Page 5 of Jason Bourne (Seals on Fraiser Mountain #7)

Jason

A mile off the coast, the ocean swallowed the roar of the engines. We drifted silent and dark, a shadow among shadows under the moonless sky.

Max cut the motor, letting the zodiac bounce on the swells. Salt spray slapped my face — sharp, bracing, exactly what I needed to keep my head clear and my rage buried.

Beside me, Forest adjusted his silencer. Nate checked his dive mask, then glanced at me. “Last chance to change your mind, doctor.”

I ignored the jab. “No casualties unless they pull on us first. We get Lane and Zoe. We ghost out. Understood?”

Nate smirked. “Loud and clear, Mom.”

I flipped him off, then dropped my mask into place. My earpiece crackled to life with Max’s calm voice. “Thermals show six hostiles topside, four more below deck. Cargo hold’s our best bet for captives.”

I breathed once. Twice. The taste of the ocean settled my pulse. I am after all a Navy SEAL.

Hang on, Lane. Just a few more minutes.

I slid over the side, the black water swallowing me whole. My brothers followed, gliding silent as sharks.

We kicked under the hull — fifty yards of rusted steel looming above, barnacles brushing our suits. I signaled: Up .

One by one, we surfaced beneath the starboard loading crane. I heard muffled voices overhead, boots pacing metal grates. Nate drew his blade, winked through his mask.

We climbed. Quiet. Quick. One grunt leaning over the rail to light a cigarette never saw Nate’s hand clamp over his mouth before the blade did its work. Body down. No sound but the ocean.

Forest pointed aft — the cargo hatch. Max, topside, kept his rifle aimed steady, covering our approach.

We crouched by the hatch. I felt the vibration under my palm — the hum of a generator, the faint thud of distant footsteps. Somewhere below that steel trapdoor were Lane and Zoe. Bleeding. Cuffed. Maybe worse.

I shoved the rage down where it couldn’t make me sloppy.

Forest whispered, “Tripwire?”

I checked. Nothing. Just a rusty lock and an old latch. Child’s play.

Nate breathed, “After you, Romeo.”

I lifted the hatch, knife first, heart pounding.

Below, a narrow ladder plunged into stale diesel heat. Voices — foreign accents, low arguments. I caught one word in Mandarin: girl .

Lane.

I descended slow, and silent. Forest was watching my back, and Nate was right behind him.

At the bottom, the corridor split left and right. Cargo containers stacked like tombs. A single bare bulb flickered overhead, shadows dancing on salt-rusted walls.

Footsteps — heavy boots coming around the bend. I pressed flat against a container, Forest mirroring me across the passage.

A guard rounded the corner, yawning, scratching his belly.

One soft thud. Forest dropped him like a sack of rice.

Nate rifled the pockets, found a keyring. “Jackpot.”

I nodded. “Check every damn lock until you find them. Quietly.”

Forest peeled off left. Nate and I headed right. Each container had a heavy padlock, welded plates, more security than any fishing vessel should ever need.

I found one with fresh scratches around the lock. Blood droplets. A woman’s boot print in grime.

My heart stuttered.

“Nate. Here.”

He jammed the key in. Click. The latch fell away.

I eased the door open.

There she was.

Lane Brewer — her hair in her face, wrists cuffed raw above her head, eyes half-closed but blazing fire when they landed on me.

“Jason?” Her voice cracked. She blinked hard. “You came.”

I stepped inside, hands already at her cuffs. “Hell yeah, I came, sweetheart. And I’m not leaving without you. Where is Zoe?”

She started to cry.