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Triple Time (The Blake Meyer Thriller Series - Book 2)

By C. Kevin Thompson

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Chapter 1
Atlantic Ocean
Twelve Nautical Miles East of the Port of Jacksonville

Four large motorized, inflatable boats zipped single file across the ocean, bobbing up and down and smacking the unruly waves. Sixteen men—four per vessel—all donning wetsuits, clung to the boats’ built-in seats and roped handrails. With only minutes of daylight left, they hurried toward a growing spray of light illuminating the darkness ahead.

A tall man of Russian descent, with jet black hair and stern features, pushed a salaciously dressed Asian woman away and snatched a two-way radio off the coffee table.

“What is wrong, baby? Did I do someth—”

Pavel Morozov held up his hand, motioning for the woman to get quiet. Wearing slacks, socks, and a half-unbuttoned dress shirt, he held the radio close to his ear. He slipped on his shoes.

“Pavel? Where are you going?” another woman said.

“I’ll be right back, ladies. Remember where we left off.”

Climbing the stairs, Morozov finished buttoning his shirt to a respectable height before stepping out into the night air.

A crew of twenty men stood along the railing of the three-tier, 162-foot mega yacht’s main deck, each with his own set of binoculars. Peering into the darkening horizon, the sentinels scanned their assigned areas.

Morozov barked at the man commanding the watchmen. “Do you see them yet?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Who was yelling out? I told everyone to maintain radio silence. Confirmation of their location was to be broadcast vocally only.”

The leader shrugged. “I believe it came from somewhere toward the stern, sir. I was going down there to check it out.”

Morozov and the watchmen commander stormed toward the rear of the boat.

“Who is the imbecile that called out on the radio?” Morozov said.

A lookout near the stern stepped back two paces. “Sir, it was me.”

Morozov grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close. “Do you want the Coast Guard, or worse, the United States Navy, bearing down on us?”

“Sir, it is our men.” The man pointed toward the ocean.

In the distance, ducking behind a wave and reappearing for only a second or two at a time, a single beam of light flickered in a staccato-like fashion.

“We cannot see the message completely because of the rough seas, but there is a flashlight aimed in our direction, sir. It is sending us a code. I believe it is them.”

“Are we sure?”

“In these waves? Yes. No one else in their right mind would be out here tonight in a dinghy.”

Morozov spun around. “Everyone! They are out there. Man your stations.”

***

The four inflatable boats positioned themselves along the stern in a tight row. The sentries tossed ropes, and the wetsuited men snatched them from the air and secured them to the bow and stern of their watercrafts.

Lookouts formed human assembly lines as materials were passed up the row and hoisted on deck.
A limp woman—unconscious and soaked from lying on the bottom of one of the small boats—began to stir. As men grabbed her by the arms and legs, her eyes fluttered open, and she immediately flailed and kicked with adrenaline-laced fury.

“Let go of me! Get away from me! I’m an American! You can’t do this!”

One of the wetsuited men plucked a white cloth and a bottle from a nearby bag. Dousing the rag, he slapped it over the woman’s face and thrust his other hand behind her head.

“Where are my children?!” she said, her words muffled. Then, as the chloroform worked its magic, her eyes rolled back, and her strength waned. With one last gasp of vigor, she tilted her head sideways just long enough to break the seal of the man’s hand. “Help me, Blake…” Then she succumbed to the chemical’s effect.

The four men who held her extremities, pulled her up and handed her over to one of the lookouts. He ducked under her right arm, nestled his shoulder into her midsection, and lifted her over his shoulder. The man wrapped his arms around her legs and turned to climb the stairs.

In the second boat, a young boy, also unconscious, was lifted from the bottom of the vessel and cradled in the arms of one of the men in wetsuits. He stepped out of the boat and placed the boy in the arms of one of the lookouts.

A little girl in the third inflatable boat was handled in the same manner.

***

Pavel Morozov positioned himself on the main deck and watched the operation unfold. He motioned for the lead man of the assault team to join him. “I hear it went off without any trouble, yes?”

“No problems.” The man’s American accent was distinct amongst the others. “They never knew what hit ‘em.”

“And the house?”

“Obliterated. Not much left.”

Morozov rubbed his hands together. “And Agent Meyer?”

“He’s still alive. In what shape is the question. It all depends on whether or not any of the structure fell on him when it blew up.”

“You know he wanted Meyer alive.”

The American straightened his stance. “Yes. And my contact tells me Meyer left the area. Stole a police car and took off.”

Morozov grinned. “It would seem then we have done our part, you and me.” He glanced down at the last remaining soldiers walking up the steps. “Would you and your men like to stay aboard? We will be heading out to sea, though.”

“And how would we get back?”

“We are meeting up with a freighter bound for the Mediterranean. You could stay on board my vessel or join them. They would drop you off wherever you want along their route.”

“And where would you take us?”

“Once we have rendezvoused with the freighter, then we plan to head south. I hear there are several opportunities awaiting us in Haiti.”

The American lifted one eyebrow. “I think we better head back. We’ll need to refuel as planned.”

“Are you sure? The waves are much higher than they were just an hour ago. And besides, I have girls downstairs…”

The American paused. “Maybe some other time.”

“As you wish.”

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