Strike Force Read Free

lived on board and shared quarters on the lower deck. Il Ferdinand was in fact the owner's floating office suite and he ran it more effectively than his actual suite of offices in Nice.
       To his employees, the ship's owner was known as "the director." He was a large, tall man with a full head of dark hair that was turning gray at his sideburns, the tanned skin of one who spent too much of his life outdoors, and eyes of a green so deep they seemed to speak of the ocean's depths. His gruff mannerisms were well suited to one who had begun his career as a Special Forces Officer and later made a vast fortune providing discreet services to elite clientele.
       He was a soldier of fortune to some, a facilitator of the illicit to others. To those who sought to right perceived wrongs and injustices, he was God's just instrument. In truth though, he was none of those things. He was simply a man who understood the dangerous dynamics of wealth, power and inevitable iniquity.
       He provided services for a price, often in support of causes he believed in. He built his reputation as one of the best in the business on three basic tenets.
        Never take a job you do not intend to see through to the end.
        Never pass judgment on those who hire you.
        Never reveal your client's identity.
        Never. Never. Never.
       The director had lived up to those tenets for over two decades. His clients knew his firm handshake that sealed every deal was an absolute guarantee that not only would the job be done, but it would be done exactly to the specifications negotiated.
       This afternoon, as he walked along the sundeck and stared out at the vast expanse of sea before him, he felt a deep disquiet that was settling in his bones and he knew there was nothing he could do to ease it.
       He'd had contracts that had gone wrong before, contracts that he'd regretted, but he'd always seen them through and made things right. His years of successes had made him many powerful friends and allies. Friends and allies who would do anything for him. He had only to ask.
       Today, however, as he stood out under the hot afternoon sun and stared at the endless sea, he felt utterly alone and broken. Almost as if it were Judgment Day and he was standing naked before God. It wasn't that he was Godly person, rather it was because of the weight of his conscience on his every waking thought.
       Contrary to what his detractors said, the director wasn't soulless or without conscience. He didn't only take jobs to expand his fortune and influence. He did in fact try to follow a moral and ethical code--a code he'd just broken and perhaps irrevocably, even if not knowingly.
       He only knew the truth of the events because Alexis had broken protocol and reached out to him. He pictured the lithe, short-haired operative. She'd been with him for many years and he'd chosen her for this mission because she was one of the best. A flawless marksman. A perfect commando.
       Except she'd missed her target, not once but twice. Her first error she claimed was the result of plain old-fashioned bad luck. The target had unexpectedly ducked behind a riot shield as she fired on him with her 7.62mm semi-automatic rifle. His own ship had a sizeable armory, anti-missile weapon systems, a hidden radar-guided 20 mm Gatling gun, but not a single riot shield. Who has the foresight to bring riot shields onto a ship anyway?
       Her second error was due to someone else getting in the way. A red-haired woman, who had jumped ship with the target and had gotten clipped in the shoulder instead of the target. No matter, collateral damage was to be expected. But two lost opportunities were not to be expected, nor were they the result of bad luck. He'd simply chosen the wrong operative and now it was too late to do anything about it.
       The director realized he was obsessing over details--details that no longer mattered. What mattered was what else Alexis had