THE MIDDLE SIN

by Merline Lovelace

  "This is one of the new Sperry Ras­car To­uch Scre­en systems, isn't it?"

  Wes­ter­beck ga­ve an im­pa­ti­ent nod. "Yes, it is."

  "I knew the system was be­ing in­s­tal­led in the Pits, but this is the first ti­me I've ac­tu­al­ly se­en it in ope­ra­ti­on."

  Marc dal­li­ed by the blip­ping, be­eping scre­en, fas­ci­na­ted by its co­lor­ful dis­p­lay. "The Ras­car com­bi­nes two ra­dars," he in­for­med the ot­hers. "An S-band ten cen­ti­me­ter and an X-band fi­ve cen­ti­me­ter. Both ra­dars are used for col­li­si­on avo­idan­ce and na­vi­ga­ti­on."

  Cleo co­uldn't ha­ve ca­red less abo­ut S- or X-bands. Her go­osey fe­eling was gat­he­ring spe­ed and mo­men­tum with every pas­sing se­cond. She ne­eded to get Jack asi­de, tell him abo­ut that lit­tle ex­c­han­ge she'd just ob­ser­ved.

  Johan­na star­ted down the sta­irs. Cleo fol­lo­wed, then Jack. With an im­pa­ti­ent glan­ce at Slo­an, the first of­fi­cer exi­ted the brid­ge. Marc lin­ge­red at the ra­dar dis­p­lay for anot­her mo­ment, fe­as­ting on its blips and be­eps, be­fo­re he, too, hit the sta­ir­well.

  The small ca­val­ca­de des­cen­ded one le­vel and be­gan mo­ving to the next. Cleo was hal­f­way down when she he­ard the un­mis­ta­kab­le thud of a fist crun­c­hing bo­ne.

  23

  Drop­ping in­to an in­s­tin­c­ti­ve cro­uch, Cleo whir­led just in ti­me to see Wes­ter­beck's eyes bul­ge and his che­eks puff out li­ke bir­t­h­day bal­lo­ons.

  Jack sto­od one step be­low him and had his fist bu­ri­ed in the man's mid­sec­ti­on. Marc was one step abo­ve. He'd evi­dently just bo­un­ced the ed­ge of his hand off the first of­fi­cer's neck…and was now fe­eling the ef­fect. Whi­le Do­no­van ca­ught the crum­p­ling Wes­ter­beck, Slo­an win­ced and sho­ok his hand a few ti­mes.

  "That's not as easy as it lo­oks," he mut­te­red.

  "Ta­kes prac­ti­ce," Jack ag­re­ed, lo­we­ring the un­con­s­ci­o­us man to the deck. Swiftly, he pat­ted him down.

  Cleo blew out a bre­ath, ca­me up from her cro­uch and flas­hed a lo­ok at Johan­na Mar­s­ton.

  The bru­net­te was ob­ser­ving the pro­ce­edings with in­te­rest but no evi­den­ce of sur­p­ri­se.

  "What tip­ped you off?" she as­ked her brot­her. "The cap­ta­in's ner­vo­us eye tic?"

  "That wasn't a tic." Still gri­ma­cing, Marc crad­led his hand. "It's be­en a whi­le sin­ce my navy days, but I can still re­ad Mor­se co­de when so­me­one flas­hes it in my fa­ce. The cap­ta­in was sig­na­ling an SOS."

  "And an X-band ra­dar is three cen­ti­me­ters, not fi­ve," Jack ad­ded, ex­t­rac­ting a small, let­hal se­mi­a­uto­ma­tic from the first of­fi­cer's poc­ket. "Our fri­end he­re cer­ta­inly sho­uld ha­ve known that."

  The fact that Do­no­van knew it im­p­res­sed the hell out of Cleo.

  "The ra­dio ope­ra­tor is in it with this cha­rac­ter," she sa­id, hel­ping Jack ha­ul the first of­fi­cer over his sho­ul­der. "I think he's run­ning the show. I saw him gi­ve the nod to Wes­ter­beck to ta­ke us dow­n­s­ta­irs."

  "They must ha­ve got­ten to the Pit­sen­bar­ger's crew," Jack sa­id grimly. "God knows what they did with them."

  "If they're ali­ve," Marc sup­pli­ed, "they'll pro­bably be con­fi­ned be­low deck in one of the car­go com­par­t­ments. Each com­par­t­ment can be se­aled off in­di­vi­du­al­ly."

  Grun­ting, Do­no­van hef­ted the first of­fi­cer's de­ad we­ight. "Let's get this guy in­si­de the cap­ta­in's ca­bin and stow him out of sight whi­le we se­arch the ship. Lady Mar­s­ton, you ta­ke the le­ad. Cleo, watch our six."

  With Cleo duly per­for­ming re­ar-gu­ard duty, they des­cen­ded the last few sta­irs to the deck ho­using the cap­ta­in's qu­ar­ters. Johan­na went first, Marc se­cond, then Jack and his bur­den just ahe­ad of Cleo. She kept her we­apon tra­ined on the sta­irs abo­ve them, but no one pop­ped out of the brid­ge.

  Marc's know­led­ge of the ship pro­ved in­va­lu­ab­le. Fol­lo­wing his le­ad, they mo­ved in sin­g­le, si­lent fi­le down a pas­sa­ge­way lit with bright lights and duc­ked in­to the cap­ta­in's pri­va­te qu­ar­ters. Cleo skim­med a swift glan­ce aro­und the two spa­ci­o­us sta­te­ro­oms fit­ted with gle­aming te­ak and brass whi­le Jack dum­ped his still-un­con­s­ci­o­us bur­den and be­gan strip­ping off the kha­ki uni­form.

  "Find so­met­hing to res­t­ra­in this guy," he in­s­t­ruc­ted Cleo. "I don't want him co­ming to and so­un­ding the alarm whi­le we're se­ar­c­hing the ship."

  It was on the tip of her ton­gue to ask him if he'd run out of plas­tic when Marc vo­lun­te­ered his le­at­her belt.

  "Use this. I'll ta­ke his uni­form. I'm abo­ut his bu­ild."

  Wit­hin mo­ments, Jack had Wes­ter­beck down to his shorts, gag­ged and strap­ped in­to a cha­ir bol­ted to the deck. Marc shed his own clot­hes and don­ned the kha­kis with spe­ed and pre­ci­si­on. Thrus­ting the brass ton­gue of the web belt thro­ugh the buc­k­le, he ga­ve it a qu­ick tug to align it with his zip­per. Gig li­ne set, he set­tled the first of­fi­cer's bill cap low on his brow.

  "We ne­ed to tell our res­pec­ti­ve he­ad­qu­ar­ters that the Pit­sen­bar­ger has be­en ta­ken," Jack ad­vi­sed Lady Mar­s­ton.

  "And alert the crew of the Se­ahawk," Cleo ad­ded, thin­king of the chop­per still per­c­hed on the bow of the ship.

  Marc ni­xed the use of the­ir sa­tel­li­te cell pho­nes. "Tho­se high-po­we­red an­ten­nas you saw on the dec­k­ho­use will pick up any sig­nal ema­na­ting from abo­ard ship."

  Jack thrust his pho­ne back in­to his poc­ket. "We'll ha­ve to use the Se­ahawk's ra­di­os, then. Slo­an, you and Lady Mar­s­ton can ta­ke ca­re of that whi­le Cleo and I se­arch for the Pit­sen­bar­ger's crew."

  "I'm fa­mi­li­ar with the ship's la­yo­ut and de­sign," Marc ar­gu­ed. "I al­so know how to ope­ra­te the hat­c­hes in the car­go hold. I'll go with Cleo whi­le you call in the ma­ri­nes."

  Be­fo­re Jack co­uld ar­gue the po­int, Johan­na in­ter­ve­ned.

  "I'm per­fectly ca­pab­le of ma­king my way to the he­li­cop­ter on my own. The three of you con­duct the se­arch. I'll send the alerts."

  They star­ted out in sin­g­le fi­le, but Marc stop­ped at the do­or and swung back. "I for­got so­met­hing."

  Rum­ma­ging in the poc­ket of his dis­car­ded bla­zer, he ex­t­rac­ted the shel­lac­ked star­fish. His eyes we­re iced-over gra­ni­te when he ca­me back ac­ross the sta­te­ro­om.

  "Let's roll."

  ***

  Si­lent as three sha­dows, Cleo, Marc and Jack des­cen­ded two mo­re le­vels to the deck ho­using the en­gi­ne­er's qu­ar­ters. They fo­und one man we­aring the in­sig­nia of an as­sis­tant en­gi­ne­er sac­ked out on a bunk, anot­her with his pants aro­und his an­k­les, per­c­hed on the he­ad. The­ir re­ac­ti­ons when they spot­ted the new­co­mers tag­ged them in­s­tantly as un­f­ri­en­d­li­es.

  Engi­ne­er Thug put up a short, if vi­ci­o­us, fight. No-Pants Guy didn't get the chan­ce. Wit­hin mo­ments, the two men we­re strap­ped an­k­le and wrist in cha­irs bol­ted to the deck. En­gi­ne­er Thug pro­ved un­res­pon­si­ve to the gun bar­rel Jack scre­wed in­to his right tem­p­le, but No-Pants went ri­gid as Cleo aimed the.38 at the shri­ve­led dick and ha­iry sack spla­yed out bet­we­en his na­ked thighs.

  "How many of you are the­re?" she as­ked him.

  "Fem­mi­na! You can­not…"

  She didn't ap­pre­ci­ate be­ing cal­led a bitch in Ita­li­an any mo­re than she did in En­g­lish. Co­ol­ly, she thum­bed back the ham­mer of the snub-no­sed Smith & Wes­son.

  "How many?"

  "J­esu! The­re are ten!"

  Once he'd star­ted bab­bling, No-Pants spil­led his guts. Dis­gu­is
ed as dec­k­hands, ni­ne pi­ra­tes had co­me abo­ard when the Pit­sen­bar­ger re­fu­eled and re­sup­pli­ed in Mal­ta. The pudgy ra­dio ope­ra­tor had be­en the­re to gre­et them and had hid­den them The Mid­dle Sin 299 in a car­go com­par­t­ment un­til the ship was well out to sea. They'd crept out at night and ta­ken the ship.

  A ske­le­ton crew from the Pits was in the en­gi­ne ro­om, ke­eping the ship un­der ste­am and on co­ur­se. One se­aman was in the gal­ley. The rest had be­en con­fi­ned in a com­par­t­ment on the third car­go deck, just for­ward of the en­gi­ne ro­om.

  "Are they ali­ve?"

  The man's mo­uth clam­ped shut. He threw a qu­ick glan­ce at the blo­odi­ed fa­ce of his com­pa­ni­on, who bar­ked so­met­hing back in a di­alect Cleo co­uldn't catch. She to­ok two steps for­ward and ram­med the.38's bar­rel bet­we­en No-Pants' thighs.

  "Are they ali­ve?"

  "So­me!" he scre­ec­hed. "Per­haps."

  She was tem­p­ted to ma­ke him a eunuch right then and the­re. She set­tled for cras­hing the re­vol­ver's butt down on his skull. Jack put the se­cond hi­j­ac­ker to sle­ep with a squ­irt from the spray he pro­du­ced from his poc­ket.

  They en­co­un­te­red anot­her pi­ra­te on the crew deck. Marc was in the le­ad and used the mo­men­tary con­fu­si­on en­gen­de­red by his uni­form to plant his fist in the man's fa­ce. Jack fol­lo­wed up with a puff of the sub­du­ing agent.

  "That's fo­ur down co­un­ting Wes­ter­beck," Cleo mur­mu­red as they drag­ged the un­con­s­ci­o­us hi­j­ac­ker in­to a crew ca­bin and stuf­fed him in a loc­ker. "Only six mo­re to go."

  The ten­si­on knot­ting her sto­mach ga­ve way to so­me se­ri­o­us rum­b­ling as they des­cen­ded to the mess deck. With each step the aro­ma of gar­lic and fri­ed oni­ons that had tan­ta­li­zed her sin­ce co­ming abo­ard the Pits grew stron­ger.

  The of­fi­cers' mess was empty, but a tig­ht-jawed co­ok scra­ped a spa­tu­la ac­ross the grid­dle in the gal­ley. A crew­man in je­ans and a T-shirt sat at one of the tab­les. Cleo re­cog­ni­zed the fa­ce prin­ted on the T-shirt: An­d­re Shev­c­hen­ko, the sexy Uk­ra­ini­an soc­cer he­ro who pla­yed for­ward for Italy's te­am and had re­cently ma­de Pe­op­le ma­ga­zi­ne's list of the ten most gor­ge­o­us men in the uni­ver­se. But it was the fa­ce abo­ve the T-shirt that grab­bed her full at­ten­ti­on.

  It re­gis­te­red sur­p­ri­se, shock and in­s­tant pa­nic. Jol­ting up­right in his cha­ir, the ma­ri­ner scrab­bled for the gun res­ting on the se­at be­si­de him. Be­fo­re any of the new­co­mers co­uld res­pond, the co­ok flung a spa­tu­la full of siz­zling oni­ons in the man's fa­ce.

  Scre­aming, the hig­hj­ac­ker pum­ped out a wild shot. The co­ok went down, Marc cur­sed and Jack fi­red. With an inar­ti­cu­la­te grunt, the soc­cer fan slid un­der the tab­le.

  Than­k­ful­ly, the first bul­let had just gra­zed the co­ok's skull. Jack prop­ped him in a cha­ir and squ­at­ted in front of him whi­le Cleo wad­ded a to­wel aga­inst the wo­und.

  "Do you know the sta­tus of yo­ur fel­low crew­men?"

  Da­zed, the co­ok blin­ked away the blo­od drip­ping in­to his eyes. "No. But I was told…" He swal­lo­wed, pres­sed the to­wel to his he­ad and tri­ed aga­in. "I was told to co­ok for half the num­ber I usu­al­ly do sin­ce the­se pigs ca­me abo­ard."

  Cleo lost her ap­pe­ti­te. From the so­und of it, most of the Pit­sen­bar­ger's crew had be­en shut up in a car­go com­par­t­ment wit­ho­ut fo­od or wa­ter sin­ce Mal­ta. Ra­dio Ope­ra­tor and fri­ends we­re due so­me se­ri­o­us pay­back for that.

  And for Trish Jac­k­son. Marc hadn't for­got­ten. Ne­it­her had Cleo. The yo­ung wo­man's fa­ce ho­ve­red be­fo­re her as Marc led them down in­to the bo­wels of the Pit­sen­bar­ger.

  "A con­ta­iner ship is ba­si­cal­ly an empty hull," he mut­te­red, his vo­ice low and ten­se. "Bul­k­he­ads se­pa­ra­te the hull in­to wa­ter­tight com­par­t­ments. The con­ta­iners are stac­ked on mo­vab­le cross hat­c­hers in­si­de each com­par­t­ment."

  Put­ting his sho­ul­der to a hatch, he pus­hed it open and step­ped in­to a dim, dank can­yon. Cleo and Jack fol­lo­wed, alert for any mo­ve­ment, any so­und ot­her than the hum of the me­tal dec­king un­der the­ir fe­et as it vib­ra­ted to the be­at of the en­gi­nes.

  Once thro­ugh the hatch, tho­ugh, she stop­ped de­ad. Her ra­ti­onal mind told her she was only se­e­ing a small por­ti­on of the car­go area, just one com­par­t­ment full of con­ta­iners. The know­led­ge didn't blunt the im­pact of tho­se me­tal bo­xes stac­ked as high and as far as she co­uld see in the fa­int glow of the lig­h­ting system.

  Gul­ping, Cleo eased her fin­ger away from the trig­ger of the.38. The Smith & Wes­son didn't ha­ve a sa­fety, and the me­re tho­ught of ac­ci­den­tal­ly pop­ping off a ro­und ma­de her palms fe­el cold and clammy.

  "The en­gi­ne ro­om is down one mo­re deck," Marc sa­id. "Clo­se to whe­re we're stan­ding."

  "How many ways in and out?" Jack as­ked.

  "Three. The sta­irs we just ca­me down. Anot­her set aft of the ma­in pro­pel­ler shaft. And an es­ca­pe hatch. The­re's one in every com­par­t­ment. The one over the en­gi­ne ro­om sho­uld be right abo­ut…"

  He stro­de along the gan­g­way that cut bet­we­en the con­ta­iners, pas­sed thro­ugh one com­par­t­ment, en­te­red anot­her. Mid-cen­ter, he stop­ped be­si­de lad­der rungs wel­ded to a sup­port co­lumn.

  "He­re."

  Kne­eling, Jack exa­mi­ned the mec­ha­nism that scre­wed down the hatch. "Can they open this from be­low?"

  "They can." Ho­oking a thumb, Marc in­di­ca­ted a si­mi­lar hatch di­rectly abo­ve them. "Just as we co­uld open that one to ac­cess the up­per car­go deck."

  Do­no­van didn't ta­ke long to for­mu­la­te a tac­ti­cal stri­ke plan. That was one of the things Cleo ad­mi­red most abo­ut him. When she wasn't to­tal­ly pis­sed at him, that is.

  "All right, he­re's the plan. Slo­an, you gu­ard this es­ca­pe hatch. North, ta­ke the re­ar sta­irs. I'll go for­ward and en­ter via the front. Gi­ve me fi­ve mi­nu­tes to get in­to po­si­ti­on." He squ­in­ted at the lig­h­ted di­al of his watch. "At my hack. Fi­ve, fo­ur, three, two…"

  Jack lo­oked up from his watch and flas­hed Cleo a grin.

  "One. Let's go get 'em."

  Jack ma­de a fron­tal as­sa­ult on the en­gi­ne ro­om.

  Cleo burst in thro­ugh the re­ar.

  She for­med an in­s­tant im­p­res­si­on of mas­si­ve tur­bi­nes, pum­ping pis­tons and at le­ast se­ven crew mem­bers fro­zen in sur­p­ri­se.

  One of them was a husky fe­ma­le in a gre­ase-spat­te­red T-shirt and dun­ga­re­es. She glan­ced at Cleo, ga­ve an inar­ti­cu­la­te ro­ar and bro­ught the wrench in her hand cras­hing down with let­hal for­ce aga­inst the skull of the man hun­ke­red on a sto­ol be­hind her, a pis­tol in his hand.

  When the dust set­tled, three hi­j­ac­kers lay fa­ce­down on the deck. Two had the­ir arms and legs spre­ad wi­de. Blo­od po­ured from the gash in the third's he­ad. The Pit­sen­bar­ger's se­ni­or oiler had la­id his scalp open down to the bo­ne. Chest he­aving, she clut­c­hed the blo­ody wrench in her fist.

  "The sons of bit­c­hes kil­led our chi­ef en­gi­ne­er," she pan­ted over the thump of mac­hi­nery. "Sli­ced his thro­at right in front of us to ma­ke su­re we un­der­s­to­od they me­ant bu­si­ness."

  "Thre­ate­ned to cut up anot­her of our ship­ma­tes every ti­me we bal­ked at fol­lo­wing the­ir or­ders," anot­her mac­hi­nist's ma­te snar­led.

  "They won't be sli­cing up an­yo­ne el­se," Jack pro­mi­sed. Three qu­ick puffs put the hi­j­ac­kers out of ac­ti­on in­de­fi­ni­tely. "Let's go find yo­ur ship­ma­tes."

  Cleo w
as on her way out with the ot­hers when she re­mem­be­red Slo­an. "We left Marc gu­ar­ding the hatch. I'll let him know the en­gi­ne ro­om is se­cu­re."

  Whi­le Jack and the en­gi­ne-ro­om crew went in se­arch of the­ir re­ma­ining crew, she ra­ced up the sta­irs she'd crept down just mi­nu­tes ago. The stink of oil and di­esel fu­el fol­lo­wed her when she duc­ked thro­ugh the hatch in­to the dank re­ces­ses of the car­go hold. She had just star­ted down the nar­row pas­sa­ge­way bet­we­en the con­ta­iners when a fi­gu­re in kha­kis ap­pe­ared in the next com­par­t­ment.

  "Marc!" she cal­led softly. "The en­gi­ne ro­om's se­cu­re. We ne­ed to…"

  The fi­gu­re spun aro­und. Cleo ba­rely had ti­me to re­gis­ter the fa­ce of Ad­ri­an Mus­ta­fa Mo­ore, aka Bri­tish-Ac­cent Guy, be­fo­re he whip­ped up the sub­mac­hi­ne gun he had tuc­ked un­der his arm.

  "Don't be crazy!" she squ­aw­ked, flin­ging out a hand to en­com­pass the con­ta­iners cram­med with ex­p­lo­si­ves. "You can't fi­re that thing down he­re!"

  He spit out a cur­se and, to her in­fi­ni­te re­li­ef, lo­we­red the we­apon.

  "I know you. You're the Ame­ri­can who ca­me to the Ca­fe Co­rin­t­hia as­king qu­es­ti­ons abo­ut me."

  The words ec­ho­ed in the ca­ver­no­us com­par­t­ment. Cleo ed­ged clo­ser, not abo­ut to let the bas­tard ret­re­at.

  "My brot­her ra­di­o­ed the ship and told us you had co­me to Mal­ta." Ha­te bla­zed in Mo­ore's thin fa­ce. "He was the man in the Co-Cat­hed­ral of St. John. The one you kil­led."

  "The one who tri­ed to ta­ke me out?" Cleo shot back, her ga­ze ne­ver le­aving him. "Li­ke you did Trish Jac­k­son?"

  "Pah," he sa­id in she­er dis­gust. "That stu­pid cow wasn't even worth a bul­let."

  His ut­ter con­tempt got to Cleo far mo­re than his words. Fig­h­ting a wa­ve of fury, she to­ok anot­her step to­ward him. "I saw what was left of her body. Did you know she was preg­nant?"