“People, listen up,” he said, and everyone turned toward him. “In a minute or two we will be touching down on NB64. The platform has been out of contact and has missed the established communication touch point, which was at 8:00AM today. All video and comm links are down. Our protocol,” he said, slowing his rhythm of delivery a little, making sure everyone understood, “our protocol requires us to assume the worst-case scenario, which is a terrorist attack.”
Most men knew the protocol well and were not surprised. Two younger men from the emergency response unit lifted their heads slightly.
“An offshore oilrig is strategic infrastructure,” he clarified, “hence a prime target for terrorists. It’s isolated and immobile, relatively easy to approach despite all security, and therefore vulnerable. Please explain what types of attack we should be mindful of when landing on the rig,” he said, inviting one of the veterans to explain it to the team.
“The attack could be chemical, biological, or traditional, with explosives. Do not assume you know what’s wrong with the rig’s crew or the rig itself until it’s actually confirmed, and you hear the clear signal given either by me or by—”
“Chief Ramsay,” a young man interrupted in a high-pitched voice, bearing horror written on his face. “Look!”
They looked in the direction of the rig, now in close proximity as the chopper was making its final approach. The deck was covered in blood. Bodies were scattered everywhere. It was the scene of a massacre.
“Masks on,” Ramsay ordered. “Keep chatter to a minimum.”
They disembarked quietly, then almost all of them stopped in their tracks, taking the details in.
Right next to the helipad, a man lay in a pool of blood with his head split open, the ax still stuck in his skull. A few yards out and to the left, another man had found his demise strangled with a piece of chain. A third man lay on his side, and the unnatural position of his head indicated his neck had been broken violently. Toward the mess hall entrance, a man’s blood still dripped into the ocean, as he hung halfway over the guardrail, with a knife stuck deep in his heart. Everywhere they looked, it was the same… countless bodies, all violent deaths, inexplicable. It was as if the entire crew had suddenly turned on one another and fought to their deaths.
Chief Ramsay ordered the teams to split up and go below deck with a few hand gestures. He also gestured the quick unspoken signal for “be careful,” a rapid succession of the gestures advising them to listen and watch. Then he led one of the teams below deck, into the mess hall.
The same horrific scene extended below deck. The floor was almost entirely covered in blood, and they had to be careful not to slip and fall. Someone had been killed with a hammer blow to the face, and had fallen on top of one of the mess hall tables, lying there with his eyes still open, gaping from the middle of the bloody, mangled mess that was left of his face.
Chief Ramsay advanced cautiously, his weapon drawn, and froze in his tracks seeing someone alive, eating quietly at one of the tables. The man didn’t acknowledge anyone’s presence, seeming entirely absorbed in his thoughts. He had some difficulty cutting pieces of his visibly undercooked meat, but he continued nevertheless, unperturbed.
Chief Ramsay approached a little more, then asked, “What’s your name, son?”
“Jim,” the young man answered without looking up from his plate, continuing to chew his food.
“What happened?”
“Something happened… yeah…” Jim replied thoughtfully, as if trying to remember.
“Who did this to you?” Ramsey insisted.
“Everyone… no one…”
Ramsey paused for a second, then changed his approach. The man must have been in shock after all that violence.
“What are you eating, son?”
“Me?”
Ramsey nodded, encouragingly.
“Charlie… He’s the best… I owed him that.”
One of the men stepped a little to the side of the table, to see behind a row of pantry cabinets. “Oh, my God…” he exclaimed, then gagged. He yanked his mask off his face, covered his mouth with his hand, then made a run toward the sink, where he retched spasmodically.
On the floor, right behind where Jim sat, a young man’s body lay ripped open savagely, as if wild animals had feasted on his internal organs. His nametag, still intact, read, “Charlie Hernandez.”
…4
Louie Blake tried his best to make his colleagues comfortable with the exercise he had in mind. He knew them well enough to know they’d be unhappy with the day’s agenda. Therefore, he had reserved the entire gun club for the morning, and he even brought everyone’s favorite coffee in steaming, tall paper cups.
Alex Hoffmann was the first to arrive, only a few minutes late.
“Hey, Lou,” she greeted him and gave him a quick hug.
He made her proud. He was her protégé, although the ex-SEAL had twice her body mass and it was all muscle. She had recruited him from her first client, impressed with his initiative, quick brain, and relentless courage, all great assets for an undercover investigator. Not to mention his amazing hacking skills. Lou could break past any firewall, and crack any encryption.
Steve Mercer was the next one to arrive. Their very own corporate psychologist, the man who helped them think through theories and profile their suspects. The man who brought calm to emotional storms and kept their clients steady and levelheaded during their biggest crises. The man she still loved, but couldn’t forgive. She made eye contact with him for a split second, then looked away.
“I thought I had the address wrong, Lou,” Steve said instead of a greeting, but accepted the coffee with a wide grin. “What am I doing in a gun club?”
“Wait for it,” Lou replied cryptically and winked. Steve smiled and leaned against the wall, sipping on the extra hot mocha latte.
“Good morning,” Brian said professionally, entering the clubhouse, confusion written all over his face.
Brian Woods was the business genius of the team, and their very own expert in the gadget technologies they sometimes engaged to help them in their work. His main expertise remained business though, and his classy demeanor made him look every bit the part. On many occasions, he had stayed behind in client organizations, serving as executive officer until leadership replacements were recruited, or until the client finished with the cleanup that many times followed their covert investigations.
That was the team she had joined just a few short years before, as a young executive with a computer science background. Even to this day, she sometimes wondered why they had chosen her; why Tom Isaac, The Agency’s owner, had put his faith in her and her abilities. Since then she had accumulated a few decent notches on her belt, a few, yet challenging cases she had worked successfully, causing that self-doubt to start fading away. She finally felt she belonged.
“Is Richard coming?” Alex asked, eager to see the rarely visible financial genius of their crew.
“No, not this time,” Lou replied. “He’s on the East Coast and couldn’t make it.”
“If I’d only known,” Brian said sarcastically and smiled while accepting his triple espresso from Lou. “Why are we here?”
“Thank you, reluctant colleagues, for being here today,” Lou said, earning some chuckles as he spoke. “Per our boss and mentor, Tom, I am now in charge of your fitness, self-defense training, and gun proficiency.” The pride in his voice was both amusing and heartwarming.