Chapter 5 - Midnight Over the Harbor
The wind roared like a screaming beast outside the open bay door of the Sikorsky
UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter, whipping through Claire’s hair as the aircraft
hovered twelve hundred feet above the pitch-black waters of Massachusetts Bay.
Below them, the city of Boston was a sprawl of glittering amber and blue jewels,
but Claire’s eyes were locked entirely on the isolated speck of light cutting
through the dark Atlantic: the Leviathan.
Her stomach was in her throat. “You’re insane. You are completely, certifiably
insane!” she shouted over the deafening chop of the twin rotor blades.
Damian stood beside her at the edge of the open door, hooked into a heavy nylon
fast-rope rig. He was checking the carabiners on Claire’s harness, cinching the
straps tight around her thighs and chest. His hands were completely steady, his
focus total, as if jumping out of a helicopter at midnight was no more stressful
than reviewing a quarterly financial report.
“You wanted to save your sister, Claire,” Damian shouted back, his mouth inches
from her ear against the wind. “You’re tethered directly to me. All you have to
do is hold onto my vest and keep your feet together when we hit the helipad.”
“And what if your stitches rip?” she yelled, terror warring with adrenaline.
“What if your shoulder gives out?”
Damian looked down at her, his dark eyes blazing against the night sky. “Then
I’ll catch you with my teeth. Trust me, Bennett.”
Claire looked into those dark, uncompromising eyes, and the terrifying truth
slammed into her: she did trust him. More than she had ever trusted anyone in
her entire life.
“Go!” the crew chief barked from the darkness of the cabin.
Damian didn’t give her time to reconsider. He wrapped his massive left arm
around her waist, locking her flush against his chest, grabbed the heavy braided
fast-rope with his right tactical-gloved hand, and stepped off into the abyss.
Claire’s stomach lurched into her throat. The sensation of falling was absolute,
terrifying, and exhilarating all at once. The frigid ocean air tore the breath
from her lungs as they plummeted toward the illuminated upper deck of the luxury
yacht at breakneck speed.
Fifty feet. Thirty feet. Ten feet.
Damian braked the descent with brute forearm strength, absorbing the friction of
the rope through heavy specialized leather.
Thud.
Their combat boots slammed onto the teak decking of the Leviathan’s private
helipad.
Before Claire could even catch her balance, the quiet night erupted into
carnage.
A yacht guard on the upper observation deck shouted in Russian, leveling an
AK-47 toward them.
Damian detached Claire’s harness with a flick of his thumb, pushed her behind
the fiberglass casing of a radar dome, and raised his suppressed carbine.
Phut. Phut.
The guard crumpled instantly, tumbling over the teak railing and splashing
silently into the churning black wake below.
Behind them, three more ropes dropped from the hovering Black Hawk. Marcus and
four elite tactical operators slid down like shadows, hitting the deck and
fanning out with practiced, terrifying military precision.
“Breach the upper salon!” Marcus signaled in silent hand gestures, leading two
men down the port stairs. Suppressed gunfire began to rattle through the lower
decks—muffled thuds, shattering glass, and panicked shouts cut short by lethal
efficiency.
Damian turned to Claire, his weapon raised, his eyes scanning the shadowed
corridor leading toward the bow. “The chain locker is four decks down. Through
the galley and the crew quarters.”
“Lead the way,” Claire said, drawing the Glock 43X from her hip holster. Her
hands were no longer shaking.
They moved through the ship like ghosts through a slaughterhouse.
Every corridor was an obstacle course of smoke and violence. Damian moved with
ruthless speed, clearing corners, neutralizing Mercer’s guards before they could
even bring their weapons to bear. Claire stayed glued to his six, her eyes
darting, covering his blind spots just as he had instructed.
As they reached the heavy industrial steel hatch marked FORWARD BALLAST & ANCHOR
STOWAGE, a heavy submachine burst tore through the bulkhead beside them,
spraying sparks and white-hot shrapnel.
Damian shoved Claire to the deck, taking a fragment across his cheekbone. A line
of crimson welled on his face as he pivoted and fired three blind shots around
the steel frame.
A groan followed, then the heavy collapse of a body.
Damian kicked the dead shooter’s weapon away, then grabbed the spinning
wheel-lock of the chain locker hatch. “Claire! Help me with this dog-latch!”
Together, they threw their weight against the rusted iron wheel. With a screech
of protesting metal, the heavy pressure door broke its seal and swung open.
The stench of stagnant saltwater, rust, and iron hit Claire like a physical
blow.
Inside the cramped, dripping steel compartment, illuminated only by a single
flickering yellow emergency bulb, Rebecca Bennett was curled into a fetal
position on the rusted deck plating, wrapped in heavy anchor chains.
“Becca!” Claire cried, rushing past Damian and dropping to her knees beside her
sister.
Rebecca looked up, her eyes swollen almost shut, her lips blue with hypothermia.
“Claire...? Claire, you’re here... oh God, you’re here...”
Claire frantically began tearing at the heavy padlock binding the chains around
Rebecca’s chest. “Damian! I need bolt cutters or a key! I can’t get this off
her!”
Damian stepped into the threshold of the locker, his weapon lowered, reaching
for the breaching tool on his belt.
Suddenly, a cold, metallic clap echoed from the iron catwalk above the locker
entrance.
“How touching,” Dominic Mercer’s voice purred from the shadows of the upper
machinery platform. “The devoted nurse, the heroic mob boss, and the degenerate
little gambler. All gathered in one convenient steel coffin.”
Claire’s blood ran cold.
Damian slowly raised his weapon toward the catwalk, his voice deathly still.
“Step out, Mercer. Let the girls go, and I’ll make your death quick.”
Mercer stepped into the yellow light of the catwalk, holding a black remote
detonator in his hand. A manic, triumphant grin stretched across his face.
“You’re so predictable, Damian,” Mercer laughed softly. “You think I didn’t know
you’d track the yacht? You think I didn’t know you’d come for her? I don’t care
about the shipping leases anymore. I don’t care about the port.”
Mercer pointed his thumb down toward the hull beneath their feet.
May you like
“I’ve wired twelve hundred pounds of C-4 to the keel of this vessel,” Mercer
whispered. “And the timer is set for three minutes. You have three minutes to
unlock those chains, Cross. But the key... is in my pocket.”
Mercer raised a heavy .44 Magnum revolver, cocked the hammer, and leveled it
directly at Claire’s forehead.
