Mustang Island, Texas
Gulf of Mexico
Garrett Kohl had lived most of his life head underwater and he was definitely there in more ways than one. As a former Green Beret turned deep cover counternarcotics agent, he’d thrown up his hand for more than a few risky assignments, but this latest black bag operation with the CIA was one for the books. Of course, tabula rasa was the end goal—a blank slate that would clear his debts, expunge his record, and put him back on the path to living in peace.
The only obstacle in his way was the last High Value Individual (HVI) on the target deck, a final checkbox on the mission to locate seven American traitors who had scattered to the four corners of the earth. In order for Garrett to hang up his guns for good, he had joined a specialized counterintelligence task force made up of paramilitary gunslingers.
The mission objective was to deliver swift, but most importantly quiet justice. And like the ancient apostles, they were given their own version of the Great Commission, an assignment to convey a clear and distinct message to the fugitives and their Russian handlers. You can run. You can hide. But no matter where you go, we will hunt you down.
Former CIA operations officer Bill Watson, a turncoat of the worst kind, had been hustled from safe house to safe house until reaching his final departure point in the Lone Star State. He was smuggled aboard a trawler in Port Aransas and given over to mercenaries manning an oligarch’s superyacht. They were making a beeline for Havana Harbor when NSA cyber-induced technical difficulties killed their engine and left them stranded off the Texas coast.
Nearby and ready to pounce, Garrett waited in the belly of a Mark 11 SEAL Delivery Vehicle (SDV), a twenty-two-foot-long submersible that looked like a cross between a torpedo and the Little Boy atomic bomb. He saw nothing but pitch-blackness and heard only the humming whir of the electric motor—focusing on the rhythmic cadence of his respiration as it cycled through the closed-circuit rebreather.
To keep his mind occupied for the last two hours, Garrett recited the lyrics to Robert Earl Keen’s “Corpus Christi Bay” and pondered whether they should eat at Snoopy’s Pier or the Black Diamond Oyster Bar once they were back on the Texas Riviera. Either was a winner, but since it was his mission partner’s turn to buy, there were multiple factors at play. And sticking one another with a hefty tab had become somewhat of a costly, albeit time-honored tradition.
Garrett strained his eyes in vain to locate Mario Contreras inside the murky bowels of the mini-sub. Although only fifteen feet below the surface of the Gulf waters, it felt like the dark side of the moon. And it contributed to his growing unease. In any direct-action operation there are a million things that can go wrong. But in a subsea assault, multiply that by a factor of ten.
As a graduate of the Army’s Combat Diver Qualification Course (CDQC), Garrett was comfortable in the water and could hold his own among most Ranger Regiment and Special Forces frogmen. But the training he’d gone through in Key West, Florida, was a lifetime ago. And there was a hell of a big difference between simulation and real-world operations. Sneaking aboard a heavily guarded yacht to kidnap Watson was about as real-world as it gets.
The thought of drowning or being shot had certainly crossed Garrett’s mind, but the bulk of his worry was for the ones he’d leave behind. All he wanted to do was return to his ranch in the Texas Panhandle and spend the rest of his life training horses,
raising cattle, and, if Lacey would accept his marriage proposal, grow their blended families with a baby or two.
Garrett made a concerted effort to fret over something more relevant to the mission, like whether he’d changed the batteries in his night-vision goggles (NVGs). He’d just begun another mental check of his equipment when a light flashed—the signal given by either their pilot or navigator to let them know they’d arrived. Pulse racing, Garrett reached up and slid open the door in preparation to exit the sub. Despite the warmth of the water, he was feeling the chill of the lengthy submersion, and welcomed the chance to get moving.
It was a hundred-yard swim in the early morning darkness—no small task strapped down with gear. In addition to primary and secondary weapons, which included his DEA-issued LWRCI SIX8 rifle and a silenced Glock 17, Garrett would take an extra dive helmet and rebreather for the traitor Watson, whom they were bringing to justice. This spy gone awry was behind the brutal interrogation of another CIA operations officer named Kim Manning, their mission commander and Garrett’s dear friend. For this reason, and a whole host of others, Watson wouldn’t get off easy with a bullet to the head. He’d answer to Kim face-to-face.
Hatch doors open, Garrett grabbed his rifle and latched it to his chest with a carabiner. Armed and ready, he rose to a crouch and followed Mario’s lead, pushing off the floor to the outside. But the relief he gained by fleeing the metal coffin was short-lived, as claustrophobia gave way to the chilling naked exposure in the vastness of the black ocean.
Garrett flutter-kicked away and caught up with Mario, who was already a few yards ahead. He focused on the good weather, which included low illumination due to a brewing storm, and an unusually rough sea state. While the chop would make boarding the vessel trickier, the clap of waves on the hull would provide terrific sound cover to mask their assault.
In and out as quickly and quietly as possible was the key to their plan. They’d rehearsed it over and over with every contingency imaginable. But as they used to say back in Iraq and Afghanistan, the enemy gets a vote, too. Given their CIA team’s success in tracking down the other American defectors, there was no doubt the Russians would be prepared.
Garrett found himself winded at about fifty yards. Of course, he’d never let Mario know he’d struggled to keep up. As a former Green Beret, there were few things worse than admitting that to a SEAL.
When they reached the transom, Mario pulled his secondary weapon first, a silenced SIG Sauer P226. Pointing it up at the swim platform at the aft of the boat, the frogman gave a couple of flutter kicks to break the surface and held steady aim.
Garrett followed suit, sliding the Glock from his holster and aiming at the great unknown. Rising above the waves into the balmy air, he found what Mario had already discovered. Nothing. At least nothing that posed an immediate threat. Garrett covered his partner, who heaved himself onto the transom.
Cleared of any visible danger, Mario turned and offered a hand. A clasp of his wrist and a swift tug put them both on board. After slipping off his dive helmet and rebreather, Garrett removed his fins, secured them to a carabiner, and tossed them over his right shoulder.
Met by the pungent stench of wet cigarette ash, Garrett sucked in a couple of big breaths through his mouth and glanced around. The glint of at least a dozen crushed beer cans and a couple of rum bottles littered the aft deck.
Given the engine troubles, Garrett had fully prepared for the mercenaries to be on full alert. But in the small hours and pitch-blackness of the empty ocean, Watson and his minders had already let down their guard. In what they must’ve assumed would be smooth sailing to the friendly shores of Cuba, the celebration had already started with a helluva lot of booze.
Following his partner’s lead, Garrett grabbed the NVGs from his kit and secured them over his eyes. The immediate gray glow in the goggles’ illumination brought a sense of relief—the advantage of a predator who owned the night. Mario shouldered his primary, a short-barreled Noveske Mk18 rifle, and brought it to the low ready. Creeping methodically atop the teak deck, the former SEAL moved along the wall on the port side. Before passing each window of the main salon, he would halt for a peek, and then quicken his pace as he snuck by the opening.
Garrett trailed close behind, having memorized the number of steps it would take until reaching the side entry. With access to the yacht’s blueprints, and an exact replica at their disposal, they knew the boat inside and out. The problem was finding their HVI. The guest of honor should be enjoying the luxury of the primary suite, but if the guards were feeling extra cautious, then Watson might be sleeping on a bedroll down in the engine room.
As Garrett followed his CIA counterpart along the deck, he couldn’t help but be aware of each squishy tap of his wet dive booties. To mask the noise, he tried to keep in step with the lapping waves, a system that worked until they ducked into the side access door.
Transitioning from the low ready to ready to rock ’n’ roll, Garrett cleared the left side of the room as his partner swept right. In the grayish glow of his NVGs, he painted anything suspicious with the bright splotch of his infrared laser. Thankfully, other than
a mess of tequila, gin, and vodka bottles atop the dining room table, there was nothing much to see.
Skulking through the salon, Garrett couldn’t help but wonder how the yacht’s owner could have so much money and such bad taste. As if the gold and burgundy color scheme and floor-to-ceiling tapestries weren’t bad enough, they’d hung a disco ball from the ceiling. The décor could be described as Eurotrash chic, a visual abomination made worse by the walloping stank of cologne, cigars, and sweat that lingered heavy in the air.
Mario pushed ahead to the galley, just as practiced with perfect efficiency of motion. Fortunately, the area was clear. But a crew member on anchor watch or rummaging for a midnight snack had always been their biggest concern. With a vessel that could sleep up to two dozen, there was a damn good chance that someone was going to get the munchies.
Putting a bullet in one of the mercenaries didn’t faze Garrett a bit. They were former Spetsnaz—Russian special operators, who willingly joined and knew exactly what they’d signed up for. Smoking some poor stewardess who was just trying to feed her family back home, on the other hand, wasn’t an option. But he wasn’t so sure about his CIA partner, who was more accustomed to shooting first and forgetting to ask any questions later.
Mario cleared the cabin like the old-school pipe hitter that he was, keeping an even pace and perfect balance as he made a level sweep of the area, lighting every possible hide with his laser. He shuffled around a corner to clear a dinette space, a blind spot they’d highlighted from schematics, and thankfully kept moving.
Garrett gave a silent word of thanks to the Almighty as they passed a stairwell to the berth, where the crew was hopefully sleeping, and then trailed Mario into the hallway to the primary suite. Stacked single file as they moved forward, rifles at the ready, Garrett made a quick turn behind his mission partner and then a hard left down a pitch-black corridor.
Ten steps. Five steps. Three steps. One. Mario halted at the entrance to the main cabin. It had probably only been a couple of seconds for confirmation, but it felt like a lifetime to learn that Watson was where he was supposed to be. As practiced a million times before, Mario broke right and turned to cover the door while Garrett passed on through.
As Garrett pulled out the zip tie, he couldn’t help but smile. For the millions of dollars spent getting to this point, the final leg of the journey involved a tool of the trade that cost less than a few cents. Not only was Garrett about to capture the most destructive traitor in U.S. history, but his debt to the CIA would finally be paid off and he could get back to his family. It wasn’t even a toss-up as to which gave him more joy. All he could think about was home.
With only one obstacle
to that in his way, Garrett darted to the bed, flipped Watson over, and had his wrists shackled before the scumbag knew what hit him. The turncoat opened his mouth to yell for help but clamped it shut when he saw Mario’s rifle pointing at his face. Watson searched for answers, which he found in Garrett’s whispered explanation.
“They want you dead or alive, Bill.” Garrett tilted his head at his partner, who pressed the muzzle of his rifle to Watson’s forehead. “Move nice and quiet, and you’ll at least get a trial.”
The prisoner didn’t say a word—just nodded vigorously.
Although they’d only met once, Garrett had been wearing his usual attire—faded Wranglers, a Howler Brothers pearl snap, and Twisted X moccasins. In his black camo wet suit, he probably looked less like a human and more like a creature from the deep. It took a moment, but it was clear that Watson recognized him.
If the long, dark hair and heavy beard wasn’t a dead giveaway, then the thick Texas accent must’ve done the trick. Garrett grabbed Watson’s forearm, yanked him out of bed, and looked him over. No comms devices or weapons, just a pair of black skivvies. Safe to move.
Garrett couldn’t help but grin as he offered a little nugget of their exfil plan. “Gonna be a cold-ass trip in the back of that sub.”
A bewildered expression preceded Watson’s whispered response. “Sub?”
Garrett didn’t explain. The prisoner would get the picture soon enough when they shoved a dive helmet over his head and yanked him into the ocean. With Mario through the doorway, Garrett jabbed his rifle’s muzzle between Watson’s shoulder blades. They followed Mario’s lead, tiptoeing down the dark hallway. A right turn past a descending stairwell then a sharp left into the crew mess got them halfway back to freedom and safety.
Garrett was just starting to rest a little easier when a light flicked on from behind. A quick pivot and his laser found the silent prowler center mass. A squeeze of the trigger would’ve neutralized the threat, but the desperate eyes of this young brunette in a fuzzy pink bathrobe kept Garrett from firing. Shuffling backward as she began to hyperventilate, her bare feet tap-tap-tapped on the vinyl floor until her back slammed against the massive Sub-Zero refrigerator to her rear.
Lowering his barrel, Garrett flipped up his NVGs and put a finger to his lips. As he smiled his gentlest smile and pushed the air with an open palm, the girl seemed to calm after a few deep breaths. She eased her hands up and gave a slight nod, conveying her compliance.
Turning to Mario, Garrett pointed at the exit ahead and jabbed his finger at the door. It took his partner an uncomfortably long time to shift aim, but he eventually made a quick pivot and moved into the main salon. Of course, Garrett knew that once she sounded the alarm, they’d have about thirty seconds to get to the platform where their gear was tethered to the transom.
If a shoot-out erupted, the chaos of the moment would buy them enough time to get off the back of the boat, but not much else. As soon as they hit the water they’d be shredded by gunfire.
Garrett nudged Watson with the muzzle and the turncoat dutifully marched forward.
They trailed Mario around the dining table, between two leather sofas and through the side door. As they stepped outside, Garrett lofted up a quiet Praise Jesus that there were no screams, no sirens, and no frantic footsteps of rushing guards. There was only the howl of the ocean wind, the lap of waves on the hull, and then the check-check of Mario’s suppressed rifle.
The Russian sentry on his early morning rounds never even saw it coming. He just crumpled where he stood at the top of the stairwell, dropping his Brügger & Thomet MP9 submachine gun, which slid across the teak and dinged against a railing. Mario engaged the twitching body twice more as he glided past—head on a swivel in search of the next threat.
Garrett jammed the end of his suppressor at his prisoner’s back and gave it some pressure, a tacit clue to pick up the pace as they moved down the stairs. Now compromised, every step along the deck seemed amplified. With Watson clomping alongside them, they had all the stealth and subtlety of a stumbling drunk teenager banging on bongos.
Once they’d reached the transom at the back of the yacht, Garrett clipped his primary on to the carabiner and drew his Glock to cover Mario. They’d rehearsed the drill a million times before, but there’s nothing like game day. Every action was labored—his movements jerky—even flipping the selector switch on his rifle had taken a couple of clumsy tries.
As his partner brought their dive equipment onto the deck, Garrett kept one eye on the prisoner, the other on the long stretch of balcony behind them. With his sights drifting left to right and back again, he took in the scene in the gray glow of his night vision, wondering why in the hell the girl in the galley had not roused the guards.
Was she too scared? Did she hate them? Had she been in a sleepwalking haze and gone back to bed thinking it was all a bad dream?
About halfway through this wishful thinking the lights flicked on and bathed the transom in a yellowish glow. Garrett flipped his NVGs up and saw a shirtless mercenary leaning over the rail. Finding the guy’s face in his sights, he pulled slack out of the trigger and squeezed. The guard’s body spasmed as it rocked backward and dropped out of sight behind the stainless-steel barrier. Garrett turned to find Mario securing a dive helmet onto a frantic-faced Watson. Ready to exfil, the former SEAL drew his sidearm and provided security just as rehearsed.
After holstering his pistol, Garrett strapped on his rebreather, just as the rattle of machine guns came from behind. Mario unloaded on the shooter with his SIG, and its r
ounds tinged and sparked off the brass handrail. The gunman ducked, hung his arm over, and fired blindly, splintering the deck below until his ammo was spent. With a mag change in progress, Mario jumped into the black water, prisoner in tow, and submerged beneath the waves.
Garrett turned back for one last look just as a blast struck him center mass. The whap of the buckshot met his chest with the force of a Louisville Slugger. The body armor saved his life, but the shrill hiss from his mangled rebreather told him everything he needed to know. He would not be departing the same way he’d arrived.
Garrett dashed across the transom and threw his back against the hull, finding minimal cover behind the stairs. He knew that Mario would return for him. They’d planned for every eventuality, and there was no circumstance where either would be left behind. But he’d have to buddy-breathe to the sub—doable but not easy—especially when huffing in air after a firefight.
Garrett dropped an empty mag, popped in a fresh one, and hit the bolt release. In a lull in the shooting, he leaned left and peered around the edge to get an eye on the enemy. But the calm was soon broken by another spray of buckshot that clipped his left shoulder. Jerking back for cover, Garrett instinctively mashed his palm down on the stinging flesh wound.
Zeroed in by the shooter, Garrett raised his rifle and swore that he’d get the bastard who’d blasted him twice. The guys with automatic weapons seemed to fire blindly but the one with the 12-gauge was a hunter, picking his shots with patience and care.
Rising to a crouch, Garrett moved to the low ready and strained his thigh muscles as he eased upward at a glacial pace, back flush with the wall. Head still below cover, he stopped short of the threshold and readied himself for a move. Spotting his new hidey-hole in the underbelly of a set of stairs on the starboard side, Garrett sprinted across the deck.
Gunfire erupted into a cacophony of cracks and snaps, but the gamble paid off. With the boat lights blazing, the gunmen became silhouetted in his optics. Leaning over the rail they were wide-open. Starting on the left, Garrett set his red dot on the dark mass and fired three times. With the shadow gone, he slid right and found the next in line. Ducking as a blast of buckshot peppered the iron stairs above his head, he drew up his barrel in a hasty search.
As the hunter with the shotgun was ejecting a shell, Garrett found his target and landed a double tap to the chest. The check-check of his suppressed rifle preceded a spray of glimmering crimson
The shooter slumped over the rail, somersaulted midair, and slammed face-first onto the teak with a mushy thud. With the 12-gauge out of commission, Garrett locked on to the next target who was firing down from above. The gunman had just polished off a mag and turned to run when Garrett found his mark. He squeezed twice and the bad guy smacked the deck.
Grabbing a spare dive mask from his pouch, Garrett couldn’t help but remember the immortal words of his old DEA mentor. Joe Bob Dawson used to say that two is one and one is none. And damned if that hadn’t proved to be true. With reinforcements on the way, Garrett dove into the water and crammed under the yacht’s transom overhang, just as a hail of bullets rained down from above, pecking the water all around him.
Diving beneath the boat brought about a feeling of both dread and reprieve. The first minute of submersion was tranquil considering his position. And that wasn’t by accident. Combat diving was as mental as it was physical. He’d managed to occupy his mind until something grazed his thigh, and he became suddenly aware of his bleeding shoulder and the kind of sea critters in the Gulf that might take interest. Having missed a good breath, his lungs were on fire. But it wasn’t a mind-over-matter kind of pain. It was the electric throb of a body depleted of oxygen and the flashing red alarm that he was about to drown.
Kicking back to the surface, Garrett banged his head on the hull and gulped in a mouthful of salt water. He hacked out the caustic brine that spewed from his nostrils and fought to suck in air between each bone-jarring cough. Nowhere to go but down, Garrett grabbed his detector to locate the SDV’s internal beacon. The handheld device gave a digital reading of the vessel’s location. He had just activated it when machine-gun fire unleashed from the deck.
Ducking beneath the water, Garrett swam beneath the yacht and came up gasping on the other side. Met with another hail of bullets, he resubmerged and pulled up his gauge to locate the sub. He was completely spent, but there was no going back to the surface. Garrett tried to resist the temptation to gulp in air, but his body was starving for oxygen. Light-headed and nauseous, he rolled forward and flutter-kicked into the black abyss below.
A quick glance at the detector showed the bar turning from orange to yellow to green. He was at least headed toward the sub. With adrenaline racing and the hope of rescue, the first thirty feet of his descent was a breeze until that voice in the back of his mind chimed in—the one that asks, What if it’s too far? It was in that moment of doubt when he felt the burn—not only from his shredded lungs, but in the panic-stricken terror that he wasn’t going to make it.
Body quaking, neck tightening, Garrett fought the irrational urge to open his mouth and breathe. It was then that he realized there was no turning back. A couple more labored kicks got him into a free fall to the ocean floor, but he was no closer to salvation. He came to the grim conclusion that he’d never see his loved ones again.
Praying as desperate a prayer as he’d ever prayed, Garrett grasped for something—anything—a shred of hope that this wasn’t the end. In that moment, he saw the glimmer of light, a pulsing glow just a few feet ahead. Whether it was bioluminescence, an oxygen-deprived hallucination, or one of God’s holy angels beckoning him to Glory, Garrett wasn’t sure. He only knew that it was something, which was exactly what he’d asked
for.
Two more kicks, then a regulator was shoved in his mouth so suddenly it didn’t seem real. The sub’s auxiliary air given to him by Mario was pumping the sweetest oxygen he’d ever breathed. A lot of things should’ve captured his focus but all he could think of was one—an orphan from Afghanistan—his son. Asadi was all that mattered now. Garrett vowed right then and there that when he returned home, he was never going to leave again.
Three days later . . .
Canadian, Texas
Asadi Saleem Kohl stood in line at the middle school cafeteria watching a fistful of french fries drop next to the pizza on his tray. It was a culinary combo that he loved but didn’t quite understand. Since his arrival in America, he’d experienced a few challenges in his transition from life in Afghanistan. Adapting to the local fare had not been one of them. He could happily dine on barbecued brisket, chicken fried steak, and Blue Bell ice cream for the rest of his life.
Shuffling right for his chocolate milk, he glanced down to admire his new Twisted X cowboy boots—the same exact style that his dad wore. Even better, they’d caught the eye of his girlfriend. And impressing her was right up there with earning approval from his grandpa, Butch.
Asadi had just sidled up to the milk cooler to find there was nothing left but skim. Deflated at the thought of having to suffer through that, he glanced at the lunch lady for help. Mrs. Lupe had taken a liking to him early on because of his accent, which fell somewhere between his choppy village Pashto and a relaxed Texas twang that he’d picked up on the ranch.
He’d just mustered the right words to make his request when she dropped her tongs and a hand flew to her chest. Jaw slack, Mrs. Lupe turned and bolted through the kitchen, out of a side door, and into the hallway. Dying to know what startled her, Asadi turned back to the dining area, just as the in-unison oooohhhh that usually followed a solid putdown or preceded a fistfight echoed through the cafeteria. ...
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