“Anything else?” asked Romanov, seeing the hesitation in Nika’s eyes.
Nika paused and then said, “Alexandra wrote that she was shot in the leg, but she says she’s okay.”
Romanov stood, all thoughts of defeat suddenly erased. “Tell the captain to have the ship’s doctor waiting for the helicopter. Once we have Alexandra safely on board we will detonate the bombs and then set course for Algeria,” said Romanov, his eyes burning with vengeance.
“Very well, Father,” said Nika, walking over and picking up the ship’s telephone to pass on her father’s orders.
Romanov took a deep breath and then sat back down. With the North Sea oil industry gone, the US and Europe would have to come back around and offer him the control of his homeland. They just needed a little inducement.
Ten minutes later, Nika stood impatiently on the back deck of the yacht, looking expectantly towards the gray horizon. Anchored in a quiet bay with tall cliffs to protect it from the coming blast, the ship’s radar had told them that the helicopter was only minutes away, but Nika still could not see it. She was about to head below deck to warm up when a low-moving object approaching the stern suddenly caught her eye. Looking, Nika saw that it was her father’s helicopter flying towards them. A wave of relief washed over her. Spinning on her heels, Nika ordered the doctor to see to her sister the instant the helicopter landed. Not wanting to waste another moment, Nika dashed inside to tell her father the good news.
The helicopter slowed down and, like a giant golden eagle, it seemed to hover for only an instant above the helipad and gently landed. Its engine instantly switched off. The long sharp rotor blades began to slow and then stop. The ship’s doctor, a thin Indian gentleman, accompanied by two security personnel manhandling a stretcher, made his way along the slick deck towards the helicopter’s side door. The door suddenly slid open and an assault rifle was thrust out.
Jackson pulled the trigger, cutting down the two guards before they could draw their weapons. Jumping out, he yelled “Swim!” at the terrified doctor, who nearly tripped over his own feet as he dashed for the side of the boat. Freezing water or not, the man never stopped, quickly disappearing over the side of the ship.
Mitchell joined his friend. “That’s really subtle, Nate,” reproached Mitchell.
A klaxon horn sounded.
“So much for the element of surprise,” said Mitchell, turning to face his team. “Ok. Sam and the marines, get to the operations room. Nate, plant the charges below deck, and no heroics — that means you Nate,” said Mitchell, eyeing his friend. “We all meet back here in ten.”
No one said a word as they all sprinted off in separate directions. Only Yuri remained on deck, a pistol in his hand should he need it.
Mitchell took two stairs at a time as he sprinted down into the bowels of the ship straight towards Romanov’s office. A guard racing from the opposite direction did not even see Mitchell before almost smashing into him. With a swift stroke from his rifle into the guard’s chin, Mitchell sent the guard flying off his feet straight back onto the floor. Bending down to grab the man’s pistol, Mitchell edged towards the corner of the hallway and peered in the direction of Romanov’s office. Outside stood two guards, their hands firmly wrapped around their FN-2000s, nervously looking at the roof as if they could see what was happening above them. Stepping back, Mitchell looked down at the unconscious guard and said, “How about doing a solid for the good guys?”
With the two marines in the lead, Sam advanced, her M4 tucked tight into her shoulder. Moving down off the helipad, the marines edged forward down the deck. Suddenly, a door in front of them opened. A man stepped out, saw the marines, and went for his holster. Two shots rang out. The man dropped to the wooden deck, blood pooling underneath him.
“That’s got to be the ops room,” said Sam to the marines, pointing at the door that the dead man had just exited.
“Ok, stay close,” said the lead marine, a young red-haired sergeant, as he cautiously crept towards the closed door. Reaching down, he placed his hand on the doorknob. Looking back at his African-American partner, the sergeant lifted his hand, showing three fingers. Sam and the black marine nodded their heads. After silently counting down from three, the door was flung open and the sergeant stepped inside. “Move an inch and I’ll kill you all,” yelled the sergeant in fluent Russian.
Every head in the room turned at once and then froze.
With a loud thump, the body of the unconscious guard hit the golden-carpeted floor. Both men outside Romanov’s office flinched and looked down at the body. Neither man was prepared when Mitchell turned the corner and then calmly shot both men with one shot to the chest each. Dashing forward, Mitchell turfed the guards’ weapons back down the hallway without bothering to see if he had killed either man. He knew he did not have time for such things. He had only one thought: to stop Romanov. Hauling off, Mitchell kicked the door to the office in. Diving forward, Mitchell rolled over and came up on one knee, his M4 tight in his shoulder. Looking over the weapon’s sights, Mitchell was surprised to see Dmitry Romanov sitting there, an almost serene look on his face. The Russian crown jewels lay in front of him on the mahogany table. Standing, Mitchell kept his rifle aimed on Romanov.
“You can’t stop me now, Mister Mitchell,” said Romanov, lifting his hand to show a small remote detonator. “All I need to do is press one button, and it is all over.”
“You don’t have to do that,” said Mitchell, wondering if he could kill Romanov before he pressed the button. He doubted it.
“Yes, I do. The rules of the game have changed, and I want to turn them back in my favor. Now, Mister Mitchell, since you are standing here, I suspect that Alexandra is no longer with us,” said Romanov with a hint of sadness in his voice.
“That’s correct,” replied Mitchell.
“How did you manage to contact the ship?”
Mitchell tossed Alexandra’s cell phone on the table; it slid across the polished surface until coming to rest by Romanov’s hands. “I simply had one of my people send you fake messages, making you think she was alive, so you wouldn’t set the bombs off.”
“Clever of you,” said Romanov, as if the words let a bad taste in his mouth. “How did my Alexandra die?”
Mitchell locked eyes with the megalomaniac and coldly said, “Your precious daughter died with a pickaxe stuck in her chest.”
Sadness instantly turned to blind rage in Romanov’s eyes.
A disconcertingly familiar voice from behind Mitchell spoke. “Father, I’ve heard enough. Drop your gun, Mister Mitchell.”
Turning his head, Mitchell saw Nika standing there, a pistol in her hand, aimed squarely at his head.
“Now!” shrieked Nika menacingly.
Mitchell dropped his rifle. “I should really learn to look both ways when entering a room,” said Mitchell, realizing that he had screwed up.
“Take a seat,” said Romanov coldly, indicating to the chair opposite him.
With a feigned smile on his face, Mitchell sat.
Romanov looked at his daughter. “Nika, I doubt that we will now be able to leave in peace,” said Romanov wearily. “Head below and prep the submarine, and I’ll join you shortly.”
“You have a sub? Who the frigg are you, Doctor Evil?” said Mitchell, alluding to the Austin Powers films.
“Money buys many things,” said Romanov. “Now, Mister Mitchell, I doubt that you are here alone.”
“That’s correct,” replied Mitchell, playing for time. “Currently my people are accessing your financial records, while another is going to ensure that you, your daughter, and this ridiculously over-priced dinghy end up on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.”