The Freedom Broker (Thea Paris #1)(37)

She tried again, her finger trembling on the button.

A confirmation beep sounded in her ear. Relief flooded her body.

Rif was alive.

Crouched under the overhang, she used hand signals to communicate with Brown. He gave the okay sign and faded into the darkness, positioning himself to attack the bridge.

Seconds later, a large shadow morphed into a man. Rif touched her hand, and their eyes locked. He looked away first, but not before she read him. Shame. She knew the feeling well, but now wasn’t the time.

She signaled her plan, and Rif suggested a good adjustment. Looking him right in the eye, she used signals to confirm he wouldn’t change the plan without communicating with her first. He nodded. She rarely doubted his battle strategy; like a chess master, he calculated every step ahead. She’d need to keep an eye on him, though. He was in warrior mode, at his most dangerous, and they needed to capture one or more of the kidnappers alive.

They moved into position. She and Brown trained their MP5s on the guards while Rif crept closer to the bridge, masked by darkness. She pressed the signal button. One soft beep. Then they opened fire on the guards, dropping one. Rif charged the bridge, flashbang in hand. He tossed the stun grenade inside. A loud blast erupted, obliterating their vision for about five seconds, causing a temporary loss of hearing and balance.

Rif rushed the door; she and Brown followed. The three remaining kidnappers were stumbling around the bridge, disoriented. She pounced on the one nearest Jean-Luc. The man was shaking his head. Before his equilibrium returned, she’d flipped him over and used tactical zip ties to restrain his hands and feet.

Rif and Brown had shoved the two other men against the port wall. Jean-Luc’s face was battered, his hair soaked with blood, but he half smiled. “Nice of you to drop by. This asshole”—he indicated the man Thea had disabled—“was about to take me on a private date.”

She sliced through Jean-Luc’s restraints with her Ka-Bar.

Rif helped him stand. “And it’s been such a long time since you got any.”

“Very funny—although I wouldn’t mind a little alone time with him.” Jean-Luc spit on the floor, a mixture of blood and saliva.

“I got it covered.” Rif grabbed the man by the throat and lifted him to his feet. “You and I are going to have a talk.”

“Sí, sí, está bien.”

Thea spoke fluent Spanish, and so did Rif, but they wanted the pockmarked man at a disadvantage, off kilter, having to converse in English. Besides, if the kidnappers thought they didn’t speak Spanish, they might give something away. They needed to figure out who was in charge: the pockmarked man, the swarthy guy with a goatee, or the one who was so skinny, his legs resembled pencils.

“Where’s Christos Paris?” Rif loosened his hold on Pockmark’s neck.

“We no have him.”

“That’s obvious. Where’s he being held?”

The man furrowed his brow. “I never see him.”

Definitely not the man she’d spoken to on the phone—his English wasn’t good enough. She gave Rif a small nod, letting him know the guy’s face read that he was being honest.

“Where’s the crew?”

“In bilge.”

Brown stepped forward. “We stumbled on them while locking down the oil pipes but left them inside for their own safety.”

“Take Jean-Luc and vet the crew members before releasing them. Check if any of them have been behaving suspiciously—there might be an inside man. If no one seems obvious, find out who was on watch when they were boarded.”

Brown and Jean-Luc left the bridge. Thea had her MP5 trained on the three kidnappers.

“Let’s try again. Where’s Christos Paris?” She kicked Swarthy with one booted foot.

“No lo sé.” We don’t know.

They didn’t have the luxury of a long interrogation. “On your feet.” She opened the door and indicated that the men exit the bridge. They shuffled forward, and she followed.

When they reached the chopper, Rif slipped his hand into a nearby cubby and extracted some helicopter parts. “Watch them for a minute.” He entered the Bell, replaced the parts, and two minutes later, the blades whirred to life.

“Last chance to talk.”

The men remained silent. Fine, if that was the way they wanted to play it.

“Get in.”

The three pirates trudged to the chopper’s door. She held them at gunpoint.

“Blindfold them. Somalia Six,” Rif said.

She nodded, remembering the mission. She removed three bandannas from the pockets of her combat pants, tied them tightly around the men’s eyes, nudged the kidnappers inside, then got in herself.

Rif climbed into the pilot’s seat. Seconds later, the Bell lifted off from the tanker. He flew up and down, side to side, disorienting the men, then leveled out.

“Where’s Christos Paris?” she asked the skinny one.

He remained silent.

She grabbed him by the collar and moved him near the door.

“Last chance.”

Nothing.

She pushed him out of the helicopter, his screams quickly overpowered by the rotor wash.

Sweat rolled down Swarthy’s forehead.

“You’re next. Talk now or enjoy your final free fall.”