The Freedom Broker (Thea Paris #1)(35)

Two soft beeps sounded in his earpiece. Team two, Brown and Stewart, identifying themselves. He waited. Three more beeps. Excellent. They’d rigged the pipes so the kidnappers couldn’t leak oil into the sea. A temporary fix, but at least they’d neutralized that threat.

One mission down, two to go. The timing was critical. He didn’t want to cause any commotion before Thea and Johansson had thoroughly searched the tanker. Hard to say whether Christos would be on board. It would’ve been easy enough to transport him from the Aphrodite to the Damocles in a Bell 206, but the billionaire could also be secreted in a faraway country by now. The whiplash turnaround of the ransom demand left little room for negotiation or investigation. Rif had been involved in enough of these operations to know that the kidnappers’ tactics were rare and concerning.

With their job done, Brown and Stewart would be joining the search for Christos. Time to disable the ship’s helicopter. He inched forward. Two dark shadows paced beside the Bell 206. Guards. Rif signaled to Jean-Luc.





Chapter Twenty-Two



Down below, Thea cracked open the stateroom’s door again so they could scan the passageway. A slight squeak from the hinges echoed in the eerie silence. The gunman turned, his AK-47 ready for action. Johansson fingered the trigger on his silenced MP5, firing three quick bullets into the man’s torso. He collapsed in a heap.

They dragged the corpse into the empty room and closed the door. She grabbed the kidnapper’s radio in case he received a transmission from the men on the bridge.

Another groan. They moved down the hall and positioned themselves on either side of the door.

She signaled to Johansson with her free hand. He grabbed the handle and turned. She entered first, MP5 raised. Her gaze landed on a bound and gagged man in uniform. Blood from a head wound dripped down his face.

Captain Magnusson. She fought off disappointment. Removing the captain’s gag, she undid the ropes binding his hands and feet while Johansson shielded them from the doorway.

“Ms. Paris, what are you doing on board?” Magnusson asked.

“We’re here to help.” Her blackened face and hands must be disconcerting.

The captain wiped blood from his eyes. “After we spoke, they beat me and locked me in here.”

“Ten men, right?”

“All armed to the gills with Kalashnikovs, machetes.”

“Is my father on board?”

“He wasn’t with them when they boarded.”

Her gut twisted. “What language do they speak?”

“Spanish.”

Weird. Even though over sixty percent of kidnaps took place in Latin America, the Damocles was currently off the coast of Greece—far, far away from the usual kidnapping hotbeds of Mexico, Colombia, and Venezuela.

“Do you know where they’re holding the crew?”

“Sorry, no idea.”

She grabbed a QuikClot from her tactical pouch and staunched the blood flowing from his head wound.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Another guard, probably checking on the first one who hadn’t returned. They eased the door back open. Johansson fired off two shots, but the kidnapper had ducked around the corner, scrambling down the hallway.

“We’re blown. Let’s move.”

The dead kidnapper’s radio buzzed. Yelling in Spanish.

She pressed the code to let the team know they’d been exposed.

A faint hint of smoke wafted up her nose, setting off her internal alarm.

“Fire.” Johansson protected them from the hallway.

“Let’s get you out of here, Captain.” She helped Magnusson stand. He was unsteady, but the determined look in his eyes comforted her. She used a water bottle from her pack to soak some gauze. “Here, breathe through this.”

They hurried into the thirty-foot corridor. Smoke billowed at them from the right.

“This way,” Johansson said.

They retraced their steps, headed for the exit door on the left, but loud footsteps pounded down the stairs straight for them. Shouts in Spanish. Definitely not team members. They were forced to retreat toward the smoke. A piercing mechanical wail flooded the hallway. The fire alarm. Shots slammed into the steel wall near them. They dove behind the corner. Johansson signaled for her to find egress while he crouched low and returned fire with his MP5.

Thick, toxic smoke entered her lungs. She coughed, her bronchioles in spasm. The three of them were trapped.





Chapter Twenty-Three



Rif held the garrote in his hands and stalked the first guard. Jean-Luc loomed behind the second one. They attacked simultaneously. Rif snapped the garrote around the kidnapper’s neck and tightened his hold. The man struggled for air, twisting and turning, his fingers prying at the wire, desperate to escape. Seconds later, the guard slumped to the ground, Rif softening his landing to avoid any unnecessary noise. Jean-Luc’s target was already incapacitated, sprawled near the helicopter’s tail rotor.

While his partner scanned the deck for potential threats, Rif slipped inside the Bell 206. Working quickly, he accessed the battery and detached it. Next he removed the tail rotor pedals and breakers. Now the kidnappers couldn’t use this bird to get off the tanker—but they might have another boat headed for the ship.

One beep sounded in his earpiece. Thea and Johansson. Another long beep. An endless beep. Shit. They needed help. He crept out of the helicopter with the battery and tail rotor pedals in hand, searching for somewhere to hide them. He spied a nearby cubby, lifted the cover, and slipped the parts into the empty space for safekeeping.