Chapter 3 - Interception in the Swell
The black interceptor boat cut through the violent swell of Long Island Sound
like a razor through black silk.
The twin turbine engines roared with a deafening, mechanical scream, throwing
twenty-foot curtains of white foam into the pitch-black night. Inside the
enclosed tactical cabin, the red night-vision lights bathed twelve heavily armed
Sokolov operators in a blood-colored glow.
I sat strapped into a reinforced jump seat, clutching the Glock 43 in my pocket,
while Ilya remained safely back at the estate bunker under the protection of
thirty loyal guards.
Valentin stood at the helm beside the navigator, wearing a black tactical plate
carrier over his dark sweater, an assault rifle slung across his chest. His
posture was immovable, absorbing the violent six-foot drops of the boat against
the waves without swaying an inch.
“Radar contact, boss!” the navigator shouted over the roar of the engines,
tapping a glowing green screen. “The Volga Star. Three miles east, heading
toward international waters off Montauk Point. She’s running dark—no AIS
transponder, no navigation lights.”
“Speed?” Valentin barked.
“Fourteen knots. She’s heavily loaded with shipping containers.”
“Bring us alongside the starboard quarter,” Valentin commanded. “Use the
pneumatic grappling lines. Thermal scopes on the bridge crew. Eliminate the
helmsman first to disable their steering.”
“Understood, Mr. Sokolov.”
I leaned toward the reinforced window, staring out into the black void of the
storm.
Through the lashing rain, a colossal black shadow emerged from the fog: the
Volga Star. She was a four-hundred-foot commercial cargo vessel, her rusty steel
hull rising thirty feet above the churning ocean, throwing massive bow waves
into the dark.
Suddenly, a bright searchlight snapped on from the bridge of the cargo ship,
blinding our cabin in harsh white light.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Heavy automatic fire erupted from the catwalks of the freighter. Bullets pinged
against our boat’s ballistic aluminum hull, sounding like handfuls of gravel
thrown against sheet metal.
“Suppressing fire!” Valentin roared into his headset.
The interceptor’s roof-mounted remote turret whined to life, unleashing a
devastating volley of heavy-caliber rounds into the freighter’s bridge windows.
Glass shattered. Sparks showered down onto the rusty deck. The blinding
searchlight exploded into blackness.
Our interceptor slammed against the rusted steel hull of the Volga Star with a
bone-jarring crunch.
Pneumatic launchers fired magnetic titanium grappling hooks up onto the
freighter’s gunwales with loud, metallic thuds. Heavy carbon-fiber boarding
ladders extended automatically.
Valentin was the first man on the ladder.
He climbed with terrifying, predatory speed, clearing the thirty-foot vertical
climb in seconds, disappearing over the railing with his rifle barking in short,
controlled bursts.
“Stay on my hip, Leah!” Maksim shouted, grabbing my arm and pulling me up the
ladder behind the assault team.
I climbed into the freezing wind, the salt spray burning my eyes, the cold rain
soaking my clothes. My boots hit the wet, steel deck of the freighter just as
two Rostova mercenaries collapsed onto the non-skid plating, neutralized by
Valentin’s advance.
The smell of burned cordite, diesel fuel, and salt water choked the air.
Valentin kicked open the heavy watertight hatch leading down into the interior
cargo superstructure.
He paused in the threshold, looking back at me through the shadows, rain
dripping from his dark hair.
“The manifest shows the crew quarters are in the stern,” Valentin said, his
voice level despite the firefight. “Vera will be in the lower hold beneath the
secondary engine room. That’s where Boris Rostov keeps his human cargo.”
He extended his hand, pulling me into the sheltered corridor out of the wind.
May you like
“Stay behind my back, Leah,” Valentin murmured, his fingers briefly squeezing my
shoulder. “Nobody takes another child from me.”
