Page 4 of Ricochet

CHAPTER TWO

“This is the one.” The second team radioed in. “We’ve found the container ID.”

Colin and the Delta team came to a standstill, listening to the report from the opposite side of the carrier.

“Roger that,” their CO responded. “Get Delta your location.”

“Second level, top side, deck grid 404.”

Colin circled his fist in the air, and they changed directions, eyes still wary andon the lookout. Given the Kamikaze situation in the quarterdeck and the amount of fire the second team had taken, he was taking no chances. They moved swiftly but with an overabundance of caution.

“Eyes up—fangs up.” Colin’s trigger finger remained ready as they advanced. “Keep your heads on a swivel.”

They hustled with light steps, but still their boots creaked on the metal ladder rungs. Old,metal catwalks moaned under their collective weight. Each rusty scrape drifted into the salty wind, warning any rogue crew of Delta’s whereabouts. “We’re thirty seconds out.”

And there was no telling what—or how—the inside of that container might be protected. What else could be on this ship? Were people worth that much money?

Delta rounded the corner, and Colin slowed, lowering his assaultrifle as they approached. Sparks flew. Flame torches worked in tandem with the bolt cutters as they cut multiple locks on the container.

“Delta’s here.” But Colin shook his head, not wanting to report the obvious. The intel was dead wrong. Or the contents were simply dead because not a sound, not a cry for help, a plea, wail, or sob came from inside.

Delta had rescued enough human traffickingvictims to expect panicked and cautiously hopeful bangs and kicks against the old metal walls. By now, the heartbreaking pleas of victims would wail, begging their saviors to stay.

The final lock fell, and the metal-on-metalclangbled so lonely into the gusty night that no one moved. They killed the flames, and the bolt cutters dropped. The metalclunkclamored in his ears, and he dropped hischin to his collarbone, slicing away a fraction of the airflow to his lungs. He didn’t want to watch, dreading what he should be hardened to. Colin steeled his mind to bear witness to another human tragedy.

“Hell, sir,” team two muttered. “Not sure if we’re here in time.”

“Open the door,” Brock ordered.

A man cleared his throat. “Roger that.”

His team stepped forward, the lack of energy andhope palpable. Delta closed in behind them as everyone prepared for a handful of dead bodies taken against their will and placed in the most absurd circumstances Colin had heard of: an ocean liner. It was un-survivable—inhumane and torture at best. Breathing and eating? The elements? Freezing or the heat? It would be unpredictable. They’d be cooked alive or frozen solid—no telling—depending onthe surrounding freight containers and the shipping route.

“Here we go.” One man pulled off the final lock while another pried open the door assembly.

The rear door swung open—nothing but crates marked “imports.”

“Nothing here,” someone muttered.

A moment of relief pushed fresh oxygen into his blood. A high hit so quickly it felt like injecting a drug. But the diversion was a ruse. They’dseen obstacles’ deceptive appearances too many times before, though for now, they didn’t have the machinery to move pallets of warehouse goods and still hadn’t heard any signs of life.

But if there’s a chance…Colin eased next to the operative directing the second team, and they exchanged knowing looks. Both were of the same mindset. Colin clapped his hands. “Let’s go.”

Both teams appraisedthe rear-end and top-side frames and the sidewall and top panels, while others inspected the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling, plastic-wrapped barrier, breaking into smaller teams to move pallets by hand or tear apart the metal container.

They grunted and unslung weapons, getting better grips on the cargo, tried again, and stripped off more gear. The two teams lifted a plastic-wrapped pallet ofgod-knew-what and pitched it over. The plastic-wrapped pallet cracked and splintered as building materials poured free, but with the gaping hole they’d created into the shipping container, a putrid stink rolled out in a cloud of filth.

Colin gagged. Both teams recoiled, cursing and gasping, and their boots shuffled away. “Holy shit.”

Death stained the air they’d breathed, and he didn’t blamethose who choked on its foulness.

“Report,” Brock ordered.

Colin didn’t want to take the breath needed to give a report. His eyes watered as more than one man donned a facemask. “Rancid decay.”

“Survivors?” the second team’s CO demanded.

“Not possible.” At least he hoped not. Colin wiped his eyes and spat the taste of bile from his mouth.

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