Red Shark

Jefferson eyed him up and down. Scott knew what he was thinking: Scott, hesitating, missing an opportunity to kill the Croatian, Karst, and now this. Scott looked at the girl — what was left of her — and felt sick, but he refused to give in to it.

He heard voices, turned, and saw Caserta and Leclerc dragging Ramos’s ruined body up the stairs. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Scott thought. Ramos dead; the girl who had killed him dead too, along with the others. The fear and rage he’d felt in his gut began to dissipate, but its effects made him question why any sane man would do what he had done. Scott wiped his bloody face on a sleeve. As if reading his mind, Jefferson threw him a look and said, “It’s too late in the game for regrets.”

“It’s never too late,” Scott said and jammed the unfired Sig into a thigh holster.

Jefferson held Scott’s gaze for a beat, then went to Caserta and Leclerc, who had laid Ramos out in the hallway on a remains pouch. They stood looking down at him.

Jefferson said, “What’s the body count outside?”

“Thirty-three,” Leclerc said. He pointed to the dead girl. “Who’s that?”

“The cunt who wasted Ramos.”

“Christ.”

Caserta started taking weapons and equipment off Ramos’s body, preparing it for underwater transport to the ASDS.

“They’re still missing,” Scott said.

Jefferson rounded. “Who?”

“The other two girls — and Fat.”

“I don’t know about the girls, but for sure that fat shit can’t have gotten very far.”

Scott put up a hand, then a finger to his ear, and while the others listened in on the squad line, he said, “Go ahead, Chief.”

“Comms from Reno,” said Brodie. “That Kilo’s back. Cap’n Deacon thinks the Chinaman may be on to us and might be huntin’ for our ride home.”

“Copy. Wait one.”

Scott checked his watch. They’d been ashore not more than forty-five minutes, but it seemed like hours. Deitrich and Allen were anchored offshore in the ASDS, waiting for word that the op had been wrapped up. Now they had to sweat out a possible contact with a Chinese sub.

“Decision time,” Jefferson said to Scott as he watched Caserta and Leclerc working on Ramos’s body. “Sounds like we aren’t going to have time to sweep this place clean and get out of town before that Kilo finds the parked mini-sub.”

Scott touched his throat mike. “Chief, we’ve got one of Fat’s girls up here, dead. Seen any sign of the other two?”

“Negative.”

“Any sign of Fat?”

“Nope.”

“All right, you and Van Kirk start wrapping up. I’ll get back to you.”

“So?…” Jefferson said.

“So we split up. You, Caserta, and Leclerc take Ramos back to the mini-sub, mate up with the Reno before that damned Kilo sniffs out both subs. Brodie, Van Kirk, and I’ll stay and search for Fat and scoop up any intel we can find. You pick us up after it’s clear.”

“Too risky. So is the three of you hunting for Fat and those two girls. Hell, you saw what this one was capable of.”

“Look, if we split up now you all stand a good chance of getting back to the sub in one piece and with Ramos’s body before that Chinese skipper finds the mini-sub.”

“Don’t worry, Scott, I’m not planning to die here.”

“Good. Now shove off.”

“No way. Don’t try to be a hero and do it all yourself.”

Scott jerked his head at Ramos. “There’s only one hero here.”

“You got that right.” Jefferson broke out a fresh magazine for his M4. “Can Deacon handle that Kilo?”

“He’ll do whatever he has to do to make sure we get a ride home.”

Jefferson nodded that he understood what that meant and the risks it entailed.

Caserta and Leclerc had finished their work. Now they stood, weapons ready, anticipating Scott’s next order.

“All right, let’s find Fat,” he said.

* * *

“Conn, Sonar, that Kilo’s just about dead in the water.”