The President's Vampire Read Online Free Page A

in the hold, but he knew he was basically a smuggler now. As a fringe benefit, he spent long stretches of time in the middle of the ocean with a man who killed people for fun and profit.
    But it wasn’t like there were a lot of openings for yacht captains, and there were even fewer job opportunities for former Coast Guard officers in his landlocked Texas hometown.
    Howard also had to admit Carrillo was pretty good at his job. As pressure had increased on the Mexican cartels over the past few years, he diversified. He reached out to the players who preferred their cargo not be examined by Homeland Security. He bought real estate. He recruited girls and women from the dirt-poor areas of Mexico and turned them into slaves in factories and brothels overseas. And he began smuggling guns—which were never in short supply in Mexico—to places that needed firepower.
    Which was why they were anchored off the coast of Somalia now. Carrillo got a wild hair up his ass to see how his weapons were performing in the hands of some new clients, a loosely affiliated clan of pirates working out of Eyl.
    Howard was skeptical about sailing the same waters as guys who carried RPGs on their speedboats, but he knew better than to argue. Carrillo said that his clients had guaranteed safe passage, and he wanted to see the pirates in action. All Howard could do was hope they wouldn’t have to experience it firsthand.
    So far, so good. Carrillo was charismatic, Howard gave him that. Despite the language barrier, despite the mistrust and the haggling over money, he and the Somalis were becoming fast friends.
    But Howard knew how quickly things could go bad. He spent more time on the bridge now. He warned the crew to stay sharp as well. He checked the radar and the surrounding waters. He kept people on watch around the clock, and kept the engines fueled and ready.
    None of it would help.
     
     
    NEARLY TWENTY THOUSAND FEET Straight up, a crewman in an MC-130H military transport spoke to a young man through the radios of the helmets they both wore.
    “FLIR showed the shipment going into those buildings,” he said, pointing to a screen that showed a nearly indistinguishable dot on the coastline. “But there’s been a lot of activity in the past couple of hours. They’re getting ready for a raid.”
    On the screen, a smaller group of dots moved out into the great black field of the water.
    The young man looked behind him, to the seats behind the system operator.
    “Cade,” he said, “it’s confirmed. They’re moving now. They’re going to hit the yacht.”
    “I understand,” Cade said, and unlatched himself from the seat. He took off his helmet. Unlike the others, he didn’t need the oxygen. He walked through the cockpit door to the back of the plane.
    The massive cargo door was open, with nothing but thin air between him and the ocean far below.
    The wind began tearing at him and the plane lurched. Cade kept his feet. He narrowed his eyes and focused on a light on the black water as distant as a star in the night sky.
    Then he dove headfirst out of the plane.

    CARRILLO’S YACHT WAS SURROUNDED by an ever-shifting flotilla of pirate craft. The pirates buzzed back and forth from the shore in everything from speedboats to Zodiacs to Jet Skis. As the partying went on into the small hours, some of the Somalis and Carrillo’s bodyguards began firing automatic weapons into the air.
    That’s probably why Howard didn’t notice the new group of boats until it was right on top of them.
    The blip hit the edge of the yacht’s radar, moving fast toward the center of the screen. It somehow looked more purposeful than the usual traffic. Using night-vision binoculars—standard equipment on a drug lord’s boat—he saw a small group of jetboats, holding in a fairly tight formation.
    He swore to himself and tried to choose which was worse: interrupting Carrillo’s festivities with a false alarm, or failing to alert him to an incoming threat.
    The