After bandaging his wound, he resumed walking until he spotted an Iranian-made Tira — Farsi for gazelle. The window was partially opened, so he reached in and unlocked the driver’s door. He climbed inside and re-locked the door, then opened his pocketknife and jammed the blade in the ignition as far as it would go. He angrily pounded the handle with the heel of his hand, driving the blade for the heart. Then, as if it were a key, he turned the handle. The Tira started.
He peeled out on the loose gravel, heading back toward the city. The original plan was that the four of them would take the Switchblade Whisper directly to the yacht. Because that was also the most logical choice for Victor’s escape, Chris headed for the marina. Fury replaced his exhaustion, and he stomped the pedal and drove like a madman. Realizing he might draw unwanted attention, he eased off the gas.
Stay in control. You don’t know for sure this is Victor’s fault, and even if it is, you can’t kill him in anger.
When he arrived, he parked at the Syrian Yacht Club and stepped out into the dark silence. There was no sign of the van Jim Bob and Victor had used. The restaurant had closed, and there was only one light on in the office building. He’d have to sneak past the guard to reach the yacht.
He crept up to the office and peered inside. The guard’s body lay face down in an inky puddle on the floor with a black spray of stains on the wall behind him. It was ghastly to look at, but the sight pulled at his eyes for attention. He turned away rather than treat the deceased as some kind of freak show.
It had to be Victor.
Then his heart sank. Part of him acknowledged that Hannah could’ve conspired with the bastard, but Chris didn’t want to believe that. She was his friend, and he cared about her — enough to leave his congregation to risk his life on this mission. Then again, maybe Hannah, Victor, and Jim Bob were all in on this together. Toxic fumes rose from his being, but he still wasn’t sure who to direct them at.
When he reached the pier, he wasn’t shocked to find the yacht missing; what was a shock was the body floating on the dark bay under the moonlight. The ocean licked the sides of the pier as Chris proceeded to get a closer look. He was reluctant to identify the body, hoping it wasn’t hers, but he had to know for sure. He stepped forward close enough to recognize the corpse: Wolf. Chris wanted to puke, cry, and kill someone at the same time — the mix of emotions acidic on his tongue. He exhaled forcefully, trying to expel some of the poison.
Who did this? Why?
Chris needed answers. Wolf’s killer, or killers, could be anywhere. Whoever it was had to have a reason for killing Wolf and taking the Agency yacht. Chris went over what he knew in his head. The focus of their mission had been to recover the Switchblade Whisper, particularly the black box, and destroy what they couldn’t take with them. Mordet was also after the drone, and other enemies of America would probably be interested in acquiring it, too, if they knew about it. Then he remembered overhearing Victor’s cell phone conversation in what sounded like Chinese.
Maybe Victor is working for them. If so, he could’ve already handed it off to the Chinese and escaped via the Agency yacht, but during Victor’s phone conversation, he’d said what sounded like the city of Ras al-Basit, which had a marina large enough to park a yacht. That was fifty klicks north. Realizing there was little more he could learn in Latakia, he decided to sail to Ras al-Basit.
Chris’s eyes skimmed the docks, looking for an easy boat to break into.
There. Just down the pier.
He quietly made his way onto the yacht then checked to see if it had fuel. The tank was three-quarters full. That would work. He hotwired it quickly and sailed north with his lights off, following the coast.
The night air and rocking of the sea calmed him. But after ten klicks, another boat came in his direction from the north. He changed course to head farther out to sea, but the boat shifted direction toward him. He had a better view of it now, and it was roughly the same size as Chris’s. As it got closer, he identified it as one of the Zhuk-class patrol boats that Syria had acquired from Russia. It moved closer. His first inclination was to try and outrun it, but even if his boat was faster, he couldn’t outrun their bullets. “Stop!” a voice called out on a megaphone.
Chris slowed the yacht to a stop and touched his right hip, feeling his shirt covering the concealed pistol, but he also remembered his role as a minister.
I can shoot it out now, or I can try to talk my way out of this. I’ve already shed a lot of blood. God, help me, please. He raised his arms in surrender, hoping to talk his way out. The patrol boat pulled up beside the yacht. A uniformed machine gunner on the bow aimed his weapon at Chris, as did another man carrying an AK-47. The stern machine gun was unmanned, and in the pilothouse, dim lights illuminated the pilot.
The man with the AK ordered the machine gunner to hang out bumpers to protect the boats from damaging each other. As the gunner abandoned his gun, Chris thought shooting them might actually be the better option. The man with the AK motioned to Chris. “Come here!”
Chris slowly walked to midship.
The gunner barely finished hanging the last bumper before the two vessels came together. “Tie up the boat and then tie him up!” AK commanded. The gunner proceeded to secure the patrol boat to the yacht, and AK motioned for Chris to board his boat. “What are you doing out here by yourself on this yacht so late at night?!
Chris hopped from his yacht onto the patrol boat. The man with the AK aggressively walked toward him. Chris proceeded cautiously with his hands up.
AK closed the gap between them. “Why don’t you answer me? Are you deaf?” He shouted the last bit, shoving the gun toward Chris’s chest.
Chris didn’t enjoy killing, but he didn’t want to be tortured and hung from a tree for the whole world to see, either. In the absence of divine intervention, Chris chose frogman intervention. He dropped his hands from the surrender position and his left hand slapped the AK away. Meanwhile, his right hand drew the pistol. He fired low from the hip, so he wouldn’t shoot his other arm before he could pull it out of the way. Two shots struck AK in the lower gut, and he fell on his back.
The gunner turned and ran for his weapon.
Now Chris had both hands on his pistol as he placed his sights on the gunner’s back and blasted him twice before he could reach the machine gun. The gunner’s back arched as he fell forward.
Then Chris hurried to the pilothouse and threw open the door. The pilot chattered frantically into the radio, but Chris popped him in the head, ending the transmission. On his way off the patrol boat, he administered the coups de grace for the gunner and AK. He’d wanted to avoid a fight, but they hadn’t left him a choice.
He returned to his yacht and sailed north. He wasn’t a random killing machine, and he didn’t carry the emotional baggage of being one. It was part of his job — a necessary evil. He didn’t have the luxury of carrying that baggage while simultaneously trying to help Hannah and Jim Bob. Although he attempted to stay positive about the situation, the light in his heart dimmed.
Over an hour later, when Chris arrived at the Ras al-Basit Marina, the darkness in the sky had surrendered to the morning light. There were some fishermen in their boats and on the pier but no sign of security.
When he saw the Agency yacht in the harbor, his heart brightened. Not knowing if Victor was still on it, he docked his vessel with one eye on the Agency yacht. After tying up, he wanted to draw his pistol, but he didn’t want to attract unwanted attention, so he kept it holstered as he walked quietly across the pier. Carefully observing his surroundings, he boarded. As he descended the ladder from the main deck to the lower cabin, he drew his pistol. Inside, blood splatter stained a wall — most likely Wolf’s blood. Chris searched for any traces of intel about where Hannah, Jim Bob, or Victor might be but found nothing significant. For a moment, he thought the bloodstains might be Hannah’s, but the thought distressed him, and he banished it. There was no sign of Victor or any clues. It was empty.