Yellowstone: Survival: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller (The Yellowstone Series Book 4) Read online

  Ashby crossed her arms in front of her and pouted. “You’re a helluva buzzkill, Captain Wheeler. Can’t we just leave reality behind us for a while and imagine a life full of adventure that involves just the two of us?”

  “I’m a big believer in adventure,” said Jake. “We’ve taken the first step already.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Every memorable adventure starts with running away from home.”

  *****

  Mike carefully brought the Cobia near the motor yacht and set it on a course where its forward momentum would take the smaller vessel to the nineteen-foot-wide transom. Within a minute of Mike cutting the motors, the music was shut off on the motor yacht and the lights in the salon were extinguished.

  Mike frantically motioned for his men to get ready, and both guys raised their AR-15s. They pointed their weapons at the yacht, constantly scanning the deck for any movement. Then lights were turned on, illuminating the single porthole toward the front of the yacht where the sleeping quarters were located.

  “Stand down, boys,” said Mike in a hushed tone. “It appears our lovebirds are turning in for the night. Grab those oars and guide us into place. We’ll give them the opportunity to get settled in before we board.”

  The men shouldered their weapons as Mike walked onto the open bow. He recalled the layout of the yacht, as he’d been on board with Ken several times. As he considered the surprise he had in store for Jake and Ashby, he thought about how remarkably still the seas were tonight. He looked skyward to find the moon. It was still early in the evening, and he hadn’t paid attention to the moon’s cycle. In any event, they slowly drifted toward the transom, and his pulse began to race. He hadn’t killed anyone before, and his gut told him tonight would be his first time.

  As his men rowed, Mike laid out the simple plan. First and foremost, he wanted to take the two alive if possible. He hoped to catch them in a compromising position, in Ken’s bed, without their weapons.

  While Jake was held at gunpoint by his men, Mike would punish him by punishing her. Then to top the evening off, he would lead Jake to the bow of the ship and force him to admit what he’d done to Ken. He’d force Jake to beg for his life, pleading for mercy, before he was executed in front of his gal pal.

  What happened next would be up to Mike and his mood. Either the party could continue, for several days if he had his way, or it would be brought to a quick close by throwing Ashby overboard to be with her boyfriend. Let one of the great white sharks have her, Mike thought to himself as he reached for the side of the Grand Banks and tossed a line onto the transom.

  “I might stick around to watch,” he muttered to himself as the first of his men prepared to board My Wet Dream.

  Chapter 4

  The Pacific Ocean

  Off the coast of Morro Bay, California

  Jake had finally drifted off to sleep, entangled in sheets and Ashby’s nakedness. Their pent-up emotions had poured out of them, fueled by the tequila, in a release of passionate energy that left him spent.

  There was nothing better than sleeping on a boat. The gentle, rolling waves rocked you as if you were still in your mother’s womb. The combination of a stressful day coupled with the serenity of lying in Ashby’s arms put Jake into a deep sleep.

  So it was difficult for Ashby to wake him when she heard something go bump in the night. She had not yet fallen asleep, opting instead to recollect the days since she’d met Jake and imagine their future together. She’d tried to broach the subject with him earlier as she discussed their options, but he was still too hyped up from the escape to consider their future.

  Now, alone with her thoughts, Ashby was able to focus her senses on her strange new surroundings, which were comforting in a way, but unfamiliar nonetheless. She lay in the bed of the master stateroom, watching the play of moonlight through the small porthole dance across the foot of the bed.

  Ashby had lost all concept of time. Not that it mattered. There were no schedules to follow. No deadlines to meet. There was only night and day and the need to travel to an unknown destination that was better than the one they left.

  The first bump against the side of the yacht startled her somewhat, and her senses became keenly focused on the sound accompanying it. Her brain was unable to process the combination, as she’d never been in this position before.

  What could bump a boat of this size at night? A dolphin? A whale? A piece of driftwood?

  Her mind raced. None of the possibilities instilled fear into Ashby, only curiosity. She contemplated the fact that they were adrift in the ocean without anchoring. Her mind analyzed the probabilities that they could be swept toward shore on the gentle, rollicking waves, crashing into the rocky shore at the base of Big Sur.

  She shook off the random thoughts, blaming it on the new surroundings and a long day. She hadn’t slept, yet she wasn’t to the point of exhaustion like Jake was. He’d had several frantic nights in a row and needed his rest.

  Thump!

  There it was again. How long had it been?

  Ashby sat upright in bed, pulling the covers over her chest, and held her breath in order to focus on her hearing. It was quiet again. She looked around for her clothes, deciding it would be better to go topside dressed rather than naked.

  She glanced over at Jake, who was gently snoring, but not loud enough to prevent her from hearing, and feeling, the two strange bumps.

  Then the yacht shook slightly. It wasn’t a continuous movement like a series of waves or the wake of a larger ship going by, which she was certain she would’ve heard. It was almost imperceptible, a brief drop at the back until it leveled itself again.

  Her pulse raced as her anxiety levels rose. The tequila buzz disappeared as the soberness of fear overcame her.

  “Jake, wake up.” She shook his body gently at first.

  “Huh,” he mumbled sleepily.

  “Jake, come on. I heard something.”

  “In the morning, Ashby. We’ll talk about it.”

  “No, please.” She shook him again and tried to roll him over. “I heard something and then the boat shook.”

  “Sounds carry strangely on the water. It’s probably a—” Jake shot up in bed as he heard the sounds of footsteps.

  “See, did you—?” started Ashby before he stopped her.

  “Shhh. Quickly, get dressed and make your way into the bathroom. Lock the door. Where’s your gun?”

  She reached for her clothes and slipped them on as she responded, “It’s still in the galley with the other weapons.”

  “There’s no time,” said Jake as he found his holster with his .45-caliber sidearm in it. He cocked the .45 and handed it to Ashby. Then he whispered in her ear, “Just like in the motor home. If anybody comes through that door, shoot them. Don’t hesitate. Just don’t shoot me.”

  She nodded and scurried quietly into the head. Ashby locked the door, which caused a slight click, but it was loud enough to be heard above. The slowly shuffling feet stopped.

  Jake only had time to pull on his pants. Anxiety overcame him as he readied himself for battle. Standing barefoot, sweat poured down his chest and was illuminated by the moonlight as he grabbed his M16.

  Here we go again, he thought to himself as he looked around the master stateroom to plan his defense. He eased into the hallway separating the guest head and shower from the guest stateroom.

  For a brief moment, he felt a wave of fear. He was trapped with no exits and no cover from incoming gunfire. The interior walls of the boat were as thin as the fiberglass they were made from. Bullets could easily pierce them, leaving no ballistic protection for him or Ashby.

  Jake took a deep, slow breath and tried to think through the impossible situation he was in. He heard the squeak of a sneaker on the deck above, coupled with the yacht listing to the port side. A brief thump was heard directly overhead. There was more than one person who’d boarded the yacht, and they were spreading out.

  That complicated things for Ja
ke. With the fully automatic M16 at his fingertips, he could take out a group of intruders, huddled together, with a rapid burst of gunfire. If they were spread out, he’d have to deal with return fire from multiple angles.

  He backtracked from the entry hall into the master stateroom. He grabbed his knife and removed it from its sheath. He steadied his nerves and changed his mindset.

  Jake Wheeler was nobody’s trapped prey. He accepted the unknown in the darkness surrounding him, but instead of fearing it, he welcomed it. He became the assassin.

  Chapter 5

  The Pacific Ocean

  Off the coast of Morro Bay, California

  Jake swiftly moved to the first stateroom at the base of the steps leading down from the salon. He had the benefit of the darkness below and the more illuminated main cabin above. As one of the intruders made his way down the steps, Jake could see his shadow first and then his silhouette against the dim moonlight.

  Jake set his weapon down as he pressed his back against the wall. He had no idea how many people had boarded the yacht, and he was gravely concerned for Ashby’s safety if a gunfight broke out. Stray bullets could kill just as quickly as one that found its mark from a well-placed shot. He focused on his studies of knife-fighting techniques and the training he’d received for close-quarters combat as a law enforcement ranger.

  There were two ways to fight defensively with a knife. Placing the knife in a forward grip, with the blade protruding toward the attacker, allowed the fighter to extend his reach. However, even an experienced fighter tended to lunge when attempting a forward-grip stab, causing him to lose his balance.

  Jake decided to use his slashing techniques and, therefore, adopted a rear grip on his knife, with the knife edge out. He’d learned this was the preferred grip of a defensive, slash-style fighter. In the close confines of the ship’s sleeping quarters, reach wasn’t a problem. The key was to inflict maximum damage, and quickly.

  A shadow crossed the top of the stairs, and Jake readied himself by taking a deep breath and exhaling. He studied the opposite wall of the hallway, waiting for the shadow of his attacker to reveal itself.

  There it was, the barrel of a rifle. Thin, followed by the thicker barrel shroud. Not a shotgun. Short, like an AR platform. Jake expected the nerves of his attacker to be on edge, with his finger on the trigger, ready to pull at the first sign of trouble.

  He waited, watching the gun’s shadow systematically drop lower on the opposite wall, seven inches at a time, as the assailant hesitated as he descended each step.

  Jake tightened his grip on the knife and waited patiently until the barrel of the gun appeared in the doorway.

  Jake spun out of his concealed position and grabbed the barrel of the AR-15, sending it upwards toward the ceiling. As expected, the gunman pulled the trigger twice, sending two rounds into the ceiling before stumbling forward.

  The heat of the rifle’s barrel seared into the palm of Jake’s left hand, but it didn’t stop his counterattack. He punched at the man’s arm, slicing into bare skin with the back of his Morakniv hunting knife. The serrated blade opened a deep gash in the man’s arm, causing him to scream in pain.

  “Arrgh,” Jake growled as he pulled the knife back toward his body in a stabbing motion, plunging it into the meat of the man’s right shoulder. He heard feet pounding the upper decks as at least two men raced to join the fracas.

  His attacker was moaning in pain and still constituted a threat, which Jake quickly extinguished. The kill was not as personal as the one in which he looked into Ken Kennedy’s eyes as he died, but it was close enough for Jake to feel the man’s last breath of air leave his lungs as he punctured them with the knife.

  Jake slid the knife into the back pocket of his pants and quickly reached for his rifle. He’d lost the element of surprise, and now he’d have to deal with his assailants by outsmarting them. He scrambled behind the bed in the forward stateroom and trained his rifle on the right side of the open doorway. He wasn’t going to wait until he saw the proverbial whites of their eyes. He planned on using the thin interior walls of the yacht to pick off at least the first man in line.

  He studied the hallway for shadows again. The first one emerged charging down the stairs quickly this time. Jake, however, didn’t hesitate. He immediately opened fire, sending half a dozen rounds through the wall into the torso of the man at the top of the stairs.

  The body tumbled down the steps in a heap, landing on top of his partner in a pool of blood. Now, despite two kills, Jake felt at his most vulnerable. The last gunman was still above him, and now Jake was trapped, just as he’d initially feared. The only way out of this situation was a barrage of bullets, hopefully finding their mark, or negotiation. His position was already compromised, so negotiation was an option.

  “Are you ready to die, too?” Jake shouted as he scrambled across the bed to the aft side of the stateroom. The eight-foot change of location could make all the difference.

  “Shut up, Wheeler! You and your gal pal are gonna die tonight, not me!”

  Jake immediately recognized Mike’s voice. He silently cursed himself for not standing watch on their first night on the ocean, or for stopping at all. He ignored his self-admonishment and began to consider Mike’s words. Not me. Jake suspected Mike was the last man standing at this little raiding party. Good to know.

  “Give it up, Mike. Go home. Whatever you had planned is over!”

  “Oh, hell no. I’m just getting started. You’ve got a lot of blood on your hands, Wheeler. First Ken. Now my guys. You won’t get one drop of mine!”

  Jake had to decide whether he wanted to become the aggressor. He had to assume Mike was at the top of the steps, waiting for any sudden movement to open fire. Jake had his back pressed against the port side of the hull, looking directly through a skylight above the bed. The skylight, which also acted as an escape hatch, led to the yacht’s foredeck. If Jake could make his way through the hatch, he’d have the high ground on Mike, but he’d give up his line of defense as far as Ashby was concerned.

  Jake squinted his eyes to focus on the hatch in the dark. He needed to keep Mike talking, distracted from the task at hand. He thought he could reach the hatch if he stood on the bed.

  “Okay, Mike. Let’s talk.” Jake began the dialogue.

  “The time for talking is over!” Mike shouted back. “I’ve got your guns, and you two are trapped. You come up with your hands high over your head. Or not—your choice. I’d rather just kill you and get it over with.”

  Jake eased up on the bed while holding his rifle so that it was pointed at the door. He reached for the two latches and turned them. The seal broke free and the hatch slowly rose on its hydraulic hinges. He immediately began talking to mask the hissing sound. “I’m not coming up unless I have some guarantees! It’s me you want, not her. Promise to let her go!”

  Jake knew that was a stupid request, but the idea was to keep Mike talking. Mike did not, however, respond.

  Jake had to think quickly as he heard Mike’s feet shuffling toward the back of the salon. He heard the hatch open.

  Jake looked around the stateroom for something heavy. There was a piece of coral that adorned a nightstand next to the wall. He quickly retrieved it and threw it through the hatch opening until it landed on the deck with a thud.

  Mike’s heavy footsteps could be heard scrambling around the back of the boat to walk along the rails. This was Jake’s chance to remove himself from the confines of the stateroom.

  With his weapon leading the way, he gingerly stepped over the two dead men in the hallway to avoid slipping in their blood. As Jake reached the top of the steps entering the salon, he watched Mike’s shadow move along the curtained windows on the port side of the yacht.

  Jake swung to take the shot, but he was too late, as Mike had passed and began firing wildly into the stateroom. The sound of the gunfire was deafening inside the yacht as Mike angrily poured nearly twenty rounds through the hatch. The bullets tore throughout
the stateroom into the bedding, finding the walls and penetrating the floor.

  Jake moved to the aft side of the yacht and used the bridge as cover to get into position. He noticed the Cobia tied off to the teakwood planks of the transom and quickly assessed whether there were any other gunmen at the back of the yacht. Satisfied Mike was the last attacker left, he lowered his body and inched along the rail, ready to fire as soon as he rounded the salon windows.

  Once on the foredeck, he discovered Mike, who’d dropped to both knees to look inside the stateroom. Mike began to stand, aimed his rifle at the foredeck, and fired again, this time through the fiberglass into the cabins below.

  Jake quickly finished the fight, peppering Mike’s body with four rounds to his upper chest, causing him to fall backwards over the rail until he splashed into the murky waters of the Pacific.

  Chapter 6

  The Pacific Ocean

  Off the coast of Morro Bay, California

  Jake hustled across the deck and looked over the rail into the darkness. Mike’s body lay facedown in the water, remaining buoyant until the last air in his lungs escaped. He resisted the urge to call out to Ashby without one final sweep of the yacht and the Cobia, which was tied off to a rail.

  He returned to the transom and glanced inside the open bow fishing boat. It was empty. Relieved that the battle was over, he called out, “Ashby! It’s safe. You can come out now, but be careful not to slip.”

  Jake found the lighting panel and began turning on every light on the yacht. It would be several days before they would be comfortable sleeping in the dark again. Jake removed the bloody knife from his back pocket and set it on the instrument panel. A flashing light caught his eye, but he ignored it for now, as his priority became Ashby, who had not yet emerged from the head.