Point of Contact

Jack tugged on his MPX to verify the sling was still snug as he stood back up and planted his right boot on the gunwale. A moment later he felt the massive surge beneath him and the boat rocketed upward, but the hull crashed hard against the steel ladder just as Jack stepped off, throwing him forward. He barely managed to grab an icy rung with both gloved hands as his knees slammed against the sharp steel, boots dangling in midair. A moment later his feet found a rung and he was secure. His eyes tracked the fleeing swell as it crashed against another steel pylon.

His heart raced. That was close.

Jack paused just long enough to take a deep breath and gather his wits.

Big mistake.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw another rogue wave suddenly breaking over him in a white-capped fury.

He braced himself against the ladder just as the wave hit.

Too late.

2

All Jack could do was hold on grab-ass tight. The wave hit him like a great gray bull, smashing the side of his helmeted face against the ladder’s steel, but somehow he hung on.

A second passed and the furious gray monster sped away into the forbidding dark.

Jack couldn’t believe his luck. He didn’t wait for the next one.

He untangled himself as quickly as he could and began the ascent, spitting and coughing up briny seawater through his mouth and nose. He scrambled as fast as he dared on the frozen steel, driven upward by John Clark’s raspy voice ringing in his brain: “Shit happens in threes.” Comms going down and a big-ass rogue wave counted for two. He didn’t want to think about what the third might be.

The first few soaking-wet steps were easy, but his left foot slipped badly on the next ice-coated rung. Once again his heart raced, but his fast reflexes secured him tightly to the ladder. His mind was clearer now — running from death had that effect on a man’s brain — and in a moment he was in his stride, carefully but swiftly alternating hands and feet in the dangerous ascent.

He climbed several rungs before glancing up to locate the rest of his team. They were already near the top and scrambling fast, unaware of his near-death experience. The gunshot to Adara’s leg in Chicago last year clearly hadn’t slowed her down.

Gaining confidence in his stride, Jack picked up the climbing tempo. The adrenaline was fueling him now, which helped cut the cold, even though he was drenched and the exertion was warming him up despite the blasting snow. The burning in his thighs was a good sign that he was still alive. Even the seawater still stinging his sinuses helped clear his mind.

So far, so good.

He slowed as he entered the guardrail cage near the top of the ladder, expecting Adara’s gloved hand in the open hole to signal him to hold. The plan was for the three of them to rally at the entrance, then split up and assault their respective targets some ninety feet apart. He popped his head up quickly to scan the platform.

Adara and Midas were gone. What the hell?

So much for the plan.

Jack cleared the hole and the guardrails and assumed a crouching position on the steel-grated deck, designed to keep seawater from accumulating. Most of the snow fell through, so there were no clear boot prints for Jack to follow. He glanced to his left, where the crew’s quarters were located. He didn’t see either Midas or Adara, but according to the plan that’s where they were headed. The schematics indicated that the entrance door was around the corner from where he was, so if the two of them were positioning there, he wouldn’t be able to see them anyway.

Jack checked his watch. If the other team was in place, they’d hit their door in the next thirty seconds.

Time to get to work.

Jack racked the charging handle of his MPX. The terrorists would all be inside in weather like this. Of course they were. He smiled to himself. What moron would be outside in this shit? The snow fell heavier now in the fierce wind — near-blizzard conditions. Jack brushed away the ice crusting on the back of his gloves.

He tried his comms again but still got no reply. Even if Adara and Midas were squatting here next to him, they couldn’t talk to one another — in this wind they’d have to shout, and even if they could hear one another they’d risk giving their positions away.

Jack watched the seconds tick by. He was grateful for the long, tedious hours of training he’d spent over the last week on a platform not unlike this one, especially now that he was finally here in the freezing dark, getting hammered by gale-force winds and with time slipping away. He checked his watch again.

Go!

He ran in a low squat past a steel storage crate and rounded the corner when something near the deck caught his eye. “Head on a swivel!” Ding had shouted at him time after time in training reps. It saved his ass again.

Jack froze in place, the toe of his boot just short of a line of snow.

A tripwire.