Revenge of the Assassin (Assassin Series 2) Read Free Page A

watched the waves moving in a steady procession, the red illumination of his primitive gauges and the ancient radar unit bathing the pilothouse in a warm glow.
    The diesel engine chugged quietly, driving the old single screw with just enough power to make headway against the building seas. They were in position, the handheld GPS unit near the throttle confirmed that the waypoint marking the rendezvous spot had been reached. The instructions were to hold position – for days, if necessary – while they waited. It was usually easy duty, but the squall that was eighty miles southwest of them was beginning to cause problems. Reports of fifteen to twenty foot swells had come in a few minutes earlier over the radio from a cargo ship making its way north. It was just a matter of time until the six footers doubled in size, and then it would get rocky.
    Comfort wasn’t the concern. Rather, it would be impossible to transfer their cargo in huge waves with the boat pitching uncontrollably. Under normal circumstances they’d have been in four to five foot, gently rolling swells, the undulations of the surface easily timed. But with confused conditions and a tropical depression looming further out in the Pacific, all bets were off. If their contact didn’t show up soon, it could be days before a handoff would be practicable again.
    Mario scanned the ocean’s murky form, searching for a beacon, as he had every fifteen minutes since the black of night had fallen. The rolling didn’t make it any easier. Worst case, he had his second radio tuned to a frequency that was rarely used, and he hoped that the captain of the other vessel would avail himself of the channel discreetly. One never knew who could be listening, and in a high-stakes game, there was no such thing as being too careful.
    His first mate, Julio, mounted the stairs from the crew quarters below, two cans of Tecate beer clenched in his left hand as he steadied himself with a series of practiced grips on the handrail. Mario took one gratefully from him, and they toasted.
    “It looks like it’s going to get snotty soon,” Julio remarked, before savoring a mouthful of cold brew.
    Mario peered into the blackness outside. “There’s a big one blowing from the west. I figure we have maybe three more hours before we need to break off and head inland some. If the storm turns towards us, we don’t want to be here in sixty knot winds if we can help it.”
    “How late are they?”
    “A day. Smart money says they’ll be here tonight. Sometimes shit happens en route.”
    Julio nodded.
    They watched in silence as the cresting water rushed to meet the bow of the boat, the steady throb of the diesel engine a reassuring constant.
    The radio crackled to life, and after a few terse exchanges, Julio slid back down to the crew quarters to rouse the men. It was show time. Their rendezvous was on.
    Out of the gloom, a long tubular form rose from the depths, two hundred yards from the bow. Mario throttled the engine up and the boat lurched forward towards the shape. Within a minute they had pulled alongside it, where two deckhands threw lines to the four men who had materialized on the top section of the darkened craft. After a short struggle, they quickly secured the two vessels together until they rose and fell as one. After a few hurried greetings between the crews, plastic-wrapped rectangular packages began making their way from the bowels of the newcomer to the men on El Cabrito ’s deck, who passed them into the shrimp hold to be squirreled away under the catch.
    The submarine had been crafted in the jungles of northern Colombia and had taken twelve days to make the journey to Mexican waters. Equipped with two nearly silent diesel engines that charged the battery-driven electric motor, the handmade fiberglass vessel could do fourteen knots and submerge comfortably to a depth of twenty-five feet. Forty yards in length, she was equipped with primitive climate control for the crew, was