Chapter 35 The Island

When the Bloodies returned from the USA, they went about the task of carrying out a little spring cleaning by eliminating the guards and the engineers until the submarine facility was fully under their control.

Bodies had laid on cold metal floors, to be tossed out to sea. Only a chosen few skeleton crew members remained to operate the machines. C-4 charges were nestled in strategic corners, ready to blow.

Presently, Asp was perched atop jagged black rocks under the cliffside face, raising his binoculars, facing the east.

He could see the faint outline of the frigate cutting through the turbulent seas, despite the seafoam spraying his lenses. and sea air stinging his eyes, he smiled wickedly.

Dante hid behind a rocky crevice, pulling his waterproof hat over his face.

"Is that the Princess Isabella?" Dante asked.

“Going by the signal from Grey’s implant, I’d say it’s the one, don’t you think?”

"This will be one of our easier kills," Dante said.

“How ironic,” Asp muttered. “They have the balls to come to us with a proposal, clueless about the danger we can pose."

“And they’ve let their guard down,” Dante said, shaking his head. “That’s some big bollocks, right there!”

Asp leaned closer to Dante. “Guess what?” Asp said, smirking.

“I heard Grey and Robinson have gone and blown up the bloody palace.”

“Looks like our targets fancy themselves as masters of mayhem now,” Dante said, his eyes emitting a glint of admiration.

“Not bad, not bad at all.”

Asp's binoculars interrogated the horizon, spotting the frigate again. The princess Isabella was approaching, leaving a trail of foam behind her.

It did not look like a military ship of some kind, but he checked his gun anyway and tucked it under his jacket.

“Don’t make any moves until I say so,” Asp ordered. He lowered his binoculars and looked at Dante.

“I want to see what he has to offer first. Besides, by the tone of Robinson’s voice, it sounded like he was desperate and seeking to hire us. With payment upfront.”

“Was there lots of zeroes on the end?” Dante inquired.

“He said it would be our biggest contract, If we listened” Asp replied.

“My contract work has dried up a hell of a lot lately,” Dante said, rubbing his hands together trying to keep them warm.

“Why don’t we just kill them and take the money?”

“Dante, what are we? Contract killers are we not?” Asp said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, and your point is Asp?”

“Think of our reputation. Nobody will hire us if we kill off our clients. There are many other young guns vying for top positions in our field. We gotta keep it professional.”

“Yeah I suppose your right. Robinson always did supply us with a steady line of work,” Dante said.

“And pay us, without question,” Asp added.

"Yeah, I give him that."

Asp shivered from the barrage of iced winds sweeping into the seams of his protective clothing. He and the Bloodies had been stuck in this bleak, godforsaken outpost for weeks, while Gulag plotted his world dominance.

He turned to Dante, who looked equally miserable. He could see the frustration and boredom in his eyes.

He knew Dante was itching for some action, some thrill, some blood. He was too, but he had to be patient. He had to follow Gulag’s orders, for now.

“I don’t know about you, Dante,” Asp said.

“But I’ve had enough of this shit. We’ve done a lot of dirty work for that self-proclaimed genius. And we haven’t seen a penny yet.”

"What was Gulag's tagline again?" Dante remarked.

"Oh yeah, that was it. Join me and become the gods of the new world."

"Gulag is parading himself around as the president of Greenland now. Bodyguards, who does he think we are?"Asp scoffed.

"Really, he is just president over a frozen pile of dog shit."

"It's not exactly the most lofty position he promised us," Dante replied.

"Let's play this smart," Asp said.

"We don't know what Grey and Robinson have in mind, but I'm sure it's better than being stuck on this cold rock."

"I'm always up for a challenge," Dante said with a grin.

The two men stood in silence for a moment, watching the ship approach. The waves crashed against the rocks below, sending plumes of spray into the air.

"It's almost time," Asp said. "Let's go see what they want."

**********

The roar of the engines shook the hull, battling against the forces of the raging sea. This turned the hours of monotonous travel into a voyage of seasickness with long bouts of insomnia for Grey and Robinson.

Grey and Robinson were sitting on crates, trying to distract themselves with a game of Texas Hold'em.

Robinson was shuffling a deck of cards, hoping to get a better hand this time.

Grey’s pile of gold coins towered over Robinson’s meager stash, reflecting his superior skills and luck.

However, their game was interrupted by the scrappy seaman when he climbed down the ladder. He glanced at the gold coins on the crates, clearing his throat, and delivered the news.

“We are approaching your target zone,” said the scrappy seaman.

"I hope you haven’t forgotten our deal?” He eyed the gold coins greedily.

“We always keep our word, mate, no need to fret,” Grey said, forcing a confident smile.

A cold knot formed in his stomach as they neared their destination; the point of no return.

“Very good, then,” said the scrappy seaman, nodding his head.

“Prepare for the end of your journey. We’ll be there in a few minutes.” He climbed back up the ladder, leaving Grey and Robinson alone.

Grey reluctantly slammed down his two aces, abandoning their card game.

“Get your sea legs on. We’re almost there.”

“Easy for you to say," Robinson said.

"You’re not the one who’s been puking his guts out for the past hour.”

They clambered up the ladder, fighting against the storm that battered the ship.

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Once they reached the deck, they found themselves staggering for balance. Princess Isabella was pitching and rolling.

Gripping the rusting railing towards the bow, Grey and Robinson peered through the formation of mist droplets hovering above the surging waves.

Looming over them like a nameless dread, a wall of rocks emerged.

Grey thought of the Rock of Gibraltar, where he had once drunk himself silly with Turner on a stag do.

A loud crash startled them. They turned and saw a shipping container sliding off its hinges, smashing into another one with a metallic thud.

“Watch out!” Grey yanked Robinson out of the way.

“Shit, that was close,” Robinson gasped.

Bags of white powder spilled out of the buckling container doors, some of which plummeted over the side and into the consuming water below.

A few bags that weren't sealed properly burst when they touched the deck, causing their contents to blend with the rain and turn into a floury white mush.

“Secure that damn container!” the scrappy seaman barked at his deckhands. His face was a mask of annoyance as he watched the white sludge spread across the ship.

The seaman trudged towards Grey and Robinson, his wellies squelching in the devalued, lost cargo that now coated the deck.

“This detour you’ve taken us on is costing me my cargo. I expect compensation for every lost bag!” he growled.

Robinson acknowledged, "We have more than enough for your troubles."

"I will take your word for it," said the seaman. "The sooner you're off this ship, the better!"

From the front of the bow, Grey caught sight of the shipping graveyard. Corroded, encrusted, mangled masses of metal lay scattered, with murky green algae crawling up formations of barnacles.

Fragmentations of gaping holes punctured the listed ships.

One could imagine the effects of the anti-ship missile's warheads, tearing apart the hull and scorching the precarious twisted beams that now jutted up from the roaring waves.

It was a tomb for the lost and a warning to the living, adding a dangerous reminder to the rocky islet.

“What is this place?” Grey asked, “The Bermuda Triangle?”

“Many have tried to storm this island and failed,” said Robinson unfazed.

Grey swallowed hard. “Let’s just hope our fates don’t end like they did.”

“You wanted to come here, be careful what you wished for!”

Near the jetty. Princess Isabella groaned when its engine slowed. The scraggy seaman at the helm wrestled with the wheel as he navigated through dangerous reefs. The hull, grinded against submerged rocks.

Every wave was a battle, every gust of wind a potential catastrophe. But the seaman held firm.

Deck workers threw ropes from the tilting deck, trying to secure the ship along concrete piers until the stern was lined up with a quayside.

Once they were secured, Grey and Robinson were escorted to the vehicle deck, where a couple of crew members unclasped the lashing points and released the wheel chokes of the truck, ready to disembark.

“Well, I’ve held up my end of the deal,” the seaman stated, his tone firm.

“Considering the lost cargo and the additional risks, I expect a little extra for me and my crew.”

“I’m sure we can arrange that, Captain,” Grey replied, his tone casual.

With the press of a button, the hydraulic tail lift at the back of the truck was lowered. Grey hopped on, gripping a safety bar as it began to rise.

Soon, he was unbuckling the bolt-on swing doors. As they swung open, the seaman was met with a sight straight out of a fairy tale—a treasure trove of gold and jewels.

The seaman was taken aback. “Who in the world are you?”

“Just a couple of grateful passengers,” Robinson replied.

Gold bars were handed over to Robinson, who stacked them at the seaman’s feet.

“I’d say you’ve been compensated quite handsomely, wouldn’t you, Captain?”

“I’d say I’m in the wrong profession!” the sailor exclaimed.

“Is that enough?” Grey called out from the back of the lorry.

“That should do it. Grey, see that painting to your left?” Robinson instructed.

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Bring it down!”

Grey descended with the painting in hand, as per Robinson’s request.

The painting was an exquisite 16th-century portrait of Sir Francis Drake, commissioned and autographed by Queen Elizabeth I herself after Drake’s famous victory over the Spanish Armada.

Robinson handed the painting to the sailor. “Here, for you.”

Grey couldn’t help but joke, “That’ll look good on your mantelpiece.”

The sailor paused, looking from the painting to Robinson and back again. “You’re kidding me. Where did you get this?”

“Just an old family heirloom from my previous employer,” Robinson replied nonchalantly.

"Our business is finished here," said the sailor.

"Open the stern ramp," he ordered the crew.

Grey and Robinson sealed the lorry, preparing for departure. The steel ramp of Princess Isabella wrenched open, its metallic tongue unfurling onto the rain-slicked quayside.

With howling winds whipping around them, they drove off the ramp.

Among the rocks the Bloodies hid, their anticipation predatory, with weapons drawn.

"I need you to broker the introductions, Robinson," Grey said, readying himself for what was to come.

"If Gulag has instructed them to kill us, then expect the introductions to be very shortlived."

"Let's see for ourselves then."

A gauntlet of assassins materialized, waving Grey forward like a runner crossing the finish line of the London Marathon.

Once they reached the flatlands. Robinson, with his keen eye immediately spotted Asp's tall, athletic frame in the crowd of hostile figures.

"That is Asp," Robinson said "Careful how you speak, for your sake and mine."

Grey brought the lorry to a halt in a desolate patch of marshland, sheltered from the elements by a protective shield of diagonal rock.

"I am cool, Robinsion. I have dealt with criminals all my career!"

Guns appeared at the windows, inviting both passengers to join the party outside. Grey and Robinsion's boots crunched on the carpet of sea samphire and rock samphire that thrived in the shadow of the cliff.

At Asp's terse command, two of the Bloodies swept the vehicle in a scrupulous search for concealed weapons.

Asp, subjected Grey to intense scrutiny, paying little regard to Robinson's presence.

His years in the business had taught him to trust no one; survival was the reward for skepticism.

The rundown old man before him was an enigma. How had he survived this far? Asp knew he wasn’t dealing with a fool.

“Robinson, shush!” Asp commanded. “Don’t say a word, or I’ll cut off your tongue.”

He let his form of intimidation hang like a guillotine blade poised to fall.

“Your lives hang in the balance,” he continued.

“The next few minutes will determine your fate. Could you show me what you have to offer? If I’m satisfied, I’ll consider your proposal. But remember, we might still kill you.”

Grey opened the lorry, stepping aside to reveal its contents.

“Dante, inspect the vehicle. Tell me if we’re satisfied.”

Dante ascended the hydraulic platform and disappeared inside the lorry.

He emerged moments later, his hands piling up a golden mound—gold candelabras, gem-encrusted artifacts, gleaming crowns, and gold bars still damp from their sea voyage.

“It seems our visitors robbed the palace as well,” Dante reported, a grin spreading across his face.

“I’d say we’re more than satisfied.”

“Robinson, what is your proposal,” Asp ordered.

“We want to hire you to kill Majister Gulag,” Robinson replied.

“And find my family, that's if they're still alive,” Grey added.

"We need professionals like you. We need your help.”

“Trust me, Asp,” Robinson said.

“Gulag has betrayed me. Fucked over the world. And he won’t hesitate to betray you and the Bloodies either."

"I have well and properly been screwed over," Grey added.

In Asp’s eyes, a spark ignited, a trifecta of truths coming into focus. Gulag’s plans, once a beacon of hope and domination for him and the Bloodies, now cast long shadows of doubt.

The fact that Gulag might willingly sacrifice them all was gnawing at his conscience. Asp weighted Robinsion's proposal and shifted to Grey.

"I sense your determination runs deep," he said.

“Perhaps we can reach an agreement. Let’s continue this conversation indoors.”

With a nod to two engineers, Asp directed the lorry into the gaping maw of the cavern.

Grey and Robinson trailed behind, navigating through the submarine base.

They dove under low-hanging rock shelves and descended a series of slick steps that spiraled downward in a dizzying pattern.

As they ventured deeper, the dimness gave way to a harsh, artificial light, illuminating a vast chamber.

Grey broke the silence first, “This isn’t as dire as I anticipated,” he admitted, addressing Robinson.

“Asp seems… amenable.”

“Count yourself lucky. He woke up on the right side of the bed today,” Robinson smirked.

Elsewhere, aboard Princess Isabella, the seaman was content to set sail. Nestled in the comfort of his wheelhouse, with only the company of Sir Francis Drake and a pile of gold bars, he took one final look at the rocky landscape.

Unbeknownst to him, Dante and the rest of the Bloodies had slipped in from the quayside, like a deadened curtain of fog blanketing over a graveyard, silently infiltrating his boat.

Another ship was destined to join the catacombs of vessels that day, its crew lost to the unforgiving island.