“Tell me you’re there, darlin’?” Holloway’s voice was all static and crackles.
She was glad to hear him. “Yes.”
“Lost my boat but I’m still in this.”
“Glad you’re alive, really.”
“Still hunting it?”
“Yeah, I have to know.”
“Makes two of us. Look, I got the jewel...” And there was nothing else to say about that.
Sara wanted to ask how, because the pirate had taken it off her. A million things could’ve happened onboard the Frozen Cocktail once they tossed her over, though.
“I’ve got it,” Holloway repeated.
“And I’m glad you’re okay,” she said again.
“Where are you?”
The bluntness of the question gave her pause. Jean-Philippe shook his head, do not answer. A moment later, Guillaume appeared on the kitchenette stairs, the same protest in his eyes. Sara pressed a finger to her lips.
“Heading to the island,” she said.
“Where? I’ll meet you.” The silence that barbed his simple words felt sinister.
“Where are you, Holloway?”
“Believe it or not I was close by. On Agaléga. Saw you there, refueling.”
“Then you saw—”
“The shark? Yeah.”
“You still on that island?”
“Close by.”
“Get another boat?”
“Let’s catch up in person. Seriously, where you at, darlin’?”
That was it. Any familiarity that might’ve once existed between them, however briefly, was gone. They were strangers now, two people feeling each other out, concealing their truths.
Guillaume and Jean-Philippe gathered close around the radio.
“He’s got the jewel,” Sara mouthed.
Guillaume nodded grimly. He scribbled the coordinates and handed them over.
Sara read them out loud and felt Holloway’s smile from here. “Perfect.” It was more of a snarl. “See you soon, darlin’.” Then he was gone.
“Your friend is dead,” Guillaume said.
“That was his voice.”
“He gave them what they wanted, and they killed him for it.”
“No,” Sara said. “He’s not that stupid.”
“Everyone’s story ends.”
It was suddenly hot on the helm. Sara rushed for the door, for the clear air.
“There will be men coming to kill us,” Guillaume called after her from the doorway.
“I know,” she snapped, climbing down to the main deck. What difference did it make? Everyone would be dead out here before all was said and done. Christ, she was beginning to believe that.
Guillaume followed her. “How hard are you willing to fight?”
“Jean-Philippe told me what happened with the leper.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That he shot him through the eye.”
“Still in therapy for it, too. Now, after Daan and after seeing those islanders turn to fish food before his eyes...”
“Why does he do this, then?”
“For me.” Guillaume shrugged. “Every relationship, regardless of gender, has an alpha and a beta. Beta always makes more sacrifices. Just how it goes. And... I, uh, think he hates me for it.”
“You’re going to lose him,” Sara said.
“Already have.” Guillaume’s face nearly cracked. He came in close and dropped his voice to a whisper. “And I think he’s sabotaged us.”
“You can’t mean th—”
Guillaume pointed to a black dinghy that drifted far behind the stern. Someone who didn’t think they’d need a ride off this thing. “Empty,” he said. “But it wasn’t always.”
Sara felt weightless. Someone had boarded the Star Time without anyone noticing.
“Holy shit,” she said and slid her pistol free.
“Come,” Guillaume said.
The helm erupted in gunfire. Broken glass exploded out the starboard windows as Sara and Guillaume dashed for cover, rushing through the living space and working their way up from inside, taking every corner with caution.
They spotted Jean-Philippe on the ground when they got there, his back against the helm’s controls. He faced Sara and Guillaume who stood in the kitchenette, crouched behind the countertop. A man in paramilitary gear towered over Jean-Philippe, an automatic weapon hovering in his face. “Call him,” he ordered with swagger that was unmistakably American.
“I am telling you,” Jean-Philippe wheezed, “there is no reason to do that. He is already on his way.”
“Then I don’t need you.”
Sara couldn’t get a confident shot off at this angle. This was a lot different than shooting glass. If her aim strayed and hit Jean-Philippe—
Guillaume fired off a burst round. Three shots sunk into the attacker’s neck and back. He spun to face them, eyes wide, almost bursting. Guillaume squeezed the trigger again and the next three bursts gave him a facelift. Red-caked brain matter painted the helm windows behind him and then he dropped beside Jean-Philippe, who was wiping his blood-smeared mouth with the back of his hand.
They cleared the helm and Guillaume knelt beside his lover, surveying his wounds while Sara kept her weapon drawn on the kitchenette, should anyone else have come aboard. “Shoulder’s out of commission,” Guillaume told him, “but you’ll live.”
“I’m sorry,” Jean-Philippe coughed. “He came out of nowhere and—”
“Did you call this guy?” Guillaume demanded.
“Of course not.” In that moment, Jean-Philippe appeared mortally wounded. He started to say something defensive, and then paused. Reshuffled his thoughts and took a deep breath before continuing with sadness etched across his face. “He wants the pirate. Did not believe me when I told him that he was on his way.”
“CIA,” Guillaume growled. “They never travel alone. So we need to search this ship and be fast about it. Because the clock’s ticking.”
***
Except, CIA wasn’t there.
Sara stayed back to guard Jean-Philippe while Guillaume fished Carly from her bunk to assist with the search. For one hour, they checked every nook and cranny, and once it was clear that nobody else was aboard, it was time to hit the water.
Guillaume was certain they would find the CIA on the shore of Roche’s island, waiting for them.
The Zodiac boat ebbed against the stern. Sara leashed it to the nearest trellis, then helped Guillaume stock all the necessary equipment. Her biggest concern was whether or not she had enough ammunition.
Sara didn’t wish to leave Carly on board. Carly was standing on the deck with her wetsuit folded over her forearm, ready to go with. Sara argued that someone needed to care for Jean-Philippe, thinking that it was also probably the safest place for her.
Sara was cautious as she loaded the C4 on the boat, careful to keep the detonators in a satchel hooked to Guillaume’s belt. They carried a jackhammer across the deck and found it couldn’t sit onboard without pushing the whole boat beneath the water.
“Going to have to let that go,” Guillaume said.
“C4 will do the trick, right?”
Carly placed her wetsuit on a rack beside a diving tank and her Desert Eagle, rushing up to Sara and throwing her arms around her. Carly gave a casual peck on the lips before hovering over her ear. “Please be careful.”
The whisper was pleasant enough to drive Sara’s eyes into the back of her head. “I’ll be right back,” she said.
She and Guillaume climbed down to the small boat, swapping nervous nods as they settled among the overstocked equipment.
Guillaume started the motor buzzing and swiveled the rudder to guide them alongside the ship. Carly gave a good luck wave from above, but Guillaume watched the deck for his lover, who hadn’t bothered to come out and bid them farewell. Once they cleared the yacht’s length, he steered them straight on toward the island where the tide immediately fought their approach.
The boat rushed against
the constant thrust of eager waves. It was constantly shoved back by the flexing undertow. One hell of an aquatic gatekeeper. They weren’t far from land, three hundred feet, if that, though it seemed they could get no closer.
Guillaume steered across the ocean in erratic zigzags. The waves tossed them back and he gunned the motor when the swell was weakest, strong-arming the current and gliding past the barrier.
Sara divided her attention between the endless crash of fizzing waves and the open water behind them.
A surge of undertow with suction like a vacuum reached up and swallowed the boat beneath the waves. Sara went headfirst. The current jerked her around and raked her against a coral bed.
She heard Roche somewhere in the beyond, laughing. Delighted that people were still being lured here to die.
She flailed her arms, desperate to grab hold of something. Anything. But her body rushed along without control, twisting and spinning as water invaded her lungs.
She pushed through it all like a baby bird that didn’t yet know how to fly, flapping and kicking on instinct. She wouldn’t hand this ocean such an obvious victory.
At last her arm breached the surface, followed by the rest of her. She broke through, sucking air. Unable to find her bearings. In the distance, Guillaume’s cries were encouraging.
He’d made it to land.
“Swim,” he cried. “Just swim.”
It wasn’t the undertow that had taken them under.
The dunkleosteus’ dorsal fin patrolled the water between her and the Star Time. She prayed for a moment that it would head toward Jean-Philippe and Carly. They’d have a better chance to defend the ship. The fish wasn’t stupid, though. It knew an easy meal. The fin came straight for her.
Sara paddled, throwing hard kicks behind her like her boots might somehow repel the creature if it got close enough to bite.
Rising waves lifted her and she splashed through like her life depended on it. She glided back down to what she hoped would be calmer shallows and another wave rushed to greet her. She dove through that green wall, knifing through the flexing current and punching out the back, emerging into the calm. Guillaume was submerged up to his knees, cheering her with hoarse screams.
He tossed something over Sara’s head and the water behind her exploded. Sara reached the shallows and the mud cooled her hands and knees. The two of them sucked air like it was their business.
Sara lay on the beach, too spent to move, realizing this wasn’t an island, but an atoll. Millions of years ago, its foundation would’ve been laid with the eruption of a seamount far beneath the ocean. The spilt lava would’ve hardened as it touched water, like crusted hot sauce outside the bottle. Eventually hard lava rose above water and created a new landmass while lava beneath the water became an ecosystem for all sorts of marine life.
Sara could think of a million things she’d love to study out here. Her hands curled through a fistful of sand, or dusted corals more accurately.
She tried to stand but could only reach her knees.
Guillaume was already up, but his attention was split between the task at hand and the sight of the Star Time, rocking on unpredictable waters.
“He’s going to die there,” he said. His voice genuinely panicked.
“Carly—”
Guillaume kissed the tips of two fingers and held them to the wind. Without saying another word, he reached down and dragged his equipment inland.
Forty-Three
The American took them down to an altitude of seven thousand feet and circled the small island, sighing because there were no serious options here.
“I can do it,” he growled, challenging himself to make it work.
Kaahin tightened his belt straps and closed his hands around the door handle. It was the only thing in here to easily brace against.
The plane glided down to six thousand feet. Five thousand. Four thousand. Their teeth chattered in the frosty cab air. Kaahin gave his pilot the side-eye. The American’s lips were the color of frostbite.
“Found the party,” the American said.
Kaahin spotted the Star Time anchored off the island’s shore. He hoped they had been dumb enough to leave it unguarded, rushing headlong to find their pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The yacht was still his, after all. Law of the sea. And he would take it back.
The American eased the yoke against the dash, gliding the plane down further as something that looked like a single chemtrail launched off the deck of the Star Time. He realized too late what he was seeing. He only had time to brace as the rocket stream from a fired missile launcher rushed up to greet them.
The explosion outside the cabin took the plane’s wing clean off. It shattered the windows, cracked the fuselage, and sent them into tailspin, spiraling through the sky as the pilot’s door tore away and the air suddenly began sucking everything out of the cab.
Kaahin batted debris away from his head and tried to speak, though his words were little more than sputters, lost beneath the groaning sounds of a hemorrhaging hull.
He pressed his palm to the gun tucked against the band of his pants when an elbow collided with his jaw.
At last the American made his move, determined to ensure they died together. Kaahin had been expecting it. He realized his error in thinking it would happen on the ground. Down there, the game would be even. Up here, the advantage was not his.
Kaahin closed a fist and swung back, fighting every instinct to draw his gun and blast the American in his guts—if he still had the weapon. The world was spinning, parts of the fuselage breaking off. The wind speed tore at the plane like claws through butter, flinging parts of it through the sky.
Kaahin reached for his gun. In the chaos, he couldn’t tell if he even still had it. The American saw this happening and lunged for Kaahin’s wrists. Except the American wasn’t going for the gun at all. His reach extended beyond it. Fingers clasped the door handle behind Kaahin.
The cabin was all tremors, the fuselage bending and cracking beneath the crush of hurried wind speed.
The American’s body was pressed flat against Kaahin’s. His arm was pinned in place against the door. The space here was too tight to maneuver. The American knew this, or perhaps it was the anarchy of the moment that made his weight so oppressive.
The door popped wide and then tore from its hinges and went flapping into the trees below.
Kaahin didn’t wait. He rolled through the opened frame and fell sideways into the chop.
This while the plane shot inward toward the tree line like a bullet. Kaahin fought against sweeping undertow, watching the remaining wing break off. It dropped onto the beach like bricks and a nest of birds went flapping toward the skies with angry squawks.
A midnight plume of smoke followed the thunderous crash. Kaahin watched but felt no satisfaction for the American’s death. He only slipped beneath the waves and began to paddle.
Forty-Four
“Company,” Guillaume said.
The island wasn’t large enough for the explosion to go unnoticed. They drew their guns and Sara’s heart drummed as they hurried toward the action. It would be best to neutralize any threat before the company could regroup.
The plane’s twisted wreckage was barely inland, stopped at the base of some large trees that served as an entrance to the forest proper.
The wings and doors were torn free. The fuselage had more crinkles than an accordion. And the windshield was completely busted. A familiar body was sprawled across the plane’s nose, so much blood running down to the tip.
“Holloway,” Sara said and rushed toward him.
They eased his lower torso through the cockpit windshield and glided him toward the sand.
“Do we have first aid?”
“On the ship,” Guillaume’s words were cold. He was more interested in the area around them, suspicious that this man had friends nearby.
It was a shame they had nothing, because the old ship’s captain needed a lot of something. His left leg wa
s gone beneath the knee, cleaved off in the crash.
Holloway groaned with every motion, thick red globs pouring down his chin.
They made Holloway a makeshift hospital bed out of their heaviest clothes. Guillaume used his shirt as a tourniquet around the injured leg and then got a fire going in order to keep the impending shock at bay.
Sara’s blade glowed red hot as she lifted it off the fire. Holloway was in and out of it, though he seemed to anticipate what was coming, tightening his arm around Guillaume as Sara brought the hissing blade to his bloody stump and pressed against it. The knife sizzled, the smell turned immediately to charred meat, and Holloway’s screams uprooted every nested bird.
The captain had an onset of Tourette’s, screaming a hundred profanities in between short breaths. He rolled back and forth as the pain rolled through him. After what felt like an hour, his eyelids drooped and he began to lose consciousness.
“There is nothing more we can do,” Guillaume whispered.
“I know,” Sara agreed. Her first instinct was to get him back to the Star Time. It wouldn’t be as difficult to fight the waves on the way out, but that fish was going to be a problem.
“Where’s the jewel?” Guillaume asked.
Holloway answered with a few soft grumbles.
Sara bent and performed a passionless search. It wasn’t on his clothes. Guillaume was already checking the fuselage.
“Holloway,” she said, but the captain’s eyes were rolled all the way to the back of his head.
“We should search the island,” Guillaume said.
“For a rock?”
“What else is there to do?”
“I don’t know,” Sara said. “Be smart about things?”
“This hunt has cost me everything,” Guillaume snapped. “We see it to the end. No other choice. That is why we stand here now.”
“You have balls saying that to me, as if I’m just along for the ride.”
Guillaume wasn’t willing to discuss it. He stalked off along the shore, promising to leave tracks that would be easy to follow.
Sara started her search by fanning out around the smoking wreck. She completed the next lap of ever-expanding circles and found Holloway sitting up on his elbow when she returned. He looked oddly conscious for the moment, sharp features and blazing eyes.
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