Navy SEAL Survival (15 page)

“We won't borrow trouble.” Duff stared at the ocean in front of him. “Let's get to where we're going and put eyes on the situation.”

In the distance Duff could make out the thirty-mile-long island of Cozumel.

“They're slowing,” Lance glanced up, his eyes wide, energy rippling off him.

“Around Cozumel?” Duff asked.

“Off the northern coastline of Cozumel.”

“Isn't most of the development on the east coast?” Duff asked.

“The resorts and tourist areas are. But there are some million-dollar mansions on some of the less accessible areas. People can only reach some of these by boat.”

“Will you be able to tell if she goes ashore?”

“Yes. The tracking device can track the exact location to within mere inches.” Lance adjusted the screen display to enlarge the image of the island. “It appears as though they are anchoring in a private cove.”

“Good. And we'll need to know if we're going to make a ship-to-ship breach or if we'll be going ashore. Either way, we'll get Natalie and Kylie out of there.” Duff stared at the map. “We'll stop out of sight of the cove and go in using the diver propulsion device to recon what we can in daylight.”

As they neared the island Duff aimed the yacht toward the northern tip of Cozumel, stopping short of rounding the point.

“So what's the plan?” Lance asked.

“We're going fishing.” Duff hit the switch to lower the anchor, letting it fall to the ocean floor.

Lance's brows dipped. “Fishing?”

“Well, you are. Three of you will stay with the yacht and pretend to fish. Hell, if you catch anything, we can cook it for supper.” Duff shut off the engine and moved toward his team. “Sawyer, you're with me.”

“What do you want us to do besides fish?” Montana asked.

“Get the gear together for a night raid. We need to be prepared for climbing onto a boat or going ashore. All the while, you'll be pretending to fish, in case the people holding Natalie have a more elaborate security system that includes this side of the point.”

Montana popped a salute. “Gotcha.” He turned to Quentin. “Hear that? We're gonna get to do that fishing you wanted to do, after all.”

Quentin grinned. “If you thought the armory was impressive, you should see the fishing gear this guy has.”

The men checked serviceability and fuel levels on the diver propulsion device. Using a small boom system, they hooked up the DPD and lowered it into the water. Duff and Sawyer geared up in black wetsuits, hoods and scuba gear.

Duff stepped off the back of the boat into the water and sank several feet. The water cooled him in the thick wetsuit. Kicking his fins, he surfaced, adjusted his mask and climbed aboard the propulsion device. The engine started immediately. Duff thanked God for a fastidious yacht owner who knew his military-grade equipment and kept it in great shape.

Sawyer dropped into the water and swam over to him. “Ready?”

“Climb on.” Duff stretched into the prone position, holding on to the handles. Sawyer piggybacked Duff, holding on to the side handles of the craft.

They set off. The DPD submerged and left only their heads above the water long enough for them to get around the northern tip of the island. Once around the tip, Duff weaved in and out of the rocky shoreline until they approached a cove. He slowed the craft and let it drift in the waves as they studied the water and the island terrain. Three yachts were anchored in the small bay. A white mansion dominated the hill, overlooking the white crescent of a sandy beach.

The mansion was surrounded by stucco walls, the structure rising three stories, massive windows facing the ocean. A dream house for the rich. A nightmare for anyone unlucky enough to be imprisoned within the walls. The hill surrounding the mansion was thick with short, scrubby vegetation. Not the kind they could easily push their way through in a hurry. If they wanted to gain access to the mansion, it would have to be by sea.

As Duff and Sawyer bobbed in the water, movement on one of the yachts closest to shore captured Duff's attention. Two men climbed into a dinghy at the rear of the yacht and turned to face the boat. Another man emerged on deck, carrying something large over his shoulder. A flash of hot pink made Duff's pulse ratchet up. Based on size and shape, Duff had a good idea what it was the man was carrying. Or rather who.

Kylie had been wearing a pink shirt when she'd been touring Chichén Itzá. The man carrying her dropped her into the arms of one of the men on the dinghy. He caught her and laid her out on one of the seats. Then he turned to face the yacht again.

Another man emerged from a cabin, another body thrown over his shoulder. The woman in the white blouse and cut-off shorts could be none other than Natalie.

His hand on the throttle of the DPD, Duff hesitated. As much as he wanted to rush in and rescue Natalie and Kylie, racing up to the yacht or dinghy would only get him and Sawyer killed.

As if to prove his own point, a shadow moved on the deck and a man holding a submachine gun appeared, his weapon pointing outward toward the other boats in the cove. Another thug dressed in black pants, a black shirt, a black cap and sunglasses, also carrying a submachine gun, stood against the upper railing and stared down at the operation. He lifted his head and stared out at the other yachts in the cove, his head turning as if to take in all movement.

“Going deep,” Duff said. He and Sawyer sank to the bottom, directly beneath the yacht.

When he'd been down a good two minutes, he surfaced.

The man in black no longer stood on the top deck. The dinghy pulled away from the back of the yacht and motored toward the shore, with the man in the black cap sitting at the bow, facing the mansion. It didn't take long for the dinghy to run up on the sand. The women were lifted out and carried up the hill toward the mansion.

“At least we know where the women are,” Duff said, his jaw hard, his gut clenched.

“I take it we'll be back after dark,” Sawyer said behind him.

“Damn right we will.” Once the men carrying the women disappeared behind the wall of the estate, Duff turned his attention to the other yachts in the harbor. A man stood on the deck of one, his gaze having followed the progress of the women.

He wore white slacks and a sky-blue polo shirt. He had blond hair and broad shoulders. Duff squinted against the bright sunshine. If he wasn't mistaken, the man in the blue shirt was Rex Masters, the former Army Special Forces sniper. As he stood staring out at the progress of the women being transferred to the mansion, he was joined on deck by a man wearing tailored khaki slacks, a long-sleeved, white, button-up shirt and a light-colored fedora. His facial features were indiscernible beneath the hat and mirrored sunglasses. Considerably shorter than Rex, he appeared thin and somewhat frail in comparison to the former army ranger. He spoke to Rex, waving toward the shore.

Rex nodded several times.

The man in the fedora stared toward the shore for a moment longer, then returned to the cabin.

Rex lifted a pair of binoculars and stared through them toward the mansion.

From what Duff could tell, Rex worked for the man in the fedora. Perhaps he was the scout to find the women his boss desired. Or he was security to his wealthy employer.

Duff's fists tightened around the handles of the DPD. What kind of sick bastard employed former American military to run interference for him?

If Rex was involved in trafficking those women, Duff would make certain the man paid dearly for forsaking his pledge to duty, honor and protecting the freedom of the people in his country.

“Come on, we need to get back and come up with a plan.”

“I spotted a number of gunmen on each of the yachts,” Sawyer said. “And that doesn't count the ones in the mansion compound itself. I might have caught glimpses of them, but not much more. I couldn't give you an accurate count.”

“We'll figure it out when we get there. We'll just have to be loaded for bear.” Duff swung the DPD and headed back around the point to the yacht on the other side. The sun lay low in the sky on its path toward the horizon.

Ahead, the yacht cut a long shadow across the water. Three men stood on deck, fishing poles in hand.

When Duff and Sawyer pulled up alongside the yacht, Montana and Quentin were there to tie the DPD to the back. They'd need it again later when darkness settled over the island.

“Stow your fishing gear,” Duff said. “We're going hunting tonight.”

Chapter Fourteen

Natalie had no idea where they'd been taken. All she knew was they were being transported from the boat to land. At least on land she might have more of a chance of escaping her captors. While waiting in the cabin belowdecks, she'd tried to wake Kylie several times. Unfortunately the dosage they'd given the girl, on top of the last dosage, had knocked her out. Natalie took comfort in the fact she was still breathing.

If Kylie had been awake and able to swim, Natalie would have attempted a get away as soon as the yacht stopped and they'd been carried out on deck and loaded into a dinghy. She could have easily overturned the dinghy with the three men on board. While they scrambled to save their own lives, Natalie would have led Kylie to shore and hidden in the vegetation.

Then again, the vegetation was thick but short. She'd have to find her way through it. To what, she didn't know. If they were on the mainland, she might be hiking a very long time before finding anyone to help them. If they were on an island, it might be a private island with nowhere to go. She'd have to stay hidden until Lance notified Royce and her old boss sent in the cavalry to rescue her.

She didn't think the Navy SEALs would have access to what they'd need to stage a rescue. They weren't on a mission. They were on vacation. Unless Royce armed them and sent them in. If that was the case, she hoped the SEALs wouldn't get in trouble for participating in an unsanctioned mission.

She mustered every ounce of self-control to give the appearance of being semiconscious as opposed to fully aware. When the men came to get her and Kylie, she'd pretended to be drugged to the point she couldn't fight back as one of the men threw her over his shoulder. Kylie didn't have to pretend; she was out.

They were loaded into a dinghy and transported to shore where they were carried up the beach to a walled compound. A white-stucco mansion towered above the walls. A gate opened as they approached and they entered the compound, passing by men with serious-looking machine guns.

“Took you long enough,” a man said in English. In Spanish he told the men to follow him.

The voice sounded familiar to Natalie, but she couldn't see the man's face. With her head hanging down behind her henchman's back she could only see what they passed.

They climbed a long, wide staircase leading up to the mansion. The sun slid low in the sky. It would be dark soon. Natalie had to get her, Kylie and anyone else trapped in the mansion out. She prayed this was the place she'd find Melody. And when she did, she'd get them all out. Alive. She also prayed she'd come up with a way to do that.

Once inside the mansion they were carried down long corridors, twisting and turning into the back of the structure. They descended another set of stairs, the hallway narrower and darker and lined with what appeared to be metal doors on both sides. Each was equipped with a heavy-duty lock requiring a key to open it from the outside.

The sound of metal scraping metal indicated their host was unlocking one of the doors.

Natalie wanted to lean around her captor to see the man with the familiar voice, but she couldn't give herself away. Natalie and Kylie's freedom depended on her faking the extent of the drug's effect.

As she passed through the open door, she glanced up through her lashes.

The man had turned to speak to one of the other guards in Spanish. All Natalie could make out through the gaps between her eyelashes was that he had dark hair.

The man carrying Natalie let her slide off his shoulder, landing hard on her side on a concrete floor. Kylie was dropped beside her. The henchmen backed out of the room, closed the door behind them and the lock clicked in place.

The tiny room was much like a jail cell with nothing other than a sink and a toilet on one side.

Natalie stared at each corner, searching for cameras. Nothing indicated the room was tapped for sound or images. She could move around without worrying someone would figure out she no longer was drugged.

She rolled over to where Kylie lay sprawled on the concrete, her blond hair tangled around her face. Natalie pushed the hair out of her eyes and tapped the young woman's face. “Kylie. Wake up.”

The girl's eyes fluttered and opened briefly, revealing that they were glassy and bloodshot with dilated pupils.

“Hey, sweetie,” Natalie said softly. “You need to shake it off.”

“Can't move,” she said.

“Start with your fingers and toes.”

“Tired,” she muttered, her eyelids closing. “Sleep.”

“No, sweetie.” Natalie shook her. “You have to wake up. We have to find a way out of here.” Natalie grabbed one of her hands and slapped her palm. “Please, Kylie. I can't carry you out, and I won't leave you behind.”

Kylie's eyes remained closed but her fingers moved.

“That's it. You moved them. Now, move your toes.” Natalie's chest squeezed. How was she going to get them out of there when she had no way to unlock the door? And she couldn't carry Kylie. She'd never move fast enough to escape.

She rolled to her feet and stood in front of the door. Damn. There was no doorknob on the inside. Even if she had a hairpin or file, she couldn't pick the lock. She'd have to wait for someone to open the door and then make her move.

A soft sobbing sound made Natalie stop and hold her breath. It hadn't been from Kylie. It had come from outside the room they were trapped in.

Natalie pressed her ear to the door and listened.

More sobbing and a hiccup.

“Hello?” Natalie called out.

The sobbing stopped.

Natalie tried again, her heart pounding against her ribs. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

“
Ja
,” the voice sounded.
“Vem är där?”

It was a woman's voice, but she wasn't speaking English. “My name is Natalie. Do you speak English?”

She didn't answer immediately, then she said softly, “A little.”

“What's your name?” Natalie asked.

“Sigrid.”

“Are you from Sweden?” Natalie asked, her breathing ragged, her eyes stinging.

“Ja.”

Natalie closed her eyes to keep tears from falling. She had to swallow several times before she could speak past the knot in her throat. “Are there any other women here?”

“Ja.”
Sigrid sniffed. “
Två
—how you say?—two.”

“Do you know their names?” Natalie braced her palm on the door, her ear pressed hard to the metal surface, straining for what she wanted to hear.

An answer came from farther down the hall. “I'm Katherine Stanton.”

Her accent was decidedly Australian, if somewhat slurred.

“Is there another woman?” A tear slipped down Natalie's face.

“There was,” Katherine said. “She was taken out of here just before you arrived. They said something about she was up first for sale.”

“Did she tell you her name?” Natalie couldn't bear another moment.

“Melody, I think,” Katherine said. “Yes, she said her name was Melody.”

Natalie sank to her knees, the tears spilling down her cheek. Her sister was alive. Deep in her heart, she'd known. But hearing the other woman say she'd been there moments before filled Natalie's heart with a great joy and a profound terror.

Brushing her tears away, she rose to her feet. “Do you know why they brought you here?” Natalie asked.

Sigrid's sobs started and an answering whimper came from down the hall.

“They're going to sell us.” Katherine's voice caught on the last word.

“Not if I can help it.” Natalie's tone was firm and determined. “We're going to get out of here.”

“How? They have guns. We're on an island. Nobody knows we're here.”

Sigrid's sobs grew louder.

Katherine had already lost hope, as had Sigrid.

“Are they still drugging you?” Natalie asked. “Do you know?”

“They haven't injected anything into us since we came, but I don't feel right. I'm dizzy and tired all the time.”

“Are they feeding you?” Natalie persisted.

“Yes. They usually bring food twice a day. Once in the morning and again at sunset.”

“The drug might be in the food or water.” Natalie leaned close to the door. “Don't eat or drink again until we get out of here.”

“What are you going to do?” Katherine asked.

“I don't know yet, but you need to be ready when I figure it out.”

Her opportunity came knocking with the clomping footsteps in the hallway. A key scraped in the lock.

Natalie dropped to the floor and waited as the door swung open.

* * *

T
HE
DIVER
PROPULSION
device was taxed to its maximum capabilities taking all four SEALs around the point. The men hung on, knowing the DPD would get them there faster and conserve their energy for the fight ahead.

Since Duff and Sawyer had performed their reconnaissance, more yachts had arrived. Now, instead of the three that had been there before, there were eight yachts of various sizes anchored in the cove, their dinghies deployed and resting on the beach, guarded by one of their crew.

Sawyer dropped Duff near one of the larger yachts and then angled the DPD toward the shore where he and the others would wait for him. They would slip from the water, haul the DPD up on the beach and bury it in sand or hide it in the shadows of the underbrush rimming the white sandy beach. They'd wait for Duff before moving forward, needing every man to make this operation viable.

Duff dived beneath the surface and swam up to a fifty-foot luxury yacht, careful not to bump his tank against the hull. He couldn't afford to make a sound that would attract the attention of one the armed guards standing watch on the deck.

Pulling a packet of Semtex plastic explosives from inside his vest, he pressed it against the hull and jammed a detonator into the claylike mass. The charge would be a backup in case they needed a distraction. Once the charge was in place, he swam for shore and the designated landing zone where his team waited.

Sawyer, Montana and Quentin had their gear off but were still dressed in the black wetsuits and masks. They'd piled their fins, tanks and buoyancy control devices on the beach near the vegetation. For any casual observer glancing at the shoreline from a distance, the pile appeared to be just another big bush. Duff shucked his gear and added it to the pile.

“Whatever they have planned is happening tonight,” Duff said, fitting the earbuds of the two-way radio headset into his ears. Lance had wrapped them carefully in a waterproof bag along with the two-way radio they would use if they needed Lance to pull a Hail Mary and drive the yacht into the cove to extract them.

Lance had passed on to his boss back in the States the location of the women and the potential of them being sold at auction that night. His boss had promised backup as soon as he could mobilize a team. In the meantime it would be up to the SEALs to stage a rescue operation to free Natalie, Kylie and any other captives.

As well as the communication equipment, they had brought along a larger waterproof bag with the submachine guns, pistols and knives.

Duff took point, followed by Sawyer, Quentin and Montana. Montana would provide cover fire if they were unable to make a silent entry.

As they neared the stuccoed eight-foot wall, Duff told himself getting into the compound would be just like scaling the mud walls of Afghan villages. They were a good seventy-five feet away from the entry gate. Unfortunately all of the visitors were apparently inside and there would be no one to distract the guards while the men slipped over the fence.

Duff glanced at the sky, eyeing a drifting cloud, heading toward the bright moon. As bright white as the walls of the compound were, their black wet suits would stand out when they breached it. Timing would be everything.

Clouds passed over the moon. Sawyer cupped his hand. Duff stepped into it and pulled himself up to the top of the wall.

The gate guards were smoking cigarettes, their guns slung over their shoulders.

Duff dropped to the ground and rolled into the nearby shrubs. He aimed his submachine gun at the guards, ready to provide cover should they turn toward his position.

Sawyer dropped down next. Quentin stayed atop the wall long enough to haul Montana up, then the two of them landed on the ground and rolled into the brush.

The cloud cover floated away, leaving the grounds exposed to the moonlight.

One of the guards dropped his cigarette and ground it out with his foot, then turned toward where Duff and his team hid in the brush.

After a tense moment he turned back to the other guard and spoke in Spanish. They laughed and pulled out another cigarette.

Hunkered low to the ground, Duff moved toward the mansion, hugging the shadows of the bushes and palm trees. As he neared the house he paused in the shadow of a palm and studied the wide porches. Entering through the front door wasn't an option. There had to be other entrances, including a servant's entrance. He eased around the side and stepped up onto a wide porch. Hugging the shadows of the deep overhang, he slipped up to a French door that appeared to open into a study or library with shelves of books lining the walls. He tried the door handle. It was locked.

Keeping that entrance in mind, he worked his way along the porch to the rear of the building where several utility carts were parked. A door opened and two guards exited the building laughing and speaking in Spanish. Each carried rifles that appeared to be similar to the M-4s used by the American military. They split and headed in opposite directions—one away from Duff, the other toward him.

Duff shrank back against the wall of the building, pulled his knife from the scabbard on his thigh and waited for the guard to pass.

The guard didn't know what hit him. As soon as he passed the shadowed area where Duff stood, Duff slipped up behind him and dispatched him. No fuss, no cries of pain. The man slipped to the ground in a silent heap. Duff dragged him behind a bush and wiped the blood from the knife on the man's shirt.