were bolting down. The captain gave up on finding the words and simply pointed. McCarter and James joined the Filipinos and began heaving metal plates from one side of the compartment to the other, fighting against the rising waters already swamping their boots.
“This is G-Force,” announced Grimaldi’s voice in McCarter’s ear. “The pirate craft has withdrawn. Repeat. The enemy vessel has withdrawn. I am flying standby cover to make sure nothing else creeps up on us. I’ve also alerted Filipino naval command that one of their ships is in distress, although I suspect the folks aboard her have already done that. I’m told help is on the way.”
“Good,” McCarter said. “Get ready to touch down on the deck if it looks like we can’t keep this thing afloat. We didn’t see any wounded, but if they’ve got them, we need to be prepared to evac.”
“Roger,” Grimaldi acknowledged. “Wait. Wait, I have contact again. The launch—”
A burst of static made McCarter grab his ear in pain. He tapped the transceiver as suddenly there was nothing on the line.
James looked at McCarter and pointed to his ear. “Do you have anything?” he asked before going back to helping the Filipinos mount another metal plate.
“Nothing,” McCarter said. “G-Force? Come in, G-Force!”
The klaxon, which had been quiet, started up again. Red lights mounted in protective steel cages began to blink above the compartment hatchway.
“Captain?” James asked. “What is it?”
“Pirates!” the Filipino shouted. “Pirates come back!”
Another explosion, somewhere under the water and near the hull, caused the entire beleaguered ship to tremble beneath their feet.
“Oh, man,” said James. “I do not like the sound of that.”
“Captain!” McCarter called.
“We die now,” the captain said.
CHAPTER FOUR
“You owe me twenty bucks, Gadgets,” Lyons growled.
“I’m pretty sure,” Blancanales said, “that you two established that.”
The members of Able Team were zip-tied by wrist and ankle to straight-backed wooden chairs. They sat in a storage room on the basement level of Rhemsen’s headquarters. There was no other furniture in the locked room. The walls were bare cinder block. The only light was a bare energy-saver compact fluorescent bulb plugged into a light socket hanging by its wire from the ceiling.
“It’s good to know that RhemCorp is committed to keeping the world a greener place,” Schwarz said, looking up at the bulb.
“Shut up, Gadgets,” Lyons and Blancanales said in unison.
“Not for nothing,” Schwarz continued, ignoring them both, “but I really enjoy these pre-interrogation banter sessions.”
“If I had a dollar for every time we’ve been captured and worked over by some goon squad,” Lyons began.
“I do,” Blancanales said. “I’ve been investing my captured-by-goons dollars. I’m going to leave Able and retire early. Now seems like a good time.”
“Don’t you start, Pol,” Lyons warned. He opened his mouth to say more but the door to the storage room was thrown open. In it, framed by the scant light from the overhead bulb, stood a man in a gray Blackstar Corporation T-shirt and a pair of tiger-striped fatigues. The pants were bloused into polished combat boots, probably steel-toed. Lyons took special note of the chromed .45-caliber automatic in a drop-holster on the man’s thigh. The man was big, as big as Carl Lyons, with swollen biceps and sinewy forearms to match. He cracked his knuckles through the half-fingered leather gloves he wore.
“Well, well, well,” the newcomer said. His head was shaved smooth, his features craggy and thick. His jaw was square enough to cut diamonds. “Three little pigs, trussed up as nice as you like. Feel flattered, little piglets. I’m a commander in the Blackstar Corporation, which means you rate the big guns.”
“You got the wrong room, Tinkerbell,” Lyons said. “Stripper-gram delivery is down the hall.”
That brought a frown to the Blackstar man’s face. “The name,” he said, his tone low and menacing, “is Fitzpatrick, Jason J. ‘Jay’ to my friends and the lovely ladies I always leave wanting more. And to you, I answer to ‘God.’ Because that, my little pigs, is what I am—God of your universe, until you beg me to kill you.”
“Oh, no,” Schwarz said. “He’s going to douche us to death.”
Fitzpatrick quietly closed the door. He turned and fixed Schwarz with a stare Lyons could only describe as bloodthirsty. That was bad. Lyons had seen that type before. Fitzpatrick was probably a vet, but one of those who had done his tour or tours just at the edge of crazy. There were always men who took a war zone to mean that there were no rules…and that meant there was no need for humanity. Fitzpatrick had the look of a man who enjoyed killing…and who knew he did because he’d indulged the urge. As the big Blackstar man came closer, Lyons noted the clip of a folding knife in his left-hand front pocket.
“Say that again,” Fitzpatrick said to Schwarz.
“Are those weight-lifting gloves?” Schwarz said, looking up at the Blackstar man. “Please tell me those aren’t weight-lifting gloves. Nobody is that gigantic a douche nozzle.”
Lyons winced despite himself. He saw Fitzpatrick draw back his hand; saw the motion telegraphed from a mile away. Then the big Blackstar mercenary pimp-slapped Schwarz so hard that, for a moment, Lyons feared his partner’s jaw might be dislocated. The Stony Man Farm electronics expert did his best to ride the momentum of the strike, but there was only so much he could do strapped to a chair. Blood sprayed from Schwarz’s lower lip.
“You’re going to find,” Fitzpatrick said, “that I’ve got no sense of humor. No sense of humor at all.”
“That explains the dude-bro body spray,” Schwarz said.
“Stop it, damn you!” Lyons barked. Schwarz turned to Lyons and managed a bloody grin. Fitzpatrick did the same then slapped Schwarz across the face again. This time, the electronics whiz did not manage a witty retort. Lyons felt fire begin to smolder deep in his stomach.
“Now,” Fitzpatrick said, “this is relatively simple. You came onto this property representing yourself as federal agents. You claim knowledge of Mr. Rhemsen’s export activities. Obviously you have connections. I want to know what those connections are. I want to know exactly what government agency is looking into Mr. Rhemsen, and I don’t for a second believe it’s the Justice Department. Who are you with? Intelligence? CIA? Homeland Security? NSA?”
“NSA,” Schwarz said, spitting blood. “And we need to talk to you about all the porn you’re downloading on your wireless phone.”
This time Fitzpatrick cuffed Schwarz on the side of the head. It was a casual blow, almost contemptuous, but there was a lot of muscle behind Fitzpatrick’s strikes. Schwarz could not take that kind of punishment for long.
“You’re a coward,” Lyons heard himself say.
“What’s that?” Fitzpatrick said. He sounded genuinely curious. Fixing his attention on Lyons, he took a step closer. “Let me guess,” he said. “You’re the leader of this little band of heroes, aren’t you? You have the look.”
“You want to beat on somebody, Tinkerbell,” Lyons said, “you beat on me. Only a coward picks the skinniest guy in the room.”
Fitzpatrick looked at Blancanales, then back to Lyons. “I don’t know,” he said. “The gray-haired fellow there doesn’t look much more substantial. But I have this thing about beating up senior citizens.”
“I