Somewhere in the Mediterranean...
Near the coast of Spain...
"There's nothing out here." The pilot's face was a pale, worried oval when it flashed in Stone's direction. The pilot was young, and he'd never been out in weather like this before. Never been out on this kind of trip, either.
Rain hammered on the front window of the helicopter's cockpit. Dozens of feet below, the water was dark and choppy. It should have been blue, an unbelievable shade, in this part of the world. But tonight lightning sliced the murky sky and the water was as rough and dark as shattered obsidian.
The man in the cargo bay sat quietly, his back curled forward and his forearms resting on his legs. His hands dangled between his knees. They were folded calmly together, and he didn't say anything. His gaze was resting hazily somewhere in the distance, most of his features in shadow.
"Really!" The pilot's voice was higher now. Another flash showed his fists were clenched around the helicopter's controls. "There's nothing out here! We should go back!"
Behind the pilot, Stone looked up. This would never do.
The helicopter dropped several feet and then rose again, battling with the wind. Overhead, the blades spun and cut the sky. They held the two passengers aloft, but only barely.
The pilot's voice was wild, almost hysterical. "I'm turning back! I can't go on! We'll crash and die out here all alone and—" He suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder.
It squeezed, gentle but firm.
"Fly on."
When he heard the Voice, the pilot knew, very suddenly, why there had been ancient kings whose orders were obeyed without question. Why thousands of soldiers would kneel or salute at their passing.
The pilot couldn't kneel. And taking his hands off the controls to salute would be a dangerous prospect. But he could fly. He nodded. "Yes, Sir." The pilot had never been introduced to the man from the cargo bay. But he knew that Sir was the correct form of address.
"Good." This time the Voice was quieter, approving.
The pilot nodded, reassured. This wasn't so bad. He could do this. He was an ace, the top of his class. He had never felt fear at the controls of his bird. "Where are we going?"
But now the Voice was silent, and the pilot understood that it was not his place to ask that sort of question.
And then, there, up ahead and just a little bit to the right, the pilot saw a ship.
* * *
Paulina Jovanovic watched the helicopter come to rest on the deck. It was a superb landing, and the woman wondered how the pilot managed to remain so calm and steady despite the lashing rain.
Some of her men immediately dashed forward. They were swift, efficient figures in dark slickers as they tied the chopper down to the deck. The rest of the men stayed back. Harsh, artificial light flashed on the wet barrels of automatic weapons.
A man descended from the helicopter. The trailing hem of his long overcoat billowed in the downdraft of the slowing rotor blades.
Paulina could see that he was tall and broad shouldered, though far more slender than she usually liked her men. She flicked a glance to where Ivan waited stolidly by her side. The man's bearded face was set in an expression of boredom, but the woman knew that her bodyguard was ever watchful. Rain beaded on his shaved scalp.
When she wore her heels, Paulina was several inches taller than the burly Serbian mercenary. But she barely noticed. He was a towering presence: shoulders like cannonballs, bulging arms and legs like tree trunks.
A real man
, Paulina thought. She knew she would cast Ivan aside once their assignment together was completed. But so long as both of them got what they wanted, it seemed like a satisfactory arrangement. And she had little doubt that Ivan was enjoying their arrangement.
The man from the helicopter approached Paulina, the only woman on the deck and the only person not carrying an assault rifle. Funny, how in their world the ones without weapons were usually the most powerful.
"Good evening!" Paulina had to raise her voice to be heard over the sounds of the waves crashing against the hull of the ship.
Paulina's English was impeccable, with barely a trace of an accent. It was one of her many points of pride. So she was shocked when the man responded in French, her mother tongue.
"Good evening."
She hesitated then, off balance.
The man's features were hard to make out in the rain and the poor lighting. He swept his arm in the direction of the bulkhead and the hatch belowdecks. "Shall we?" He took another step forward.
Ivan, expressionless, put a hand on the man's chest. He didn't say anything but his meaning was clear.
No closer.
"No, no..." Paulina shook her head, wondering what it was that struck her about the man's words. Was it his French? But no, there was no accent she could place. He spoke like a born Frenchman. She put one small hand on Ivan's shoulder. She spoke rapidly in Serbian. "Follow us closely, but do not interfere. I may need you."
Ivan's head turned slowly. Bright blue eyes met her dark ones, and then the man nodded slowly. He stepped aside and inclined his head at their visitor. Again his message was clear.
Continue. Carefully.
* * *
The room was large and well-appointed, with a heavy wooden table, a leather couch, and Ivan's burly figure standing quietly in one corner. Belowdecks, the only indication of the raging storm was the sound of rain against the porthole windows.
