Free Checkmate by Tom Clancy

stern rail. Having rehearsed his movements in his head, Fisher went into action. He tapped a series of buttons on the OPSAT, engaging the smart-chip in the IKS’s engine that would keep the kayak loitering a few hundred yards off the Duroc ’s stern, then stood up, grabbed the lowermost railing, then started climbing.
     
     
     
    AS soon as his foot touched the deck, he heard the salon door sliding open. A shaft of yellow light poured out. A silhouetted figure appeared in the doorway.
    Fisher lowered himself onto his belly and eased to his right behind a coil of mooring line. It wouldn’t be enough to hide him, he knew, but it would break up his form.
    “Hey, Chon, where you at?” the figure called
    The language was English, but the accent was not. Americanized Chinese, Fisher thought.
    The MAC-11-armed guard walked down the side deck. “I’m here. Stop yelling.”
    “Boss needs a cigarette.”
    That told Fisher something: The guard probably didn’t have a radio, which in turn meant he probably wasn’t required to check in with anyone. Good news. If it became necessary, the man’s disapperance wouldn’t immediately raise an alarm.
    The guard fished around in his shirt pocket and handed over a cigarette. “Anything on the police scanner?” he asked.
    The first man shook his head. “Nothing on the fire band either. They haven’t found it yet.”
    It? Fisher wondered. He assumed they were talking about Bahamian radio bands. Were they listening for signs of pursuit, or was it something else?
    “They will,” the other man replied with a chuckle. “Believe me, they will.”
    Not pursuit, Fisher decided. Something else .
    The men chatted for a few more seconds, then parted company. The first man went back into the salon and closed the door. The guard turned to the railing and lingered there, staring over the side.
    Come on, pal, where’re you going?
    Fisher drew his pistol and thumbed off the safety.
    Five seconds passed. Ten.
    The guard drew his flashlight, clicked it on, and started walking toward Fisher.

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    FISHER didn’t hesitate. He lifted the pistol and fired. The SC gave a muted cough. The bullet struck squarely in the center of the man’s forehead and he crumpled.
    Fisher remained motionless, waiting to see if the shot had attracted attention. After thirty seconds, he holstered the pistol and crab-walked to the body. The 5.72mm bullet had left a neat, nearly bloodless hole between the man’s eyes. Only a trickle of blood had leaked onto the deck.
    Contrary to movie portrayals, this type of nearly bloodless wound was as much the rule as the exception when it came to handguns. In this case, however, Fisher had an edge: His pistol was loaded with low-velocity Glaser Safety Slugs. Prefragmented and loaded with dozens of pellets, each the size of a pencil tip, a Glaser goes in cleanly and then shatters, spreading shrapnel inside the wound.
    He quickly frisked the body, found a wallet, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and an electronic card key. He kept the wallet and key and tossed the rest overboard. He used the sleeve of the man’s jacket to wipe up the trickle of blood on the deck, then manhandled the body to the aft railing and slipped it into the water.
    He keyed his subdermal and whispered two words: “Sleeper; clean.”
    Even with the operational autonomy Fisher enjoyed, Third Echelon was still part of the bureaucratic machine known as Washington, D.C., and Lambert was still required to file after-action reports, including details of how and why lethal force was used.
    “Sleeper; clean” translated as “lethal casualty; no complications.” “Napper; clean” stood for “nonlethal casualty, no complications.” Similarly, the word “mess” meant Fisher’s use of force had drawn attention or was likely to. “Wildfire” meant he was engaged in an open gun battle. “Breakline” meant he’d been compromised and the mission was in jeopardy. “Skyfall” meant he was now operating in E&E