Jackson nodded slightly.
“You are such a big man; while you chased shadows in the steam, I snuck around you and changed the timers on your charges.”
Jackson hesitated. Could she have been that fast? Looking at her undeniable physique, he knew she was not lying.
Less than a second later, the charges detonated, knocking Jackson off his feet and sending him crashing against the hull. Thousands of liters of ice-cold water instantly rushed in from the mortal wound torn into the hull, quickly flooding the engine room.
Staggering unsteadily to his feet, Jackson looked over towards Nika, but she was already gone. The sound of air escaping the submersible indicated that it was diving. Firing off one shot in rage, Jackson turned and found himself already struggling through freezing cold knee-deep water. By the time he made it to the stairs, it was up to his waist.
The explosions rocked the yacht from side to side. Mitchell had to let go of Romanov to prevent himself from smashing against the side of the ship.
Although battered and bruised, Dmitry Romanov was still a powerful man. Seeing a chance, he dove towards the table. Scooping up the long golden scepter in his hands he spun around and brought it up, intending to swing it down like a deadly mace towards Mitchell’s head.
The flash of the scepter arcing through the air made Mitchell turn his body. The rod flew past his head by mere millimeters, striking Mitchell in his collarbone and sending an agonizing jolt of pain down his right side. Mitchell jumped back to avoid the scepter as Romanov skillfully brought it back up in one smooth movement. Reaching behind him, Mitchell felt a chair. Wrapping his hands around it, Mitchell hauled it around and threw it at Romanov. Seeing the chair coming, Romanov weaved to the side as it flew harmlessly against the hull of the ship, shattering to pieces.
“You may have ruined everything, but I will at least see you go to hell,” snarled Romanov as he brought up the scepter, aiming to send it crashing into Mitchell’s head.
Pivoting on his heels, Mitchell turned sideways as the heavy gold rod barely missed him. With lightning-like reflexes, Mitchell grabbed Romanov’s over-extended arm and twisted it as hard as he could.
Surprise shot into Romanov’s eyes as his arm painfully twisted over. He had no choice, but went with his arm and fell to his knees, writhing in agony. The scepter fell to the green-carpeted floor, away from his limp hand.
Already the ship had begun to list. Mitchell dug his feet in to keep his balance as the ship slipped deeper into the cold gray water.
Mitchell had had enough. Smashing his knee into Romanov’s head, he sent his opponent tumbling to the floor. Bending down, Mitchell grabbed the scepter and before Romanov could get up off his knees Mitchell, with a loud yell of rage on his lips, smashed the scepter straight into the side of his opponent’s head. He heard the sound of bone cracking as blood flew from a deep gash in Romanov’s head.
The color from Romanov’s face instantly drained. His disbelieving eyes went blank. He tried to say something, but no sound escaped his dying lips.
“You wanted it so bad,” said Mitchell as he tossed the scepter onto Romanov’s body as he struggled to catch his breath, “you keep it.”
“I would have said he who lives by the sword, dies by the sword,” said Jackson, from behind Mitchell.
“It’s not a sword, it’s a scepter,” said Mitchell, shaking his head at his friend’s joke. Turning to look at over at Jackson, Mitchell saw him standing there, his soaked clothes dripping water all over the deck.
“What happened to you?” asked Mitchell.
“I went for a swim,” said Jackson. “Come on, boss, we need to get off this wreck before we go with it.”
Another explosion tore through the yacht as Sam’s charge destroyed the operations room. The ship was beginning to list heavily to port. Both men knew that it had minutes to live before it began the crushing descent to the bottom of the ocean. Running as fast as they could, they made their way up towards the helipad.
Having switched off all the power on the helicopter, Yuri had spared the craft’s electronics when the F-18s flew over the ship. Now sweat drenched Yuri’s forehead as he fought to keep the chopper level. The ship already began to sink from underneath the helicopter’s wheels. Keeping the helicopter hovering just above the deck, Yuri inched it over to avoid the rotor blades from striking the deck of the yacht as it sank to one side.
“Do you see them yet?” nervously asked one of the marines over the chopper’s intercom.
“Not yet,” replied Sam, sitting in the passenger seat beside Yuri.
“If Ryan and Jackson are not up here soon, they will have to swim. I can’t keep the helicopter like this much longer,” Yuri said with his eyes focused on the steadily titling deck.
“There! There they are!” Sam almost screamed for joy as Mitchell and Jackson emerged from below deck.
The black marine edged over, slid open the side door, and looked out. The ship was sinking faster by the second, threatening to turn over and capsize, and take Mitchell and Jackson with it.
Mitchell and Jackson fought against the doomed ship; each step was a struggle as they made their way over the debris-strewn deck towards the hovering helicopter. The sound of the ship slipping below the waves was overwhelming as air blasted out from below deck.
Yuri, seeing them move closer, increased the pitch, and prepared to take off the instant Mitchell and Jackson were inside the helicopter.
“You first,” said Mitchell to Jackson. “I’m a better swimmer than you.”
Jackson fought the urge to say something, but turned and jumped up into the open door of the helicopter. Squirming on his belly with the marines pulling him along, Jackson made it inside. Rolling over, he instantly thrust his arms down towards Mitchell just as the ship began to roll over.
Mitchell leapt up and grasped Jackson’s powerful arms just as the deck slid out from under his feet.
Applying full power, Yuri struggled to raise the helicopter away from the stricken ship. For a moment, Yuri thought he had waited too long, and then ever so slowly, the nose of the helicopter began to rise. Praying and swearing up a storm in Russian to anyone who would listen, Yuri pulled back on the joystick as the helicopter clawed its way into the sky.
With a loud grunt, Jackson pulled with all his strength. A second later, Mitchell’s head popped up. Dashing over, Sam reached down, grabbed Mitchell by the collar of his winter jacket, and together they all pulled him up and into the open door.
“Thanks,” said Mitchell, lying on his back, looking up at everyone in the chopper. “I really wasn’t looking forward to a swim in the North Atlantic this time of year.”
Looking down, Mitchell dispassionately watched as the Imperator disappeared from view. A bubbling, foaming froth soon marked the final resting place of Romanov and his twisted dreams of power.
Yuri banked the helicopter around and headed for shore.
49
The flight home was blissfully quiet. A US Air Force Lear jet, courtesy of the government, picked up Mitchell and his team the instant they landed in Iceland. Arriving home in the middle of the night, all Mitchell wanted to do was sleep, but several police cruisers and two sleek black government armored SUVs were waiting for them at the airport. Whisking them through traffic, the column of cars made their way upstate to the Polaris Complex, where General O’Reilly and several very interested parties from the State Department impatiently waited to debrief them all.
Mitchell and his team accepted the debriefing as an unwelcome, but necessary, part of the assignment. Mitchell was thankful that Jen and her mother had — under escort — gone home shortly after arriving.