Nothing.
As for the reason behind such a kidnapping, the news outlet had no clue, except that, over there, journalists often met with issues, political and otherwise. Always a coup going on somewhere. Always somebody at war with somebody else. As much as Jerricho hated to say it, he’d like to see journalists not go there at all. He understood freedom of the press and all, but too often the journalists met with endless bad results.
Brenna had been part of a large contingency with UN journalists and should have been safe, and he understood that she probably would have been jumping at the chance to go. But somehow she and her cameraman had slipped behind, been singled out, or had wandered off on their own and then had been targeted. The end result was everybody else was safe; those two were not.
Jerricho boarded the next flight without any issues, and he was still alone, wondering who would join him as his partner on this op. He’d gotten word that, when he landed, he would meet his partner. So far nobody had shown up on the plane beside him. When somebody cleared his throat behind him, Jerricho thought he might have recognized the characteristic rasp.
The stewardess came along, after the plane finally leveled out, and offered drinks. Jerricho accepted a bottle of water, listening intently to whoever was behind him, as he spoke with the flight attendant. The male voice held an almost musical note to it. Jerricho sat back and wondered. When a bottle of water was handed to the man behind Jerricho, the passenger said, “Thank you,” then reached forward with his bottle and said, “Good luck, mate.”
Jerricho immediately tapped his bottle and said, “Killian, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Wondered how long it would take you,” he said, with a heavy, thick, blimey accent.
Jerricho twisted in his seat, looked at him, shook his head, and said, “How could anybody even recognize you?”
“Ditto,” he said.
Jerricho had been traveling in disguise himself. If anybody in the know within these local terrorist groups had tracked Brenna’s whereabouts, they might have tracked her history to Jerricho. Therefore, traveling incognito was the best for everyone. “Do you know her?”
“No,” he said, “but I know you.”
“Right,” he said. Normally his friend had a bright carrot-top-orange hair to go along with the really thick bushy beard, but, right now, Killian was clean-shaven, and that bright orange had been darkened to a deep auburn. But it was hard to mistake the heavy frame, massive shoulders, and thick forearms. He’d been a boxer in his college years and had done very well for himself. And definitely had a little bit of a junkyard dog look to his face. “You know that you can change the hair all you want,” Jerricho muttered, “but …”
Killian chuckled. “Ain’t that the truth,” he said. “Only so much I can camouflage. Same for you. It’s not like you’ve changed your shape.”
They were both massive men, both heavy lifters, but it wasn’t a gym rat look. They were physically fit from years of doing heavy military work.
“Had no clue you were coming,” Jerricho muttered. But he was pleased. Killian was a good guy. They’d done several missions together.
“Nope, they like keeping secrets, keeping things compartmentalized,” he said. “I’m sending you some info.”
Jerricho settled back into his seat, unscrewed the cap on his bottle of water, and drank half of it in one gulp, as he waited for the information to flow. From then on they talked through the Mavericks’ chat window, until the flight landed. Jerricho walked through the airport with his duffel bag over his shoulder to see Killian off to the side, a good twenty feet away, but carrying almost identical bags. He thought to himself, No way to not know that we aren’t the same.
Outside, he walked into the rental office, made a few inquiries to pass the time, while he waited for an answer as to where they were headed. As soon as he stepped outside again, he checked his phone to see an incoming message. He typed a response and got the answer.
Malta.
Flight numbers were there, still another two hours away, but, because he’d left the airport itself, the one part of the gate he had to go back through was security, which was no problem. By the time he sat down on the flight to Malta, he saw Killian up ahead.
When they next exited an airport, Jerricho took several slow deep breaths because they had landed at four o’clock in the afternoon heat. His shirt was already drenched.
He grabbed his duffel once again, stepped out into Malta, and received yet another text. He ignored all the people eager to take him wherever he wanted to go and walked to where a black vehicle waited for him. He tossed his duffel in the back, hopped into the front driver’s seat, and, as he turned on the engine, Killian hopped in beside him.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“To the docks,” Jerricho said, “at the far end of the island.”
They stopped, picked up some food, and drove straight to the new location. He parked in the lot nearest the docks, picked up his duffel bag, left the keys under the seat, and headed down a long swinging dock to the water. At least one hundred boats, sailboats, motorboats, and everything in between were here. He headed to berth 23 and nodded his approval when he saw a good-size cruiser with a powerful engine.
Happily he hopped on board. He checked below deck, nobody anywhere. The boat was completely empty. As he came topside, Killian had already tossed the tether line free. Jerricho hopped up onto the platform, turned on the engine, and slowly putted their way out of the harbor.
Killian joined him at the top. “You got any maps?”
“Not yet,” Jerricho said. “I will though, as it looks like we won’t have an easy crossing.”
“No,” Killian said. “We’ve got word that there’s a good chance she was moved onto another ship.”
Jerricho looked at him, surprised. “Wow, okay. That might be an interesting scenario.”
“Our instructions are to find her and to retrieve her of course,” Killian added, “but … depending on who else is on board …”
“And it’ll be hard to sneak up on the kidnappers, if they’re in the middle of the ocean,” Jerricho said. “This is a powerboat, but I don’t want to go too far out into open water and have a major storm come up.”
“You’re not kidding,” he said. “It’s not like we have subs or any military equipment to get us underwater to a new location.”
“Nope, not at all,” Jerricho said. “Do we have a tracking location?”
“I’ve asked. Haven’t got word yet.”
Jerricho quickly went through his phone and checked for any more information, then sent off a message to Diesel. Need to know newest location. Need satellite images and some idea of where they’re heading.
On it.
Good. He pocketed his phone and changed places with Killian.
Killian piloted the boat, heading out in the ocean toward the Tunisian coast. “It’s quite possible,” he said, “that they’re just moving up and down the coastline.”
“It’s possible, but I still don’t understand why her.”
“It could be anything, from somebody liking her pretty face to hating journalists in general to wanting something that would give them leverage.”