Hawk brought us in low, skimming just above the churning whitecaps. “Fifteen seconds!” The yacht came fully into view through the sheets of rain, its deck pitching violently in the storm. Not ideal conditions for a drop, but I didn’t care. Hawk pulled up until we were higher than the yacht.
I held on, squared my shoulders, and faced the open door of the helicopter.
Behind me, Birdie climbed into the back and pulled on her harness, tactical gloves, and goggles.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked.
“What does it look like, dumbass?” she said, cool as a cucumber, as if she wasn’t preparing to rappel down onto a yacht in the middle of a storm.
“You stay here and give me overwatch. If I’m not back in ten minutes with both women, leave without me,” I instructed.
“Like hell,” Birdie responded and gave me the cockiest grin I’d ever been given by a woman.
Hell. There wasn’t a single obedient woman in sight. Not Birdie, not Shorty.
I grinned despite the situation. “Worth a try.”
The yacht was now almost directly below us. I caught a glance of one of the boats, dancing in the waves, dangerously close to the yacht. I gripped the rope and made myself a promise.
I’m not too late. Everything will be just fine. And as soon as I see Shorty, I’ll tell her I love her myself.
“Go!” Hawk shouted as we reached a hovering position.
Without hesitation, I launched myself into the storm, rappeling down toward the yacht and toward Isabella, ready to face whatever waited below.
32
IVAN
The rope ran through my gloves as I descended rapidly toward the yacht. Wind roared past my ears, and raindrops lashed at my face with stinging precision.
Maybe Birdie’s quip about superheroes wasn’t so far off—rappeling from a helicopter during a storm wasn’t exactly a normal day in the office. But since the day I’d tackled down Isabella Salvini, nothing had been.
I caught sight of Birdie already down her line, moving with practiced efficiency despite the violent weather. If any of us was even remotely a superhero, it was clearly her.
She gracefully landed, just as the yacht pitched wildly in the massive waves, and the deck suddenly lurched several feet from my planned landing spot. I made a split-second adjustment, released more line to avoid crashing into Birdie or the metal railings. My muscles tensed as I prepared for impact.
I hit the deck hard and rolled to absorb the shock as the yacht rose on another wave. My body moved on autopilot—weapon drawn, scanning for threats.
Birdie, who was way ahead of me, signaled silently: split up, take opposite approaches.
I moved along the port side, keeping low. We met again at a flight of stairs and descended. The yacht’s interior provided immediate shelter from the storm. But the rolling motion was no joke.
I leaned over the railing and, through sheets of rain blowing in my face, I caught sight of Isabella being roughly handled, with Moretti following closely behind her, getting on board.
Cold fury flooded through me, but I kept it locked down. Emotion had no place here.
We descended one more flight but were still one deck above Moretti, Isabella, and the boarding area. I glanced over the railing again when Birdie tapped my shoulder.
“I see them,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Grey’s boat is approaching, as well. We should act quickly,” Birdie replied.
Two of Moretti’s men approached the stairs. I aimed at the same moment Birdie did. Our shots were perfectly synchronized, and the two men dropped before they could react. We hurried down, eliminated three more, and then the two holding Shorty.
Moretti jerked Shorty against him as a human shield, his head swiveling frantically between us and the speedboat still bobbing violently against the yacht’s side.
“Let her go,” I called out, my weapon trained on the small exposed portion of Moretti’s head.
