoke.

  She cut through the smoke, keeping low, trying to step lightly. Now, the shouting faded off over her shoulder. She was able to tell the direction of the approaching gunmen.

  Johnny kept shooting. Shouting as well, drawing as much attention to himself as possible. The smoke was now spreading between them, like tendrils of lingering vapor.

  She lost sight of her companion, and then pushed on, breathing heavily as she raced towards the compound. She spotted the fence soon enough as the smoke's lingering effects began to recede the more she distanced herself from it.

  A single guard was sitting in a guardhouse, peering down the barrel of his rifle, eye to a scope. She approached cautiously, moving hurriedly.

  The man aimed and exhaled, depleting his lungs.

  She flung her knife.

  It buried into his throat and the guard toppled from his overlook, hitting the ground with a dull thump.

  She scrambled up the fence now, climbed into the guardhouse and dropped down the other side. Breathing rapidly, fingers tingling from the effort of exertion, she scanned the compound. Two main buildings were visible from her vantage point.

  One—a squat, gray thing—was likely a barracks judging by the way the door had been left haphazardly open, allowing a glimpse of a toppled table and scattered playing cards.

  Beyond it, though, she spotted a larger structure, painted green, as if at least some effort had been made to pretty up the place.

  “Bingo,” she murmured. As far as mantras went, not a particularly meaningful one, but it helped propel her feet forward all the same, and she raced towards the structure.

  She approached the doors, moving cautiously. The sound of gunfire continued behind her.

  As long as it continued, it meant that Johnny was still stirring the hornet's nest, giving her a chance to execute the mission.

  She didn't approach the door, but rather went to a window, pressing her face to the glass.

  Inside the room, through the smudged window, she spotted men taking shelter below tables. She spotted a figure on a wooden stage, swaying with the sound of gunfire as if responding to some music. She couldn't make out much in the way of features, though. Her own breath fogged the glass.

  She slid along the wall, scraping her back as she approached the door now.

  She exhaled slowly, pausing, rehearsing what she'd seen through the window.

  One guard standing in front of the door. The other off to the left, waiting. Guns in hand.

  She hesitated, aimed her own weapon from memory, pointing it at the wooden door, then fired twice.

  The bullets punctured the wood. A pause.

  Then a thump of a body hitting the floor.

  She didn't hesitate now, though, but kicked out hard. The door shattered, flinging open, the wooden frame slamming into the second man who'd been hiding behind the door.

  She stepped in.

  Two more bullets.

  He hit the ground.

  Instantly, surveying the room, she spotted another soldier at a back door. He managed to shoot. A bullet whizzed past her cheek.

  She fired back.

  He lost his cheek.

  She stepped into the room now, over the new corpses, shouting, “On the ground! Everyone on the ground. I will blow you away if—”

  One of the figures was moving, hand darting towards a weapon.

  She shot him dead.

  Another man was slinking off towards an exit door. She shot him in the leg.

  “Stay down!” She yelled. “Down, now!”

  Slowly, the twenty or so figures hiding beneath the tables raised their hands, going flat on their bellies.

  And only then did her eyes land on the woman standing on the stage.

  Smoke continued to billow through the door behind her, curling at her ankles. Gunfire peppered the skyline. Blood lapped against her combat boots. Her fingers were sore from the heavy work of merciless execution.

  But there, in a red dress, her eyes landed on a sight that assuaged her sore eyes.

  She swallowed, reached up and rubbed an eye, then blinked. The smoke must have stung her eyeballs. She found that they were watering, stinging.

  She cleared her throat, voice shaking. “You—you look just like her.”

  The young woman in the red dress had the same golden hair, pulled back. The same high cheekbones and upturned nose. Just like her aunt.

  Like her mother.

  Caitlin Johnson stared back at her.

  “Do I know you?” she said, the young woman's voice trembling horribly. She stared wide-eyed across the room. Occasionally, she shot glances at the men hiding beneath the benches, then at the men Cora had shot.

  “Come on,” Cora said sharply. “I'm a friend of your mother's. Let's go, Caitlin!”

  The woman hesitated only a moment, swallowing. She adjusted the strap on her red dress, shaking. Instead of leaping off the stage or shooting suspicious looks at Cora, Caitlin said, “There are others. We have to help them too.”

  “We will!” Cora snapped.

  Already, her phone was out, placing the call. They'd discussed this en route. She was intent on notifying Agent Brady. He'd handle it from there. She had to call him late enough that Johnny and Cora could get away without incident or detention.

  But soon enough that the rest of the men on the island couldn't flee.

  Then again, where would they flee too? Their boat was blown to bits.

  Cora gestured more urgently at Caitlin. “We have it handled. Help will come for them. You need to come with me, now!”

  The gunfire had faded behind her. With it, her heart increased in tempo. She nodded once, confirming her decision to herself. Brady would handle it. Brady would have contacts with foreign authorities. The deputy would get involved.

  And Cora...

  She'd put it all in her rearview mirror.

  She gestured once more at Caitlin. But the girl was still hesitant, glancing back over her shoulder. Cora said, firmly, “They're going to be fine. There isn't room for them now. Come!”

  And then, at this first sentence, Caitlin finally hastened down from the stage and rushed towards Cora, her dress smoothed in front of her as she pressed with her hands, conserving modesty. But after a few steps, the sounds of battle faded. An eerie silence approached, interspliced by mewls from the man who was shot in the leg, as Caitlin abandoned decorum and broke into a sprint, following Cora's rapid gestures.

  Cora kept her gun trained on the men on the ground. She moved with Caitlin, hastening back through the door. Every so often she shot glances at the young woman, making sure that she was still there.

  She stepped backwards, out into the compound.

  The only warning came in the form of Caitlin's scream.

  The door slammed shut, sealing Cora back in the compound. As she whirled, something struck her hard across the back of the head.

 

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