On the silent sea, a cargo ship drifted slowly beneath the moonlight.
Inside, shouts broke the stillness. A group of armed men forced a dozen terrified hostages from the cabin to the deck.
They were the Masori pirates, predators of the Indian Ocean who spent their lives hijacking cruise liners and extorting ransoms from desperate families.
At that same moment, Cole Shaw guided a speedboat toward the vessel and cut the engine. Activating his Invisibility Cloak, he vanished from sight, climbed the hull, and slipped aboard.
In his right hand gleamed the Mad Dog Knife, a combat blade Owen Shaw had given him on his eighteenth birthday.
He advanced quietly. Roughly thirty pirates prowled the ship, each carrying an AK-47 and a holstered M1911.
Eight stood on the deck, recording the hostages for a ransom broadcast. Among the captives, Cole recognised Maggie. The rest of the pirates ringed the perimeter, watching for interference.
Moving like a wraith, he hunted the outer guards first. One by one, throats opened beneath his knife. Each time, his free hand covered the victim's mouth, muting the gurgle as he lowered the body to the floor.
It was the first time he had killed. He felt almost nothing. Maybe there's something in the Shaw blood, he thought.
On deck, the pirates' leader—a tall, hard-eyed man—pressed a pistol to a hostage's forehead, speaking to the camera.
"It's been too long—three months. Now you pay the price."
He pulled the trigger. A Japanese man fell dead.
"You had time to raise the money," the leader said coldly. "You didn't care. So why should we?"
A shrill beeping erupted across the deck. All the pirates' communicators flashed red.
The leader stiffened. "Who? Who's there?" he shouted.
Below, Cole glanced at the blinking device on a dead pirate's belt. His jaw tightened. His first mission, and he'd missed an emergency-call function. One of the dying men had managed to press it.
"Brilliant," he muttered. "Let's hope Maggie's still breathing."
He seized the fallen AK-47, checked the magazine, and sprinted toward the deck.
Meanwhile, a HU-16 Albatross seaplane skimmed low over the waves.
Six men sat inside, each clad in black body armour.
At the controls was Lee Christmas, knife expert and former SAS operator. Beside him, the team's leader, Barney Ross, loaded his revolver, the weapon glinting under the cabin light.
Across from them sat Yin Yang, the compact Asian close-quarters specialist; Gunnar Jensen, a towering sniper with a short fuse; Toll Road, the planner and tactician; and Hale Caesar, their heavy-weapons man.
Together they were The Expendables—North America's most formidable mercenary team.
"Highway, what's the reward this time?" Ross asked lightly as he spun the revolver's cylinder.
"Three million U.S.," Toll Road replied. "Ten hostages, three hundred thousand each. Miss one and we lose a share."
"Thirteen hostages in total, weren't there?" Caesar asked.
Christmas smirked. "Means three families didn't pay. Their loss."
"Lucky bastards," Gunnar grumbled. "We do the work, they get free rescues."
Ross shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Get ready."
Yin Yang chuckled. "Tool says there's a kid heading there on his own. Name's Cole Shaw. Thinks he can handle it."
Ross's mouth curved faintly. "Another rookie hero. If he's lucky, we'll find him before the sharks do."
"Enough chatter," Ross added. "Check your gear. Thirty pirates with automatic rifles isn't a joke."
They nodded, tightening straps, chambering rounds. The laughter faded, replaced by focus—the calm before another violent job.