Their target.
This was what they’d trained for—a short swim to a ship in the black water, then a silent climb onto a deck filled with hostiles before anyone aboard knew Sierra had come to visit.
The vessel rode low in the water, its running lights as dark as their reason for being there. Whoever was on board wanted to be ignored.
The team crouched behind stacked crates near the dock while they made final checks.
Cannon’s gaze slid to Archer. “Let’s see what you can do, Monk.”
Cold wind bit into his face, the only part of him left exposed. He welcomed it. “I got this.”
He stepped into the Pacific wearing black swim gear and fins, his rifle sealed in a gun rubber. The water was numbingly cold, but his body adjusted fast. Behind him, the others slipped in one by one, each disappearing like they’d never been there at all.
They moved in an efficient line, cutting through the swells with practiced strokes. Archer had always been a strong swimmer, winning all the awards on his high school and college swim teams. A Navy recruiter had given him a reason to continue using his skill.
With every yard he swam, the ship grew larger, a looming wall of steel rising from the sea. Archer reached it first.
Flattening himself against the cold metal, he looked up at the long climb to the rail above. Water streamed from his face as he glanced at his teammates bobbing on the waves beside him.
He gripped his line and waited for the right opening. He had to time his throw with some noise on the ship so the clank of metal on metal wouldn’t alert the crew.
For endless minutes, he waited in the cold water. Then it came—some loud grating sounds of things being moved around on the deck above.
“Now!” came Cannon’s order in his comms.
In one smooth cast he hooked the rail above. He tested the tension once, found it solid and began to climb.
Wet cable and gloved hands didn’t make it easy, but his boots found purchase against rivets and seams on the side of the craft. The ocean swelled below him, and the wind was a challenge. One slip or a clang of metal and they’d be detected.
At the rail, he paused and listened. Footsteps aft. Low voices starboard side. He signaled to his team clinging to the line below him. Then he swung his body over the rail and landed in a crouch without a sound. Rome came next, and then they were all rushing across the deck, shadows moving within the shadows.
A cigarette glowed orange, then dropped as the owner turned.
Too late.
Archer closed the gap in three strides, clamped his hand around the guy’s jaw and drove him back into the bulkhead, knocking him out before he could shout.
Rome was already handling another with the same stealth.
Through the comms came two tapping noises, letting them know the other guys were in position.
On Cannon’s signal, Archer moved for the wheelhouse. The deck pitched gently under him, slick with spray, but he adjusted instinctively.
He hit the narrow stairs two at a time and picked up movement through the grimy glass—a man lunging for the radio.
He drove his shoulder into the door. It burst inward hard enough to rattle the frame. The man spun, one hand still in motion, reaching for the mic.
In a blink, Archer crossed the cramped space and caught his wrist, slamming him face-first across the console. The radio squealed once before Archer ripped the cord free.
The man fought his grasp, and Archer twisted his arm behind his back. In one efficient motion, he zip-tied his wrists and shoved him to the floor.
He touched his comm. “Wheelhouse secure.”
A muffled shout rose from the deck below, followed by a crash and the unmistakable sound of Townie enjoying himself.
Archer swept the wheelhouse once, finding charts and an open logbook beside the controls, the routes marked in black lines.
He dragged his prisoner out onto the deck to join the one Rivers had down, a knee pinning his spine. O stood over another, weapon trained on his chest, and Cannon was already at the cargo stacks, slicing through shrink wrap with a knife.
