Chapter 3 - The Art of the Ambush“Stay behind me,” I instructed Elena, adjusting my grip on the aluminum bat. My tactical instincts were firing on all cylinders now, filtering out the ambient hum of the ship’s turbines and zeroing in on the acoustic signatures around us.
We crept along the catwalk overlooking the massive, cathedral-like expanse of the ship’s primary engine room. Giant pistons pumped rhythmically below us, casting long, demonic shadows across the steel grating.
Two of Gregory’s private security thugs—mercenaries wearing unmarked black tactical vests—were patrolling the lower landing. They were armed with heavy metal flashlights and collapsible batons, scanning the shadows with arrogant carelessness. They didn’t expect a target who knew how to clear a room.
“Check the north sector,” the taller guard grunted to his partner, turning his back toward the vertical access ladder.
That was all the window I needed.
“Stay here,” I whispered to Elena.
I dropped silently from the upper catwalk onto a mid-level pipe junction ten feet below, landing with absolute, cat-like silence. I closed the distance across the steel floor in three silent strides before the guard even realized the air pressure had shifted.
Before he could turn, I hooked my arm around his neck in a rear-naked choke, using his own body weight to drop him instantly into unconsciousness without a sound. His partner spun around, his baton snapping open with a sharp metallic clack.
“Hey! What the—?”
He lunged forward with a horizontal strike aimed at my temple. I ducked under the arc, drove my boot heel hard into his kneecap with a sickening crunch, and as he buckled downward, I brought the heavy aluminum bat down across the back of his neck.
He hit the steel floor like a sack of stones.
Elena hurried down the ladder, staring at the two unconscious mercenaries in stunned disbelief. “You… you took down two armed men in less than ten seconds.”
“They’re corporate thugs, not operators,” I said, quickly stripping the taller guard of his radio headset, tactical utility knife, and a heavy-duty master keycard. “They rely on intimidation, not discipline. Grab his belt kit. We need his comms unit so we can listen to their operational chatter.”
I strapped the radio to my shoulder and keyed the listening frequency. Robert Hartman’s voice was crackling through the static immediately.
“Report! Did you find the target?”
I lowered my pitch slightly, pressing the transmission button with my thumb.
“Sector clear, Mr. Hartman,” I barked in a gruff, imitation-filtered tone. “We’re sweeping the lower freight elevators now. No sign of her yet.”
“Keep moving. The captain is locking down all external communications feeds. If she reaches a satellite phone, we’re all finished. Find her and bring her to the bridge.”
“Copy that,” I released the button and looked at Elena. “The bridge. That’s where the master radio transmitter is housed. If we can override their signal blockers and broadcast an emergency distress beacon to the U.S. Coast Guard before we cross the international boundary line, the entire operation crumbles.”
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“It’s suicide,” Elena breathed, turning pale. “The bridge is guarded by at least six armed men, and Gregory’s father has a direct line to the captain.”
“Maybe,” I said, spinning the aluminum bat in my hand. “But suicide is just another word for an aggressive flanking maneuver.”
