DECODE ~ GHOST [Editing]

10| Shark

The storm was merciless. The cargo ship pitched violently, its steel hull groaning against the relentless assault of waves that rose like blackened leviathans from the abyss. Rain lashed down in sheets, driven by winds that screamed through the rigging like tortured souls. The deck beneath me heaved unpredictably, slick with seawater and oil, and the air reeked of salt, metal, and gunpowder.

Another wave collided with the ship, sending icy spray arcing over the side. I clung to the railing as the vessel listed sharply, the sudden tilt wrenching my stomach into my throat. The sea below was a churning void, black and bottomless, its surface flecked with froth that gleamed like teeth in the dim, strobing light of lightning strikes. Each swell seemed hungry, eager to drag the ship—and us—into its depths.

The deafening cacophony of the storm was interrupted only by the sharp crack of gunfire. Bullets zipped past, their deadly hum swallowed by the wind. One hit a metal container near my head, sending a spray of sparks and molten shrapnel that stung my exposed skin. The militants' aim was erratic, the violent pitch of the ship throwing them off, but it wouldn't take much for luck to favor their side.

"Move!" Ghost's voice cut through the storm, sharp and commanding. I barely registered the words as I crouched behind the precarious cover of a shipping crate. The container groaned ominously, sliding an inch as the ship bucked again. It wouldn't stay put much longer.

"We're pinned down!" I shouted back, my voice barely carrying above the roar of the wind. My empty rifle was slung uselessly across my back, its magazine spent. I drew my sidearm, the weight in my hand both reassuring and woefully inadequate. The deck beneath me trembled violently, the ship caught in another monstrous wave that sent containers skidding like deadly projectiles.

The sea was alive with malice tonight. I could feel its fury in every swell, every crash, every lurch of the ship. The storm wanted us dead, and the ship—caught between the militants' fire and the ocean's wrath—felt like a death trap.

I needed firepower. Now.

"Ghost!" I barked into the comms, desperation threading my voice. Static crackled in response, drowning out whatever reply he'd managed. Rain soaked me to the bone, the freezing water a constant assault that blurred my vision and numbed my fingers. I gritted my teeth, my resolve hardening even as the ship groaned beneath me, a metallic wail that felt like the vessel's death knell.

I spotted it then—a shotgun sliding across the deck, slick with seawater and oil. The ship pitched hard as I lunged, my hands slamming down on the weapon just before it slid out of reach. My soaked knees hit the deck with a painful thud, but I didn't care. The cold, solid weight of the shotgun in my grip was a lifeline.

The ship tilted again, a near-vertical drop as another wave smashed into the starboard side. I threw myself flat, clutching the shotgun as crates and bodies alike slid across the deck, some disappearing over the edge into the ravenous maw of the sea. A distant explosion lit up the storm-torn horizon, illuminating the chaos for a brief, surreal moment.

Pushing myself up, I braced against the railing and fired at the nearest militant. The shotgun's roar was deafening, a brutal counterpoint to the storm. The man crumpled, his weapon skittering out of reach as his body tumbled into the void below. The satisfaction was short-lived—a second figure lunged at me, knife glinting in the fractured light.

I sidestepped, the movement awkward on the unsteady deck, and slammed the butt of the shotgun into his ribs. He staggered but didn't fall, his knife slashing wildly. I brought the weapon up again, this time aiming true. The blast was messy, visceral, and final.

"Spencer!" Ghost's voice cut through the chaos as he closed the distance between us, his silhouette appearing like a wraith through the rain. His hand clamped onto my arm, steadying me as the ship lurched again. "We've got to move—now!"