Chapter 6 - The Assault on the Vanguard
The waters of Lake Michigan were treacherous at three in the morning. Black waves six feet high smashed against the bow of our two low-profile, radar-evading assault boats as we cut through the freezing fog at forty knots.
I stood at the helm of the lead boat, wearing full tactical gear, my night-vision goggles strapped over my head.
Through the green-tinted phosphor lens, the towering black silhouette of the Vanguard loomed out of the mist like a floating iron fortress. She was an old, three-hundred-foot cargo vessel, covered in rust and oil stains, her deck piled high with dilapidated shipping containers.
"Four minuses to intercept, Boss," Vic reported over the encrypted comms channel. "Thermal imaging shows eight armed guards on the main deck, two on the bridge, and three inside the lower crew quarters."
"And the engine room?" I asked.
"Clean," Leo answered from the second boat trailing a hundred yards behind us. "We’ve jammed their ship-to-shore communications. They have no idea we’re on the water."
"No lethal force unless necessary until we confirm Maya’s location," I ordered, my heart thumping a heavy, rhythmic cadence against my ribs. "I want them alive if possible. If they drop into the hold, eliminate them immediately."
We killed the engines fifty yards out, letting the momentum of the waves glide our sleek black hulls against the massive steel flank of the cargo ship.
Vic launched a silent pneumatic grappling hook over the starboard railing. The titanium claw latched onto the iron gutter with a barely audible clack.
I was the first up the rope.
My hands, scarred and hardened by years of violence, gripped the wet nylon as I hauled myself up the thirty-foot iron hull. I swung my boots over the railing, dropping silently onto the slippery steel deck behind a stack of rusted oil drums.
Two guards wearing heavy winter parkas were walking toward the stern, smoking cigarettes and chatting in hushed Russian.
I didn't give them a chance to turn around.
I moved forward like a shadow, driving the butt of my tactical shotgun into the base of the first guard's skull. As he crumpled, Vic appeared over the rail, wrapping his forearm around the second guard’s neck in a tight, oxygen-depriving chokehold until the man went limp in his arms.
"Starboard deck secure," Vic whispered, dragging the two unconscious bodies into the shadows between two shipping containers.
We moved fast and silent through the labyrinth of iron passages. One by one, Vance’s mercenaries were neutralized before they even realized their perimeter had been breached.
Within twelve minutes, the main deck and the bridge were secured.
I stood at the top of the heavy iron stairs leading down into the dark, echoing belly of the ship’s lower hold. The air coming up from below smelled of stale grease, saltwater, and mold.
"Leo," I said into my headset. "Where is the thermal hit?"
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"Lowest level, Boss," Leo replied, his voice crackling through the earpiece. "Reinforced storage locker right beneath the main engine shaft. There's one guard standing outside the door."
I pulled my Colt .45, took a deep, steadying breath, and descended into the dark.
