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  DEVIL’S DUE

  THE CARDS IN THE DECK

  A Scott Evers Thriller

  ROBERT STANEK

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  This is a work of fiction. All the characters, names, places and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual locale, person or event is entirely coincidental.

  DEVIL’S DUE

  THE CARDS IN THE DECK

  Copyright © 2015 by Robert Stanek.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Reagent Press LLC, Attention: Permissions Department, P.O. Box 362, East Olympia, WA 98540-0362.

  Text and illustrations copyright © 2015 Robert Stanek.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. First Printed in the United States of America.

  Reagent Press LLC

  www.reagentpress.com

  REAGENT PRESS

  Also by Robert Stanek

  Ruin Mist Chronicles

  Dragons of the Hundred Worlds

  Keeper Martin's Tale

  Kingdom Alliance

  Fields of Honor

  Mark of the Dragon

  Guardians of the Dragon Realms

  Scott Evers Thrillers

  The Pieces of the Puzzle

  The Cards in the Deck

  After the Machines

  This Mortal Coil

  The Secret of Us

  Look for spoken-word versions of these

  and other Robert Stanek books!

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank my writing group, my editors, and my publishers for their many years of support. A writer can’t survive in this business without such wonderful support. I want to personally thank Jeannie Kim, Tom Green, Lisa Johnson, Tony Andover, Frank Martin, Ed & Holly Black, Patrick Gaiman, George Harrison, and Susan Collins for encouraging me and keeping me on track with the writing. Your insights and assistance have always been much appreciated. I also want to thank Will, Jasmine, and Sapphire for always being the first readers to devour my work and come back hungry for more.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  World Time

  Hawaii Time

  Coordinated Universal Time -10:00

  Mountain Time

  Coordinated Universal Time -07:00

  Brussels, Paris & Madrid

  Coordinated Universal Time +01:00

  Beirut, Cairo & Tripoli

  Coordinated Universal Time +02:00

  FACT:

  The National Cybersecurity Initiative and the NCI Data Center exist, as do the code-named surveillance programs and the secret branches of the NSA and CIA.

  All science, technology, literature and historical references are real, including Big Black, D-Wave and quantum computing.

  Chapter 1

  Mediterranean Sea

  Early Morning,

  Tuesday, 19 June

  Drinking as a competitor’s sport wasn’t very smart and Scott Evers knew that as well as any other who participated, but knowing didn’t improve his mood as he awoke in darkness with a pounding headache. The cabin was cramped, airless. He fumbled about trying to breathe, trying to think, unable to escape the images of Cynthia playing at the water’s edge with little James. A beautiful moment from Cynthia’s most recent video and a little too close for comfort.

  The Sea Shepherd listed. Scott reached up with both hands, grabbed at the low ceiling to steady himself, realizing only then that the blaring alarm was what had awoken him. Remnants of the dream images fell away. Calm found him—the kind that availed itself only to those who thrived in the chaos of the storm.

  The Shepherd was modeled after the Island-class patrol vessels used by the British Royal Navy in fishery protection patrols. She was 201 feet in length, 36 feet at beam, with a 14-foot draught, and her twin diesel engines helped her reach speeds approaching 20 knots. Her raised upper decks, reinforced to withstand just about anything Mother Nature could throw at her, gave an extended bird’s eye view to the captain and anyone else in the enclosed wheelhouse at the top.

  The mission aboard the Shepherd was a daring one. The Shepherd’s job was to disrupt fishermen on the Mediterranean who were exceeding their quotas. Bluefin tuna spawned in the Mediterranean then swam out to the North Atlantic, but overfishing was depleting the tuna to the point of collapse.

  Scott wasn’t an environmentalist—he was about as far from one as a person could be. His mission aboard was to protect the Shepherd’s standard crew of 45 and keep them from doing stupid things that would get them killed.

  One hand gripping the ceiling as the Sea Shepherd turned hard to port, Scott twisted to reach his utility belt on the wall hook. He clipped it on, felt for its holster, even as he slipped on first one boot and then the other. A sharp pull to the laces of each fitted the quick-tie military boots into place. Last thing he wanted was to be slipping about the deck as he assessed the situation topside.

  Red lights in the passageway signaled trouble. He moved double-time, rushing past agitated crewmembers headed in the other direction. Scott knew without asking they ran to the armory. Edie among them, looking uncharacteristically ashen, shouted out, “Libyans sank the Bardot III.”

  Scott gripped Edie’s shoulder, “Are you certain?” Last he checked, the Libyans were friends, or at least friendlier than they’d been in the past under Ghadoffi.

  Edie’s reply was drowned out in more confirmation than Scott needed: the screams of jet fighters racing by, close to the deck. Without seeing the jets, Scott knew they were French. French peacekeepers were the only ones daring the no-fly zone north of Libya right now, though the nearby USS Harry S. Truman had a Carrier Air Wing with several squadrons of fighter jets aboard too.

  “Divers in the water,” Edie cautioned, before continuing on.

  Divers in the water explained the tight circle the Sea Shepherd was turning. The divers were out cutting the nets of the purse seiners, freeing ensnared tuna. Fishing in near total darkness was a tactic to escape scrutiny, but it didn’t fool the crew of the Sea Shepherd.

  Topside, Scott found the usual in the early dawn light. Garet Dietrich, chief of Scott’s security detail, was kneeling behind a riot shield being held by Lian Qu, who everyone called Kid after Billy the Kid because he was too quick to draw his gun. Kid and the chief were taking cover from the heavy metal chain links men on five Tunisian fishing boats were hurling while the Shepherd’s crew responded with stink bombs and water from fire hoses.

  Seeing Scott, Garet said, “About time, thought you’d pissed yourself and jumped overboard like Hensely.”

  A jest, Scott knew, though it didn’t stop him from tossing back, “After our bout,
I’d’ve thought you’d be swimming in your vomit about now.”

  Scott assessed the situation as he talked. Three of the Tunisian boats were scrambling to protect their nets. Two others were trying to cut off the Shepherd and chase her away. His words were harsh, as meant. Hensely’s “suicide” wasn’t something Scott was comfortable talking about. He’d warned Captain Pendleton about the repeated dressing downs. The young seaman didn’t know the ropes. Most of the volunteer hands on the Sea Shepherd were like that. They were “big idea” dreamers who had no idea what they were getting into until they were a few hundred leagues and a few “incidents” from the nearest safe port.

  “Like hell,” Garet said, grabbing Scott’s elbow and pulling him down behind the riot shield.

  In his mid 30’s, Garet was tough as a grizzly bear, built like one, and his dark unkempt beard and hair completed the picture perfectly. His cautiousness of late was thanks to catching an anchor chain link in the face at close range. The bruises the fist-sized heavy metal link brought were still fresh below his right eye and down his right cheek.

  Scott wrote off the wound as bad timing. Garet had turned into the flying link as one of the fisherman had hurled it.

  “How many divers? Where?” Scott asked.

  Garet grunted as he turned, pointed. “Kathy and Angel.”

  Scott was glad it was Kathy and Angel. They were the most experienced divers aboard ship, less likely to panic and more likely to follow protocol, which meant staying down at depth and out of sight for as long as possible to avoid another incident. “Air? Depth?”

  “Single tanks. Standard depth.” Garet studied his watch. “29 minutes down on my mark.”

  Scott turned his wrist, readied to mark time on his watch. The average scuba tank held about 80 cubic feet of air. Most divers used one cubic foot per minute near the surface. At a depth of ten meters, the same diver would breathe two cubic feet per minute.

  Garet called out, “Mark,” as he touched a finger to the face of his dive watch.

  “Mark,” Scott repeated back, starting the timer on his watch. “Water temperature?”

  “Still running a bit cooler than normal.”

  Scott nodded. Temperature affected the air supply. Diver’s experience, too. Cooler temperatures condensed the air and shortened breathing time somewhat. Experienced divers knew how to conserve air through carefully regulated breathing. “17 to 21 minutes before they’ll have to surface?”

  “That’s where I figure it,” Garet said.

  Scott nodded. Plenty of time for a clean retrieval once the fishing boats dispersed, as long as no one was trapped in a net this time. “What’s this about the Bardot?”

  “They sank her,” Garet said. “Opened fire with their chase guns without warning. Sank her before she could get away.”

  Chapter 2

  Mediterranean Sea

  Early Morning,

  Tuesday, 19 June

  Sam, a crewer on a fire hose, turned away from incoming metal, spraying a fountain of water over the forward deck. Scott brushed aside the water like a bothersome bug. “Chase guns didn’t sink the Bardot. She’s too big.”

  “Been too busy to think about it.” Garet shrugged. “Must’ve been anti-ship missiles then. Heard they didn’t give the crew time to abandon to life rafts.”

  “Terrorists?” Scott asked. In the Mediterranean, terrorists were about the only wildcards with the capability and a more likely aggressor than Libya.

  Four bells rang out—a warning. The Sea Shepherd stopped her protective circling. Scott turned to look back and up to the wheelhouse. Captain Pendleton, at the helm, was fixed on something on the starboard side. A moment later, Scott heard, but didn’t see, what approached. The 470-horsepower twin Caterpillar Diesel motors were unmistakable. Out here that noise meant Naval Special Warfare Rigid Inflatable Boats (NSW RIBs) and the Navy’s Sea, Air and Land Forces (SEALs).

  Two NSW RIBs meant they were getting special attention. Each RIB had a crew of 3 and an 8-man SEAL squad aboard. The standard complement.

  Scott grinned ear to ear. The SEALs were right on time, if a little showy. Normally, the fishermen would try to flee the RIBs, and two of the five boats were fleeing. The others looked to be staying in place, however. Two with nets in the water.

  Scott felt a presence behind him before Edie spoke. “Here,” she said. Scott reached out, took the Kalashnikov without turning away from the fast approaching RIBs. AK-47s weren’t his weapons of choice, but they were plentiful enough in the region to buy in quantity. In a pinch, he preferred the .45 Beretta Px4 he had holstered. The Storm Special Duty gave maximum firepower with nine rounds in the standard magazine and ten in the extendeds, though it weighed nearly 28 ounces unloaded.

  Edie kneeled down, pressed her body into Scott’s purposefully. Her constant desire for closeness made him want to climb over the rail. Not because he’d bumped uglies with her and felt guilty, but because he hadn’t and wanted to as much as she did.

  “Get a cabin—later,” Garet shouted. “For now, do your crisis management voodoo because it looks like some of our Tunisian friends are staying.”

  Scott offered no immediate reply, but agreed with Garet’s assessment. He’d make his move when it was time, and after he’d assessed all that needed assessing.

  Being separated from Cynthia these past 14 months was a fresh hell every day, more so with Edie on the prowl. To say that Edie was an everyman’s wet dream was an injustice because she was so much more than that. Blue-eyed and red-haired—sapphires and flames—she spoke plainly and with a quiet intelligence. She was long-limbed, trim. Tall, but not overly so. Nicely bosomed, though not much more than a fair handful.

  Her roundhouse kick could knock his head from his shoulders—and almost had several times during sparring rounds. She could field-strip an AK-47 in 14 seconds and reassemble it in 30 seconds—blindfolded—drink like a fish all night, and still function at 150 percent the next day.

  The khaki survival vest that she wore over her skimpies was the clincher, though. The vest coupled with her fierceness was for him as catnip was to cats. There was nothing sexier than an unabashed warrior woman. In short, she made him wish he were a younger man, which he wasn’t. Twelve years older than her 28, he was much too old for her and he’d told her as much a few times already. Her single word response was deadly: Cynthia. She said it because Cynthia was 25, and his ex-wife.

  Scott clasped a hand to Lian’s shoulder. “Get Kathy and Angel out of the water now.” Lian grinned his approval and moved off. To Garet, Scott said, “Midship post. Take the riot shield.”

  Scott and Edie stood. “Admit it,” Edie whispered in Scott’s ear seductively as she awaited orders.

  Scott knew what she wanted him to say but held his tongue. He’d told her once that she must have Cossack blood, and she’d replied she was of the blood of czars and gypsies both. For him, the reply explained how she could switch from stoic to impassioned in the span of heartbeats—how she could flirt with him even in the midst of fire hoses, wailing alarms, and flying chains.

  “Boat ahoy!” sounded a voice over a megaphone. “Prepare to be boarded.”

  Scott noted a RIB coming alongside the Shepherd’s starboard just as Lian at the stern was slipping away in a zodiac, moving to port. The zodiac was his answer to the RIBs. Its twin 150 horsepower engines weren’t as powerful or fast as those of the 11-meter RIBs, but they were fast enough for what he needed doing right now. He grabbed Sam’s fire hose, switched it off as he shouted, “Stand down, stand down.”

  A feeling that something wasn’t right caught at the back of Scott’s thoughts. The fishing boats should have turned tail and ran. The fishermen didn’t want trouble any more than the Shepherd’s crew did. Three boats staying was unusual. “I don’t like the feel of this,” Scott told Sam and Edie quietly. “Edie, wheelhouse. Get us ready to move fast. Sam, clear this deck. Stand ready below.”

  Edie and Sam did as told without question. Scott shouldered
his AK-47, caught the tie rope from one of the Navy SEALs and held it without tying down. The SEAL’s lieutenant he knew on sight. “Bob.”

  “Scott.”

  Military code of conduct meant addressing others with last names, first names though, as good-natured insults, were their standard greeting. The U.S. Sixth Fleet, based in Naples, had the Mediterranean Sea as its sole area of responsibility. The aircraft carrier, USS Harry S. Truman, back from the Red Sea, along with other warships in the strike group, like the guided-missile destroyers USS Gettysburg and USS Bulkeley, had been deployed in the eastern Mediterranean for several weeks.

  Scott asked, “Any real reason you need to board us?”

  “You know it’s standard procedure.”

  “You know my reply.” Scott’s smug smile broadened. “Hand over your ARXs and you’re welcome aboard any time.”

  “How many in the water?” The lieutenant asked.

  Scott tossed back the tie rope, watching the fishing boats out of the corner of his eye. “You know better than to ask. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Right?”

  The lieutenant glared, signaled for the rope to be tossed back. “We’re not going anywhere this time. Orders.”

  Lieutenant Ansely’s floating bucket was the amphibious assault ship USS Kearsarge. Sending out two RIBs instead of the typical one must mean an alert status, perhaps the Bardot really had been sunk by terrorists. Scott said, “Well, Bob, we’re not going anywhere either. Stalemate?”

  The lieutenant made a big show of getting his fire team into position. That meant, not only getting the SEALs at the fore and aft .50 cals to ready themselves to open fire, but also getting the rest of the 8-man squad to drop to a knee-steady position and take aim with their ARX 160s.