Chapter 26 - Boarding the Leviathan
The icy swells of the lake splashed over the rubberized collar of our interceptor as we drifted alongside the stern of The Pacific Horizon.
“Hold the boat steady right here,” I whispered to Ethan, checking the pneumatic grappling launcher clamped to my forearm.
“Be careful,” Ethan murmured, gripping the steering console. “If those mercenaries have motion sensors on the swim platform, you’ll trip an alarm before your boots even touch the teak.”
“They’re looking at radar screens, not water-level hatches,” I replied with a cold smile.
I raised my arm, aiming the pneumatic launcher toward the lower maintenance deck overhang of the yacht. With a quiet, pneumatic hiss, the titanium grappling hook shot upward, its reinforced tungsten claws biting deep into the reinforced aluminum framework of the stern hatch.
With a sharp tug to test the line, I engaged the ascender motor on my belt rig. In less than three seconds, I was hoisted smoothly up the vertical hull, slipping effortlessly through the open maintenance hatch into the darkened lower bilges of the vessel.
The interior of The Pacific Horizon smelled of rich teakwood, expensive cigar smoke, and underlying hints of hot marine diesel engines. Red emergency low-level lighting cast long, crimson shadows across the bulkheads.
Drawing my Sig Sauer, I moved forward along the narrow corridor, my boots making no sound against the heavy marine carpeting.
My tactical earpiece hissed softly before Ethan’s voice cut through: “Commander, I’m reading three active thermal signatures on the main deck above you. Looks like a command center. They’re tracking a secure satellite connection—they’re trying to brute-force a decryption sequence into our secondary servers back at the villa.”
“Not on my watch,” I whispered back.
I located the spiral service stairwell leading up to the main salon and crept upward, step by measured step, keeping my weapon raised and my senses razor-sharp.
Through the polished brass slats of the upper stairwell door, I could see the main salon. It had been converted into a tactical communications hub. Two armed mercenaries stood guard near the sliding glass doors, while a nervous-looking tech operative frantically typed away at a bank of ruggedized satellite laptops set up on a long mahogany dining table.
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And standing right behind him, swirling a glass of amber scotch, was a man I recognized instantly from the intelligence briefings: Viktor Petrov, General Petrov’s nephew and the operational commander of the syndicate’s western hemisphere network.
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