Hot Mercy (Affairs of State Book 2) (41 page)

“Good. That’s our best opportunity for entering the cave without being seen, even in the dark. The mouth should be fully submerged then.” Morocco's eyes seemed electric with adrenalin. “They won’t see us until it’s too late.”

Mercy grimaced. “We hope. So should I get ready to go now?”

Morocco looked at her and smiled, which looked more like a snarl. “Chill, Prima Donna. We’ll take it from here.”

Mercy looked at Margaret—who seemed suddenly too busy rolling up charts to meet her questioning stare—then back at Morocco. “
What
did you call me?”

“They didn’t tell you your code name?” The blond behemoth strapped a waterproof GPS to his forearm.

Mercy felt as though the temperature in the cabin had shot up twenty degrees. “Prima Donna? You made that up!”

He wasn't smiling now, but she got the impression of a grin hovering beneath his macho swagger. Apparently her reputation from training camp had spread far and wide. She felt her cheeks flush.

Morocco snorted. “If it makes you feel any better, they’ve shortened it to PD. In official communiqués.”

“Perfect,” she muttered.

“I’ll brief my men,” he told Margaret. “No radio chatter to warn the target.” His gaze slid pointedly toward Mercy. “That means you won’t hear from us until we secure the cave and stones.”

Enough of this,
she thought. “What do you mean
I
won’t hear from you? I’m going with you.”

He rolled his eyes and turned away. “Like hell you are, PD.”

Mercy exploded. “Margaret!” But when she swung around, the other woman was halfway up the companionway steps and into the cockpit. Mercy spun back to face the former Seal. “This was my operation. I’m seeing it through to the end.”

She wasn’t sure why it was suddenly so important to her. Immediately after the horrifying shooting scene with Kristen, she would have been happy just to sit and wait things out in a quiet cabin. But then she’d caught the spirit of the mission again. Somehow, it mattered deeply that she take part. Did her insistence have anything to do with the stupid nickname? Did she feel she had to prove herself? Probably. . . a little. But what she couldn't forget was that she’d let her team down by racing off to Eastern Europe, nearly costing them the mission.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Morocco said. “I know the kind of prissy-ass boot camp they put you through.” She felt mortified at his harsh laugh and the disdain in his washed-out gray eyes. “Just enough time to make you dangerous. To yourself and everyone else on the team.”

He sounded exactly like Bull.

She grabbed his tattooed arm above a spiral of red dragon scales and tugged him around to face her, which took more effort than she'd expected. “I’m doing this. I know this cove, you don’t. I’ve swum along every inch of those cliffs. I know where the coral beds begin and end. You go without me, you’ll lose men. They’ll rip their guts open on submerged spurs before you ever find the cave.” She had his attention now. “Stop being such an idiot and listen to reason.”

Morocco looked only marginally less sure of himself.

Don’t you dare leave me behind! Don’t you dare.
She wondered how far she could push him before he ordered one of his men to lock her in one of the yacht’s cabins like Kristen.

“The currents and tide are tricky close to the rocks,” she pressed her point home. “And even with way points on a GPS it’s easy to miss a cave’s entrance. In the dark water, the openings will be nearly invisible.”

“She’s right.” Margaret reappeared, coming below again. “Plus, your window of opportunity is limited. If you have to search for very long, you’ll lose the advantage of high tide. It will be easier for the bad guys to spot you.”

Morocco glared at her then at Mercy. “You get in our way, PD, we’re walking right over you.”

“Swimming,” she corrected him with a small but triumphant smile, “we’ll be swimming, sir.”

                                          46

They swam without benefit of underwater lights, a necessary precaution against being spotted. Soon Morocco’s team approached fingers of razor-sharp coral that sometimes came within inches of the water’s surface. The dangerous spurs slowed their progress, forcing the team to take a circuitous route.

Mercy’s pulse thrummed in her throat as she spoke into her mask microphone. “There’s a natural break in the reef just south of the caves. Follow me.”

Arms flattened against her sides, she propelled herself with strong kicks, her flippers speeding her through the dark ocean. In full wetsuit, wearing a tank and regulator, mask, flippers and diver’s gloves, little of her skin was exposed. But neoprene was no match for coral. She extended arms in front of her, ready to push herself off a sharp spur if necessary. Better to scrape a hand than slice an even more vulnerable body part.

Morocco swam effortlessly behind her, his team closeby.

Mercy checked the glowing dial on the GPS strapped to her arm and adjusted her direction. Something brushed against her leg. She jerked around to see a sea turtle in a streak of moonlit water, its shell nearly three feet across. The animal’s beaked mouth seemed to smile at her. Beady eyes ogled her. He glided harmlessly past, and she breathed a little easier. Although she’d seen no sharks in the area, barracuda could be tricky. They liked shiny objects and sometimes bit a diver by mistake, attracted by a gold watch or glittering ankle bracelet.

“Where the hell is the cave?” Morocco barked at her through the earbud.

She looked around to get her bearings. “Should be close now.”

But the crescent moon gave just enough light to create distorting shadows—black on black or, at best, a smudgy gray shadow now and then. She was near enough to the face of the cliff to feel the tide’s fierce in-and-out surges, threatening to bash her against the rocks, but she still couldn’t see them.

Mercy touched the button on her mike again. “Wait where you are.” Edging cautiously closer to what she assumed would be the basalt-and-coral wall, she finally touched jagged rock. Using her hands and arms as springs to hold herself off, she felt her way along the rough surface. She hoped they’d guessed right, and the cave they were targeting was the one they were after—one through which Chameleon agents had floated Zodiac through loaded with opal ore.

Her probing hand suddenly thrust deep into a black opening. Almost immediately it was sucked back out by the wave action. Mercy braced herself against the fierce pull of the water and double-checked her GPS coordinates. Perfect.

She clicked on her mike. “Got it.”

“You sure?” Morocco.

She ignored his lack of faith and swam into the submerged opening. Almost immediately, she could see a dim light ahead but because the tide had peaked, and now was running out to sea, she had to fight the current. She kicked hard and finally came out on the other side of the rock, into an open area. Cautiously, she lifted just her eyes above the water’s surface. Lights. Dazzling, nearly blinding klieg lights lit the cave’s interior, no doubt run by a generator. A vaulted ceiling replete with pale colored stalactites rose twenty feet above her. The water had changed from black ocean to a nearly clear pool that reflected the soft mauve and cream of the calcified walls and ceiling.

Mercy felt suddenly exposed, poaching as she was on enemy territory. She felt fortunate they were using regulators that recycled exhaled air to eliminate the problem of bubbles rising to the surface and tipping off a guard to her presence. After one fast peek, she submerged again. There was no telling how many of the gang were inside.

She swam on. Reflections wavered across the water’s surface above her—of stacked crates, inflated rafts, steel drums stored along flat ledges surrounding the pool. Her pulse double-timed as she swam as close to the surface as she dared.
We were right. This has to be it!
Chameleon’s lair.

Mercy drew a full breath from her tank then removed mask and mouthpiece. She held them beneath the water’s surface to reduce the chance of light reflecting off of the equipment and alerting anyone who might be watching.

Holding her breath, she again lifted just her eyes above the water’s surface and blinked away water streaming down her forehead. Two men sat playing cards at a makeshift table of driftwood planks and crates. No one else seemed to be about.

She sank silently beneath the water again, replaced her mask, sucked down air from her tank, and held up two fingers for Morocco who had appeared suddenly beside her. She looked past him. All of his men had made it through the cave’s mouth. She watched as he gave orders, using only hand signals. He jabbed a finger at her, and she understood she was to remain where she was. In the water. Her job was done, and she was good with that.

Half the team silently slipped off tanks, flippers, masks and left them with their mates in the water. Their slow-motion stealth mesmerized Mercy—so graceful, almost like an underwater ballet. Two of Morocco’s men rose like phantoms from the deep, silently up and out of the water, onto the cave’s rock floor. She doubted the two guards ever saw them coming. Before the two men could shout an alarm, Morocco’s men had immobilized them. They stripped off their outer clothing, bound and gagged the captured pair, and then dragged them behind a barricade of metal barrels. Fuel, she guessed, for the generator or Zodiacs’ engines.

In a flash, the rest of the team was out of the water, rapidly searching tunnels to make sure no one else was in the cave. Minutes later, Morocco gave an all-clear signal and looked at Mercy. “Just two,” he muttered, eyes grim. “Should be more, an operation like this.”

Almost before the words were out of his mouth, she heard a low hum that sounded like bees swarming outside of the cave.

“Speak of the devil,” Mercy said.

She’d be seen if she remained in the water. She levered herself out of the pool and onto the shelf, her heart jolting with fear at the thought of any number of things that might happen next. Removing her gear she hid it and herself behind a row of wooden crates. They were slatted, leaving spaces between boards as though whatever was inside didn’t require careful packaging and protection. She peered between slats. There was just enough light to make out rough chunks of brown and tan rock the size of her head. The ore? Glints of red, gold, and green gemstone flickered as she shifted from foot to foot, leaning left then right. There was no mistaking the mesmerizing fire of opal.

But now was not the time to examine the ore. Morocco’s men were rushing around her, no doubt having heard the incoming engines and received instructions. All but two of the team melted away into the shadows. The remaining pair had already donned their hostages’ clothing. They sat at the card table, faces turned away from the water. Each man picked up a handful of cards.

Four enemy divers emerged in rapid succession from the pool with an explosion of water—no attempt at stealth on their own turf. The first was an ox of a man with a heavy beard and sallow, pock-marked face. He barked out orders in a language unfamiliar to Mercy. A younger man took off at a run toward the rear of the cave and disappeared into a tunnel. They seemed oblivious to the Red Sands operatives.

But then all hell broke loose.

Morocco and his men jumped the gang members overpowering most without trouble. But their leader had just enough time to produce a gun and open fire. Morocco took him out with a deafening burst from his sidearm then swung around 45-degrees and stopped a fleeing man with a single bullet to his thigh. He fell to the ground cursing and screaming as two commandos rushed him.

Mercy closed her eyes, relief flooding over her. It was over. At least the most dangerous part. If a couple more stragglers showed up, Morocco’s men would be ready for them. Meanwhile, they would secure the cave, crack open crates to be sure they'd found the opals, discuss ways of getting them out of the cave and to a safe place. Probably Red Sands, or someone from the government, would want to catalogue the other contents of the cave and collect any valuable information that would help locate other terrorist groups connected to Chameleon.

She felt relief that not one of Morocco’s men had been injured. She watched as their expressions relaxed. A couple of the men high-fived. One who had been at the card table buddy-punched his partner’s arm.

Mercy stood up and stepped from behind her shelter. 

Morocco was interrogating one of the survivors of the raid. “Kuranda Aly?” he asked, pointing at their dead leader.

“I do not know that name,” the prisoner stated calmly in perfect English. “My friends and I were spear fishing. This is an outrage.”

“Give me a break,” Morocco growled.

The man shrugged. As soon as Morocco’s back was turned, the same man shot one of his comrades a crafty smile. It chilled Mercy to her core. She stared at the man, trying to figure out why he frightened her. He was restrained, unable to harm anyone now. Her reaction made no sense. But the sinking, helpless feeling in her stomach wouldn’t go away. Maybe she was just coming down off of her adrenaline rush and was still hyper-sensitive to the least thing? She drew a breath, then another, trying to settle herself.

It looked as if it might be a while before Morocco’s team would be ready to leave. She sat on the pool’s edge, dangling one foot in the water, letting her eyes drift around the dim interior of the cavern. She listened to the musical slosh and gurgle of the tide moving in and out through the cave’s mouth. She looked back at the terrorists—one dead, one wounded and being tended to, the other four herded into a group and told to sit with their backs to a wall, to be more easily guarded.