Zulu, page 30
I was already out of the SUV.
Striding back toward the Gulfstream, I tried Parisa, but it rang four times before going to a generic voice mail. Hanging up, I shot off a text to November.
Me: Solace is berthed outside port because of weather. That detail needs to get to her ASAP. Tell those fucks to hurry up.
Taking the airstairs two at a time, I called Alpha.
He answered on the third ring, and I lit into him.
“You fucking ambushed me. If or when Vincenzo asks me for a goddamn favor, I’m sending him your way.”
“Understood. Sitrep?”
“Fuck you. You may believe the bullshit you tell yourself that you have to walk in those circles, but I don’t. Do not ever put me in front of a goddamn Sicilian mafia boss again.”
“Did you get permission?” he asked calmly.
I stopped short.
“You know how it works,” he continued in the same even tone. “I couldn’t ask for you.”
Thrown, I dropped to one of the passenger seats. “Fuck you,” I repeated, but this time with less force.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Good. Now you have the option, no repercussions.”
“I’m not fucking thanking you.” But I should. I knew what he’d just done. He orchestrated this whole damn thing today—the flights, the meet, all of it.
“Neither expected nor wanted.”
I had to ask. “How’d you know it’d come down to this?”
“Besides the fact that you fell for the widow when the only thing you’ve been about for the past nineteen years is duty and honor?”
I fucking ignored that statement.
“The wedding,” he answered simply.
I scrubbed a hand over my face. “You were there.”
“I was.”
“Why the hell didn’t you stop Kostas?”
“I was hired by Konstantinos. But more importantly, despite Kostas drugging her, I knew she’d be safer with him that night than with his father. Tolerate Kostas or hate him, he does have a code. I’ve never seen him force himself on a woman, and he’s always wanted Taralas Shipping to be a hundred percent legitimate.”
“You’ll never sell me on that fuck’s virtue.”
“Wasn’t trying to, just wanted you to have options. If the widow were my woman, it’s what I’d want.”
“Still not thanking you.”
“Understood. Do your prechecks. Echo and Whiskey will be back soon with Roark and a plus one. Do the Key West run, make your swap in Miami, and take Echo as your second chair for the flight back to France.”
“Echo hates piloting.” Alpha knew it, we all fucking knew it. Hell, Echo’d be the first to tell you, but he’d never said why.
“He needs IFR instruction and hours,” Alpha countered.
“Christ.” Echo was the last goddamn person I wanted to instruct.
“Good luck.” Alpha hung up.
Glancing at my watch, needing to hear her voice, I dialed Parisa.
The call rang four times before going to voicemail.
Parisa
I hadn’t slept all night.
Holding my phone, hoping Zane would call or text even though we’d said our goodnights, I’d lain in bed and stared at the ocean all night.
The swells grew choppier, my heart grew heavier, and the sense of foreboding I had been trying to ignore took on a life of its own as dawn came and went, leaving nothing but dark skies.
I told myself my wariness was from the cover of storm clouds hiding the sun and the intermittent rain that’d been blowing across the decks and at the windows. But it was more. I’d tried Ashraf’s number both late last night and early this morning, and I still had not heard from Zane.
This was not wariness.
Something felt very wrong.
The extra security men were still not on board. Isaiah had brought us into port under the pretense of safety from the higher winds further out to sea, but we had encountered worse weather before. Levi had his large rifle on a shoulder strap and had not left the middle of the lower deck, not even in the squalls. And Raya had called on the house phone fifteen minutes ago, saying Ezekiel had prepared a meal for everyone and that we would all dine family style in the main salon’s dining area at half past the hour.
I had never eaten a meal with the entire crew.
The security men should have been here by now.
Levi was never obvious in his movements.
And Zane had not called.
Individually, each of those anomalies would not necessarily be cause for alarm.
But together, with Ashraf missing, Kostas’s volatile behavior and then silence, and my trust suspended?
It was wrong.
Restless, I got up from the bed and cracked the slider to the port side balcony. Wind-driven rain rushed in as I glanced toward the lower deck.
Like a sentry, Levi was still there.
Quickly securing the door before I got too wet, I picked up my cell as the house phone rang.
Irony struck as I answered. “Hello?” For three weeks I had felt lonely at sea, but now, with the same people on the same ship, I felt as if I were suffocating.
“It’s Raya. I just wanted to let you know Chef has everything ready a few minutes early. Come down and eat. It will cheer us all up on this stormy day.”
Raya never needed cheering up. Perpetually lighthearted and optimistic, she smiled as if she had captured the secret to life and it was bubbling out of her. Not even Isaiah’s stern command of the crew thwarted her buoyant demeanor.
I did not want to sit at a table with her or Isaiah.
“Please thank Chef and let him know I appreciate his efforts. With all due respect, though—”
“Just this once,” Raya interrupted, cheerfully attempting to guilt me into coming. “It will be good for everyone to see you.”
Glancing at my phone and noting the time, I frowned. “They see me every day.”
Even though she was only a few years older than me, Raya had taken on the role of a mother hen to all of the crew. “Not like this. It’s just one meal. And Chef prepared your favorites. Come and eat, then you can retreat to your suite.”
Guilt.
I knew it well.
Familiar habits hard to break, I did not immediately say no. “I am still in the same clothes from last night. I do not want to delay the meal. Please, go ahead without me.”
Her laugh, usually contagious, sounded hollow. “The crew wears the same uniform every day. No one will notice, I promise.” Then she used a version of her voice that was singsong and higher pitched, a version I had only ever heard her use on the other crew and her husband. “Do I need to come up and bring you down?”
Closing my eyes, I inhaled. Then I relented. “I will come, but briefly.”
“Wonderful! See you in a minute.” Raya ended the call.
Glancing in the mirror, I looked at the remnants of last night’s carefully applied makeup and artfully curled hair as I stood in my blue Valentino dress. On the outside, I looked almost the same.
On the inside, I was a different woman.
A woman Zane Silas had pleasured in the open.
Color flushed my cheeks, and I quickly stepped into my heels and headed downstairs.
The cold breeze from the slightly ajar sliders hit me at the same time as Raya’s laughter. Then Ezekiel’s laughter joined hers, Solomon said something to Simon, Isaiah listened to Mordecai, and the scent of spices from my childhood filled the salon. All of them caught in the moment, they did not notice me.
I stepped into the room, and Isaiah turned his attention toward me first.
Then, for the second time, he looked me up and down before meeting my eyes and nodding once. “Madam.” He pulled out a chair.
The room hushed.
Forcing the smallest of smiles, I walked toward the chair. “Thank you, Isaiah.” I glanced at my chef. “Everything smells wonderful, Ezekiel. Thank you for putting this together.”
Ezekiel smiled boldly and cut the tension in the room. “I would take credit, madam, but my wife is standing right here, and I have to live with her.”
Isaiah almost smiled, the rest of the men laughed and then a whizzing sound followed by loud pop filled the salon a split second before a plume of white smoke exploded.
Instant burning in my eyes and throat made me drop my phone and reach to cover my face as chaos erupted.
The men shouted in a cacophony of Hebrew, Isaiah grabbed me around the waist, I started to cough, and a cloth napkin was shoved over my mouth as my cell phone began to ring.
Then a sharp sting hit the back of my neck, and a second later, I was on my knees.
My eyes watering, my throat burning, my muscles suddenly heavy, I reached for my ringing cell phone as the smoky ghost-like images of my crew dropped to the deck all around me.
Then everything went black.
Zulu
I tried her two more times on the flight from Teterboro to Key West. Both times it went straight to voicemail. I’d texted November for a sitrep, no response. Then I’d checked the weather in her location and saw the worsening squalls.
Telling myself it was the fucking storm taking out her reception, I landed the G650 in Key West and was talking to ground control as I taxied off the runway when my cell vibrated with an incoming call.
Fucking finally.
Glancing at Whiskey, I killed the mic on my headset. “Take the controls.”
“Taking the controls,” Whiskey confirmed.
Letting go of the yoke, I glanced at my screen expecting to see Parisa’s number, but it wasn’t her.
With a bad fucking feeling, I answered. “Alpha.”
“You’ve landed?”
“Yes, Whiskey’s taxiing us to the apron, we’re dumping Roark, then doing an immediate turnaround. We’re already in the queue for takeoff.” I didn’t give a fuck what the weather was like in France. I was getting a fresh bird in Miami and flying back ASAP.
“Get MacElheran off the plane and call me back,” Alpha ordered.
Every muscle tensed. “What’s going on?”
“Have Whiskey first chair to Executive Airport.”
“Alpha,” I warned. “Tell me right fucking now what’s going on. Parisa’s not answering her cell. I texted November, he’s not replying, and the burner I left with the deckhand isn’t getting picked up when I call.”
Alpha paused, then, “The security detail found the Solace empty.”
All the air left my lungs like I’d taken a direct IED hit to the chest. “Sitrep,” I demanded.
Whiskey glanced at me as he brought the Gulfstream to a stop.
Alpha exhaled. Then he downloaded the last fucking thing I wanted to hear. “Detail made it to Saint-Tropez, contacted the burner, said they were ready for tender. There was no security protocol in place for identification. Whoever answered the burner said the crew was out to dinner and they’d send the tender shortly. No tender arrived. Detail made their own way out to where the Solace was moored. No one on board, no signs of foul play. Get MacElheran off the plane and get back in the air. We’re talking to the detail now. I’ll have more information for you shortly.” Alpha hung up.
“Problem?” Whiskey asked.
Locking down every goddamn thing except my SEAL training, I glanced at my watch and calculated flight time to Miami to swap for a fresh plane versus waiting on the ground in Key West for a refuel. “Solace is moored, no crew, no Parisa. Ghost ship.” Already dialing her cell again, I got out of the pilot’s seat. “I’m getting MacElheran off the plane.” Flying to Miami and swapping would be quicker than waiting for a refuel. “Confirm our takeoff queue. Request emergency takeoff if you have to, but get us back in the fucking air, STAT.” Parisa’s cell went straight to her voicemail again.
I don’t know what the fuck I said to MacElheran.
The second he and his plus one were off the plane, I closed the airstairs and glanced at Echo.
Eyes closed, feet kicked up, he sighed from one of the passenger seats. “What, motherfucker?”
“Take second chair,” I ordered as Whiskey started to taxi.
“Fuck off. You’re the pilot. I’m the trigger.” Echo laced his hands behind his head.
“Solace is a ghost ship. Parisa’s missing. Fucking take second chair. I’m calling in for a sitrep.”
Echo opened his eyes and looked at me. “No shit?”
Glaring at him, I walked to the conference area of the plane.
“Copy.” Echo stood. “Tell November to do his hacker shit and find her before we land in France. I’m ready to kick some motherfucking doors in.”
“We’re swapping planes in Miami first.” Opening one of the laptops we kept on every plane in our fleet, I logged into AES’s secure server.
“Great. An extra fucking takeoff and landing. It’s a good thing I like you, motherfucker.” Echo ducked his head and angled into the cockpit.
Ignoring Echo, I called Alpha.
He answered immediately. “We see you just logged into the servers. Hold for November. He’s connecting you to our live feed with the security detail. We’re having them clear the ship again.”
A camera angle from a cell phone showing the main deck came up on my laptop. “I’m in. Do I have audio with the detail?”
“Wheels up,” Whiskey called from the cockpit.
“Affirmative,” November answered. “Cage, Grip, Zulu’s on the line. He’s familiar with the vessel. Start in the main salon.”
“Zulu, Cage here,” a British accented voice answered. “We’ve cleared all exterior decks, the bridge and the staterooms for a second time. No sign of disturbances, but this is what we found in the main cabin.” The camera angle swung around, and the dining area in the salon came into view, complete with a full table, but all the chairs were in disarray. “Looks like dinner was interrupted. Food’s cold and untouched, and we found these.” The camera angle tilted down.
Jesus Christ. “Fucking tear gas.” I knew those cartridges. “That’s enough CS for a goddamn crowd. There were only eight people on board.”
“Right,” Cage agreed. “Would’ve been quite unpleasant.”
“But it would’ve only temporarily stunned them. Six crew members were IDF, two were former Shayetet 13, all were armed. They would’ve been able to handle it.” But Parisa wouldn’t. She would’ve felt the fuck out of that. “You don’t tear gas a crew like that and have it end there. Where the fuck are they?”
Alpha cut in. “That’s what we’re hoping you can help with, Zulu. You cleared the vessel before. I don’t believe they’d take all eight as hostages, and there’re no bodies, so I’m thinking they stashed them after grabbing their target. Where would you hide seven bodies on this ship?”
“Bilge deck, engine room,” I answered. “Or there’re a dozen storage and pantry areas next to the crew’s quarters. Also, the tender hold. Is the tender still on board?”
“Yes,” Cage answered. “Two jet skis and the tender are stowed and untouched.”
Whoever took her had their own fucking boat. “Take me to the engine room, Cage,” I ordered. “I want you to clear it again. Send Grip to the crew quarters and have him start going through every one of the storage compartments. The doors look small, but the spaces are deep. Check every one.”
“Grip’s on it. Descending to the engine room now,” Cage replied.
For the next seven minutes, I watched Cage canvas the engine room, checking every hold and compartment. All empty.
“Looks clear, mate.” Cage scanned the room one more time with the camera on his cell.
“Back right, last compartment, deck level. Check it,” I ordered.
“Roger, checking.”
I watched as Cage reached down and tried the handle. It was locked.
I fucking leaned forward. “Get that lock open, Cage.”
“You happen to know where the key is, mate?”
“No.”
Grip came into the field of sight. “All storage compartments are clear.”
“Grip, you have your lock pick set on you?” Cage asked, his finger coming into view as he pointed. “We need to get that compartment opened.”
Grip didn’t hesitate. His booted heel came down hard on the lock with a precision blow. The lock gave, Grip reached down to open the hatch, and Cage swore.
“Bloody hell.” Cage tossed his cell down, and the camera view cut to the ceiling. “Found them. Hold on. We’re pulling them out.”
“Alive?” I demanded, my hand reflexively going to my Sig.
“Breathing, but unconscious,” Grip answered, as a thud sounded.
The Gulfstream started its descent for Executive Airport in Miami.
“Zip-tied and packed in like bloody sardines,” Cage added with a grunt, as another thud sounded.
My gaze locked on the damn laptop, I fucking stood. “Brunette, early twenties. Is she in there?”
“Hang on,” Cage answered. “Five male, one female.” He picked up his cell and scanned the phone’s camera over six of the Solace’s unconscious crew members lying on the floor of the engine room as Grip cut their zip ties with a switchblade.
“Landing,” Whiskey called.
I fucking stared at the screen.
No Parisa.
No Levi.
I dropped to my seat.
The Gulfstream touched down.
Parisa
My head pounding, my throat burning, my body heavy, I struggled to open my eyes.
Oppressive heat, no breeze, it was stifling.
What was Isaiah doing? Why would he turn off the Solace’s air conditioning?
Hot, sticky, the weight of damp, earthy air suffocating, I tried to brush aside the sheets or whatever was weighing me down, but my arm wouldn’t move.
My arm…
Why couldn’t my arm move?
