Chapter 15

15

MEJAYAN, INDONESIA

"Anything?" Garrett demanded.

"Negative," Caldwell bit out. "The Whoosh is nonstop to Surabaya. She'll be fine. It is still moving and—if it wasn't, I would've told you?—"

"Do you get that she's not an operator, that she has no idea about tactics or hand-to-hand?" One lesson in Krav did not an MMA fighter make.

"Do you get that she has a dog capable of ripping out throats?" Caldwell scoffed. When Garrett growled, the spook held up his hands. "Bear. You let her go, told her to stay with the chems. We know where that train is headed, and it's nonstop." He scanned the intel.

Garrett wanted to kill the guy. But he was right.

Hold up. "It's nonstop to where?" Garrett asked, checking the tracker app for the thousandth time. Still no active signal from Surge.

"Surabaya."

Surabaya . . . Why was that familiar? "What's in the area?"

"Surabaya is a big, thriving city. It's known as the City of Heroes after a great battle during Indonesia's independence revolution." Caldwell ducked closer to his device. "Top companies include Next1—a mobile services company. A blood donation center called Reblood, and PT PG Rajawali—a sugar factory that produces maple, sweet maja?—"

"Shoe factory . . . sugar factory . . ." Garrett chewed through those names. "Zim, any of those work for mixing the chemical? I'm thinking about the sugar factory."

"Uh . . . wait—negative. The sulfamic acid in Sachaai's formula is an ingestible poison—a nightmare for a sugar factory owner."

"Okay, so not the sugar factory," Garrett muttered. He glanced back at Caldwell. "What else is there?"

"You realize," Zim said, "any of these companies could simply be a front."

Garrett grunted even as he realized the spook was still listing companies.

" . . . eTraining Indonesia, Cantika Coffee Farm, Belajar?—"

"Wait!" Garrett whipped around in his seat. "Cantika . . . Choca Cantika—Delaney loves that coffee."

Negotiating traffic, which had let up, Zim eyed him. "You think . . ."

"Favorite coffee has nothing to do with the chems," Caldwell countered.

Man, Garrett wanted to punch the guy. But he was right. Again. "I know . . ." But what were the chances that Delaney had talked about this coffee right before they ended up headed straight toward it?

"However," Zim said as they pulled up to the Indonesia Navy base, "coffee would combine well with hydrogen cyanide, thanks to Tariq's non-dissipating oil spray . . ."

Garrett hesitated, eyeing the guards around the gate, who were well-armed and giving other entrants a hard time.

"Evening, sir," the guard said in a thick accent. "ID?" Once he had Zim's ID, the guard checked a clipboard, then nodded. "Very good, sir. Straight down. Two rights. You'll find the airstrip."

"Thanks," Zim said, easing the vehicle forward.

"That was easy," Garrett said. Too easy.

"That," Caldwell said, "is the power of Tyson Chapel."

As they headed to the chopper, Garrett refocused. "So, Cantika . . . think that's where they're headed?"

Zim bumped his arm. "With all those chems in all those shoes, Sachaai could contaminate a whole crop of coffee beans at the roastery."

"It's genius, really," Caldwell said. "Lace coffee beans with the chemical, ship it overseas with nobody the wiser, then let Americans drink themselves to their death."

"Sick . . . we have to stop them."

Ping!

Garrett snapped his gaze to this SAT phone. "Yes! Finally, got a signal on the tracker."

"Which tells us what? That they're still going three fifty klicks an hour?"

"One day," Garrett said as they climbed out and grabbed their gear, "you're going to smart off and have my fist in your teeth."

"And I'll have your career."

He shouldered into the ruck and jogged toward the helo, noting they didn't have a support team.

"Bear?"

Garrett grinned. "Yeah."

The pilot struck out a hand. "Frank." He thumbed over his shoulder. "This way and we'll get you in the air."

"Where's the rest of the team?"

Frank smirked. "Copilot is all we have," he said, indicating toward the gear. "Chapel sent some weaponry and gear but sends his apologies. They got spun up on an op to save an HVT."

So, we're on our own , Garrett thought as he hiked into the bird and planted himself in a seat, grabbed the onboard headphones. Once they were airborne, he decided to make use of the local asset. "Frank," he said over the din of the engines and rotors. "What can you tell us about Choca Cantika?"

"Cantika Coffee Farm is on the Mount Bromo volcano slope," Frank said, sounding like a tour guide. "The farm is about ninety-five klicks out," he added, sounding much more serious.

Holding up a data pad, headphones on, Caldwell shone it at Garrett. "It's not far from the bullet train station in Surabaya."

"True—you can smell them roasting it every night from that platform."

That coffee farm had to be it . . . Garrett looked out of the helo at the sky darkening over hot, humid Indonesia. The thought of preschool shoes decorated with butterfly shapes filled with lethal chemicals. Those chemicals being consumed across the States. Ice dumped into his gut. Maybe he'd never have Cantika coffee again. But . . .

Caldwell shifted in his seat. "Just checked shipping manifests for Cantika. Next shipment is going out first thing in the morning. Factoring in timing for delivery, unloading . . . processing . . . they could be gone by morning."

Chest tightening, Garrett shook his head. "With no assets to support us, no way we can raid a whole factory."

"Agreed," the spook said.

"We have to stop that train." Okay, time to work out a plan. Garrett rubbed his hands together. "Bullet train is going roughly three hundred fifty klicks an hour. Can we catch them, Frank?"

Frank messed with the controls for a second. "Train will slow as it approaches Surabaya, but we're flying two hundred." He tapped at his screen, and Garrett strained to see what Frank was showing them . . . the speed dial and the map. He clicked his tongue. "We're ten mikes from the train."

Garrett reached up and clapped his shoulder.

"Then in six minutes," Caldwell said, "we bomb the train, explode the chemicals off the planet. Success!"

* * *

NEAR SURABAYA, INDONESIA

The train was slowing. They had to be coming up on a train station.

Delaney knew that while Garrett was en route, he wasn't here . Hakim was on board, and if they stopped, they could get these containers to the farm and make their deadly chemical. That didn't even take into consideration that Hakim was here. Hakim!

She needed a plan.

Plan A: Send Surge to each car ahead of her, then take on Hakim when they found him. But that wasn't solid, because if she sent Surge, she had exactly zero ways to defend herself against the others.

Plan B: Leave Surge here to protect the LD3s full of Sachaai chemical vials while she sought Hakim herself. Still left her with no way to defend herself. As well as she had learned the technique from Garrett's lesson in martial arts, she knew she wasn't up to a three-on-one.

Plan C: Drag the LD3s to the caboose and dump them overboard. Huh. Could she? She stood up and pulled at the LD3 on top of the stack as hard as she could. She couldn't even budge it. They were way too heavy. Yeah. Plan C was terrible too.

Plan D . . .

She didn't have a Plan D.

Plans A and B had the same problem—she'd had quick self-defense classes that didn't amount to anything against three armed terrorists. Even with Surge. And while he could solve the Hakim problem, that would leave her to solve the Rashid and Tariq problems. Not to mention it wouldn't tell her how to stop the chemical attack.

Surge nudged her leg, and she slid down to the floor, wrapped her arm around him.

Dad was right. She was useless when it came to the most important moments in life. Not that he'd ever said that—he was too nice to actually voice it—but how could he not think it? He'd lost his leg because of her. She'd hid instead of stopping the shooter.

Now this mission was also going to fail. Because of her. The chems were going to make it to the coffee farm.

Because of her.

She wasn't a SEAL. She was just a girl on a train with an MWD. She reached down and scratched the Mal under the chin.

Yes, climbing into the rideshare to follow had been her choice. A maverick move, but . . . Garrett had told her to stay with the containers on the train with Surge. Her team would save her.

Except, what if Garrett was right in what he'd said yesterday? That she refused to be seen as incompetent—so she just rushed into wherever she wanted, to do whatever she wanted.

Her breath hitched.

The truth was that whenever she barged into a situation to "prove herself a hero," what she really ended up doing was testing God.

Ouch.

She'd been so determined to prove herself at the middle school that she hadn't watched— really watched —Surge. She had barged into it. The whole embarrassing public overwhelm could've been avoided. Her heart skipped a beat. She was bold all right. Bold for herself . Because she didn't want to be seen as weak or afraid or . . .

Or a little girl caught in a robbery, watching her world fall apart.

She'd frozen. Because what was she supposed to do as a child? Delaney scoffed. Garrett said she'd probably saved her life, and her father's. By freezing. Yeah, right.

Delaney, you were eight. Dad's voice bubbled up in her memory. You couldn't stop the shooter. But it was you in the store with me. It was your hands pressed against my gunshot like the 911 operator told you. Because of Christ.

She had forgotten he'd said that back when she was a teen, so tied up in a push to prove herself a hero—which was how she'd ended up serving community service at A Breed Apart.

The truth of that stung deep and pushed a tear down her cheek.

Surge licked the tear.

"Thanks, boy," she whispered, burying her hands in his fur.

It was true she'd mavericked her way through life for herself. But it was not Surge, Heath, Garrett, America, or even Dad she owed an apology to. She sank her chin to her chest.

God, please forgive me. I thought I was doing Your will. But I was doing nothing more than trying to be a hero. To show off, really. To protect myself, so I didn't have to trust You or anyone else to protect me. But I do trust You. And I need your help .

"Situational awareness" echoed in her mind—Garrett's voice during their self-defense training session. And it was Garrett who'd surprised her when he'd called her "bold" for taking off after Rashid and Tariq outside the Shoemakers Extraordinaire.

Garrett was bold himself, in his own way. Yeah, lots of guys had biceps and wide, strong shoulders. Bright brown eyes. But they couldn't lead a team to stop a terrorist attack. They didn't all laugh at a Mal chewing on their underwear. Nor were they willing to learn how to work with said Mal. Most weren't trustworthy like Garrett.

His hands on her shoulders during that first Krav Maga self-defense lesson . . . she could still feel them. Garrett was all man.

She'd seen his strength, his confidence, his willingness to own his mistakes and apologize . . . all those things had helped her be a better version of herself. It'd helped her to stop being a rogue and instead focus on the mission. Which was how she and Surge had ended up on a bullet train with six LD3s of potassium cyanide and sulfamic acid.

Delaney scruffed Surge's thick neck fur. When he licked her whole face, she chuckled. Then hugged him tighter, realizing how it'd all come together. Maybe it wasn't over, and clearly she would still face the darkest battle yet, but she could see how God had orchestrated all the pieces of this puzzle to confront and stop these terrorists. First . . . a year ago, God had stirred her to not give up on Surge, who had the aggression and scent training needed for this mission. And God had let Heath not give up on her, teaching her how to train dogs and believing in her. Then word had gotten back to Garrett through a series of connections and he'd come to the ranch.

Because of all that, God's merciful hand, she and Surge had detected the chemicals . . . gone to the market, discovered the shoes. . . now, they were here.

And Garrett was coming.

She refused to believe otherwise. Neither would she believe she was frozen. Or helpless. God was with her.

Okay, God . . . help me do what I can because of You.

She freed her hair from its ponytail, smoothed it, then put the elastic band back in.

Now. So she couldn't get LD3s full of chems off this train by herself. She needed to know what was in the boxcar. She patted Surge's chest and stood, looked around the dark interior. With her head on a swivel, she shone her SAT phone flashlight around and walked the car with Surge at her side, snuffling all over the place, especially at containers marked "Good Job Dog Treats."

She grinned. "Not yours, buddy. C'mon."

They finished the tour of the car in about two minutes. No hits. She returned to the six Sachaai LD3s and slid back to the floor, and Surge rested his chin on her leg.

Wait. What was that black lump on the floor by the container in the corner?

She got up and walked over. "Surge, check it."

He sniffed at it, then looked up at her. If he were a person, he would've shrugged.

"Let's see what it is, then." She drew closer. Oh. It was a black rock. Hand-sized. Hefty. Her mouth twitched.

If they'd been here with her, Garrett and Zim would have been doing one thing—checking their weapons. At least one of the three Sachaai would return to check on the LD3s, for sure. If there weren't even more Sachaai aboard.

She picked up the black rock. It wasn't an official weapon at all.

At least it was weapon-like. She grinned. Thank You, God.

This was apparently Plan D.

* * *

BETWEEN MEJAYAN AND SURABAYA, INDONESIA

"You out of your mind?" Garrett growled. In his mind's eye he saw Delaney and her fearless, swingy ponytail, the way she tilted her head at him . . . flying into a million pieces. "No way. We aren't bombing a seven-point-three- billion -dollar bullet train."

Caldwell held his gaze.

There was something in Caldwell's gaze that silenced Garrett, though he wasn't sure what it was.

"You have to trust me," Caldwell continued. "We'll just hit the engine. Precision. That will knock only the front of the train off the rails. Rogue will be fine."

Garrett couldn't believe the spook was that dumb. But one thing kept ringing in his head—well, two. First, the most obvious, that Rogue would be killed. But second, he'd never trusted anyone. Trusting Dad had taught him that painful lesson. And maybe his anger at Caldwell and his misplaced irritation with Delaney had a core base: also Dad.

God probably wanted him to work on that. He would. After this mission.

His breath stuck in his throat, knowing that if he didn't resolve this and didn't make it back alive . . . Wasn't there something in the Bible about if you withheld your forgiveness, God would withhold His?

Like he needed anything else bad in his life right now.

So. Deal with it. Anger and rage had been his tack in life.

Truth sizzled through his veins. His anger toward Dad came from his anger toward God for all He'd "let" Dad do to Garrett. Let their family go through.

Yet . . . he saw now how God had put teachers, friends in his life. The SEALs. This team. Delaney. Wow. Yeah. God had always been building his life. I'm so sorry. I really do trust You. I really do. His gaze focused back on the spook. He didn't have to agree with Caldwell's idea, but he could deal with it in a legit manner. "One, that is a seven-point-three-billion-dollar mistake, because if we bomb it while it's going at a high rate of speed, that whole thing will fly off the tracks. With Rogue and Surge in it. They won't survive." He shook his head. "So that's out. Besides, I don't have that in my bank account to pay back. Do you?"

Caldwell nodded. "Point taken. Guess you want to punch me again."

Actually . . . no. Strange. But that familiar rage that drove his life . . . it wasn't there. What was there, however, was a keen awareness. Forget not hitting him. Forget control. This man was wrong, all wrong. When they got to the ground . . .

He took a deep breath. "Explain the logic behind what you want to do."

Caldwell gave Garrett a tight smile. "One: Surabaya has over three million people. We need to stop the thing before it's near the station and people get hurt. Two: it's just the three of us right now, so if there are more Sachaai at the station, we won't have a prayer of stopping them."

Garrett's mood went grim. He looked out of the bird. Nobody wanted innocents dying. Hang it all if Caldwell wasn't right again—it was smart to destroy the chems before Sachaai could grab them. But there was another option. "We slow it down."

"How?" Caldwell demanded.

Good question. "Modern-day trains don't have cabooses. Bullet trains have operation cabs at the front and back, so fast-rope down to the train, anchor onto the roof, shimmy down to the roof hatch, and drop in."

"At three hundred fifty kilometers an hour?" Caldwell balked.

Garrett lifted a shoulder in a shrug. He really appreciated the shock in the spook's expression. "We're SEALs. We've done worse."

"You're insane."

"Me? You're the one who wants to bomb a seven-billion-dollar bullet train." Garrett rubbed his jaw. "Look, we don't need to destroy the train. We just need to stop it. So, we get aboard. There's a driver, so we either make him slow it, or we slow it. That'll keep the US on good terms with Indonesia and give Damocles time to assemble a team to help locals interdict the chemicals."

"That's . . . a lot of uncertainty."

"Right now, it's the best we have. We cannot let them get the chemicals to Surabaya." Garrett watched Zim packing some C4 and detonator wires into his tac vest.

"Just in case," the guy said with a shrug.

"Zim and I fast-rope down to the Whoosh. Frank falls back"?—he caught the pilot's eye —"but stays close enough for a quick exfil. We get Thompson harnessed up, and you bring her to safety. Tricky and dangerous, but if this goes south, it's better that she's not aboard. Then Zim and I work our way to the engineer and force him to stop the train outside Surabaya."

Caldwell puffed a breath, looked to the pilot. "Can you do that? Lower them to a speeding train?"

The pilot shrugged. "I'm a go if you are."

"Let's do it," Zim said.

Garrett still didn't trust Caldwell—not sure he ever would—but he did trust God. "Let's do it."

"Five mikes to the train," Frank answered.

Garrett shifted to the edge of the bird and moved to the jumpseat, the terrain blurring beneath his boots.

Caldwell climbed next to the door, holding his position, shouting to be heard. "Once we get to the train, you'll have twenty mikes to stop it."

"Three mikes!" the pilot shouted.

Nodding, Caldwell readied the fast-rope. "If you fail, the hydrogen cyanide coffee beans get to the States. Then you can face Chapel and thousands of families whose loved ones died."

"Thanks for the pep talk." Stuffing his hands into the thick gloves, Garrett nodded. "Warn Chapel." He pinned Caldwell with his gaze. "We'll need a team to intercept the LD3s before the Sachaai realize what happened and send their people for them."

Caldwell reached for his SAT phone.

"Two mikes!"

Zim looked Garrett up and down and patted his shoulder, assuring him his gear was ready.

"Wait till Rogue is ready, then come down with a harness for her. I'll get Rogue off, then you come," Garrett said.

"Copy that, Boss."

With a nod, Garrett shifted his glance. Held the rope, coiled his right leg around the part whipping in the wind. He swiveled around, gave one more nod, and hopped out into the dark night and let gravity yank him downward.