by Nancy Holder
“Da, much,” Svetlana said. “He is nephew Anatoly.”
“Then we’ll leave him here. Maybe he’ll get lucky and pull through. Heather,” Tess said gently, changing course, “you need to stop crying. Can you walk?”
Heather wiped her eyes with her free hand. Before she could answer, Svetlana crouched down and hoisted her over her shoulder like a big sack of laundry. She straightened.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“Put me down. I can walk,” Heather protested.
“Can’t. And I am strong Russian woman.” Svetlana turned to Tess. “I want witness protection.”
“Okay,” Tess said, having no idea if she could make it happen, but needing Svetlana’s help if they were to survive. “I’ll do everything I can.” Possibly her second lie in the last five minutes. “How many are out here? Are they trying to recapture you or…?”
“I think ‘or.’ There are five more,” Svetlana said. “They go ahead. Ilya stay here. Wait. Like cat and mouse.” Hatred dripped from every syllable. “Anatoly say he love me, then tell Ilya he boss.”
“Office politics can be tough,” Tess drawled. She moved in front of Svetlana. “I’ll go first, since I’m armed.”
“We had a gun but we lost it in the crash,” Heather said.
“Was good gun,” Svetlana murmured.
“No talking now,” Tess ordered.
They moved out, Svetlana behind Tess, keeping as before to the shelter of the trees. They crept through the darkness for a few minutes, until the crash of running feet made Tess halt and Svetlana softly bumped into her. Neither spoke. Then Tess tapped Heather on the thigh and passed her gun up to her. Heather took it. Tess gave Heather a pat: You can do this.
Whatever “this” turned out to be.
A brilliant light flashed on, blinding Tess. She lifted her forearm to shield her eyes; as they adjusted, she counted three figures in front of her. One was holding a Maglite. As she recovered from staring into the white nimbus, she made out shapes and sizes: three large men. On either side of the corona, a mean, victorious face grinned at her.
The one on the left marched up to Svetlana and slapped her across the cheek. Svetlana staggered backward and Heather grunted in protest. The rightmost one patted Tess down, enjoying it way too much, and Tess thanked her lucky stars that she had given Heather her weapon—and hoped that Heather could either keep it concealed or pass it back to her before it was discovered.
The man who had slapped Svetlana spoke to the woman in a barrage of Russian. She answered back, then quickly said in English, “One other besides Ilya is missing.”
The man raised his hand again but Tess jumped between Svetlana and him, and the thug holding the flashlight laughed.
“Brave American cop woman,” he said, “don’t worry about Svetlana. She’d turn on you in two seconds to save her life. Just keep watching.” Of all four Russians they had thus far encountered, he spoke the best English. Tess wondered if he was Anatoly Vodanyov himself. But everything she had read about the crime lord said that he left others to do his dirty work.
He spoke to Svetlana in Russian, and Svetlana set Heather on her feet. The same man who had searched Tess patted down Svetlana, taking even more time. Tess watched Heather hop on one foot with her hands against her chest. She was concealing the gun. As the man finished with Svetlana and moved on to Heather, Tess caught the quick exchange of hands; Heather had just given Svetlana the weapon.
Tess’s stomach clenched. Svetlana was armed and she knew Tess was not. This was her moment of truth. It could be that she would step back across the line and shoot her and Heather both to prove her loyalty. She might see it as her only way to survive.
I can try to take her, Tess thought, but that was too risky. Maybe Heather and I together.
Still too risky. She had to assume all three men were armed in addition to Svetlana, and that they had at least one unaccounted-for backup. Just because Svetlana had counted five didn’t mean there were only five.
But a surprise attack of Tess’s people might be their only hope; as Tess watched, the man on the left pulled a gun from his bomber jacket. The mood shifted. No more fun and games. Heather gasped and looked over at Tess, but in the fuzzy light, Tess knew she could never hope to communicate a plan to Cat’s little sister.
Then Svetlana said in English, “If two only…”
Flashlight barked at her in Russian. And Tess knew Svetlana was still on her side, trying to orchestrate a way out of this.
Except, it wasn’t “two only.” It was three. Tess thought, Could I distract them long enough to change the odds? Start running? At least one would go after me. Then if she was quick enough, Svetlana could shoot the other two. When I got my badge, I was fully prepared to die in the line of duty. But if I’m pregnant…
I don’t know that I am. And these two need me right here and right now.
She took a breath. An image of JT formed in her mind. And then one of Cat.
She got ready to run.
The man on the right side of Flashlight pulled a gun as well. Glock. Probably hollow-point bullets that would do a lot of damage. Cause a lot of pain.
Heather cried out, “Stop! We won’t say anything! None of us! Ever!”
Here goes, Tess thought. She prayed Svetlana was on her game—and fast on the trigger.
But just as she bolted, Glock fell forward soundlessly onto his face. Then a gun went off. As Tess whirled around, a second shot was fired. The second blast, at least, had come from Svetlana’s weapon.
Flashlight’s gun went off, wide, before he tumbled backwards onto the ground.
And then Bomber Jacket collapsed. But Svetlana had not fired again.
Heather ran screaming toward Tess as Svetlana ran to the inert bodies and kicked their weapons away.
“Get down, get down, get down!” Tess shouted at Heather. Svetlana kept her gun aimed at their attackers, then swiveled it toward the black forest.
“Tess! Tess! It’s me!” a voice shouted. It was JT.
“Don’t shoot!” Tess yelled at Svetlana. “It’s a friend.”
Svetlana grabbed up the flashlight and aimed it instead of the gun.
JT Forbes strode out of the forest. He was wearing Tess’s bullet-proof vest, and he was holding the tranq gun diagonally across his chest. He was the most badass biochem expert Tess had ever seen. He must have shot Glock and Bomber Jacket. Svetlana had taken out Flashlight.
Heather ran to JT and threw her arms around him. She kissed his cheek and cried, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“Hey, Batman,” he said proudly to Tess as he gave Heather a hug. “There’s another one out there I tranq’ed. And someone else I think is dead. His face is, anyway.”
Heather caught her breath but did not say anything. Svetlana patted her butt.
“Ow,” Heather grunted.
“Thank you, Superman,” Tess said. “Let’s get these civilians the hell out of here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Archer, the bedraggled Shih Tzu, trembled in Cat’s arms as Cat, Vincent, and Bethany herded the three dogs up the steep stairway that led to the wheelhouse. The poor little creature’s many satin bows hung in filthy disarray and she reeked of smoke. She was so traumatized that she made no effort to protest as Vincent took her from Cat and cuddled her against his chest.
In front of Cat, Bethany urged the two larger dogs upward with an air of determined if shaky control. From somewhere deep inside herself, the teen had found a well of strength and she was using it to stay focused. Cat was impressed. For all Bethany knew, her father was dead, and the raging storm prevented any hope of rescue. Cat remembered her own trauma at nineteen when her mother had been gunned down, and the havoc it had wreaked on her psyche. Bethany appeared to be made of stronger stuff—or maybe she had back-burnered all her emotions, as Cat had done for years afterwards. Cat pledged then and there that she and Vincent would stay in Bethany’s life if she wanted and needed them.
; Emergency lights flashed red and white, red and white, and Cat could hear their shoes ringing on the metal steps between bleats of the klaxon. She looked behind herself to check for flames or—God forbid—onrushing seawater. Bethany had explained that a series of watertight doors could be activated either electronically or manually to protect the bridge and thereby retain control of propulsion and navigation. She had learned how to close the hatches during her brief internship with Captain Kilman. If anything happened, Cat knew Vincent would push her, Bethany, and the dogs through the hatches first.
Weariness weighed her down. She’d been drugged, fought for her life, and run all over the ship. She forced herself not to spin what-if scenarios that would demoralize her or otherwise sap what energy she had left and instead concentrated on the progress they had made: The Daughertys and the pups had been rescued from the fire. With any luck, the chip was history.
At the top of the last flight, they stepped over a large metal lip at the bottom of the entryway—the last watertight door— and into a sort of white anteroom fitted with a wooden desk that had smashed against a wall and photographs of the ship in dark wood frames, many of which had crashed to the floor. There was broken glass everywhere. Vincent leaned forward and grabbed one end of a Hawaiian-motif rug. Glass glittered as he turned it over and experimentally walked over it.
“No glass to cut the dogs’ feet,” he told Bethany. Then he opened the wooden door to the bridge and everyone entered.
It looked like the set of a science fiction movie and much less Captain Nemo-esque than Cat had pictured it: screens, joysticks, and keyboards, and not a wooden wheel in sight. Heads raised from a bank of seats—four valiant crew who had stayed behind. Cat caught sight of the captain, who was slumped in a chair with his head drooping downward. The grimace he gave her was a mixture of pain and relief. His eyelids fluttered shut.
“Daddy,” Bethany said to her father, who lay on the deck on a stretcher, covered up to his chin with a blanket. “I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Dr. Jones approached Vincent. Archer yipped and pressed her nose into Vincent’s armpit. “Mr. Daugherty is stable, Dr. Keller, but we can’t do anything else for him unless we go to sick bay.” She smiled sourly. “And I don’t think that’s a good idea. Captain Kilman was on the stairs when the explosion happened. He took a very bad fall, is showing signs of concussion.”
“The lifeboats are gone,” Cat said. “I assume you know that.”
“We have one more option,” said a tall man in an officer’s uniform as he came up beside the captain’s chair. His nameplate read: MR. O’BRIEN. “There’s an escape pod at the stern. It’s held in place by explosive bolts, and there’s an inflatable ramp to soften entry into the water. If we can reach it, there’s more than enough room for everyone.”
“Including the dogs,” Bethany insisted.
O’Brien opened his mouth and Cat said over him, “Right. Including the dogs.” For now, that was a possibility.
“That German shepherd will probably need to be muzzled,” he said.
“Schmutzie saved my life,” Bethany retorted. “I can give him commands and he’ll obey me.”
Cat gave the man a hard look—Please don’t argue—and he got it. Nodding, he said, “We have the ship on autopilot now. Our computerized system is doing a better job of keeping her afloat than we could.” He cleared his throat. “We have three unaccounted for: their bodyguard, Terence Milano, a passenger named Wes Connors, and our photographer, Cecilio Kamuki.”
“Terry Milano is dead,” Cat said. “And Connors is dead, too. I found his body in his stateroom. It had three bullet holes in the head. Then I caught Cecilio going through our suite…”
Vincent shot her a concerned look. She knew she had to keep it vague. “Because he was holding me at gunpoint, he thought he could brag about what he’d done. He and this passenger Connors were working together, and Cecilio admitted he had killed him with his own gun. He also said he murdered Terry Milano, for reasons undisclosed. Cecilio is the one who started the fire.”
The crewmen all stared at her, stunned, no one more so than the captain.
The captain roused himself with obvious effort. “But why?”
“It was a heist gone wrong, sir,” Cat replied. “He wanted to divert everyone to the lifeboat muster stations so he could steal something of great value out of a passenger cabin.” Then she fudged the truth, big time. “I don’t know why he was in our cabin. I don’t know what he was looking for. He didn’t tell me.”
“Prob’ly after something of mine,” Daugherty said, slurring his words. “I packed a few things for safekeeping an’ brought ’em with me. No idea if they’re still in my stateroom.”
“We can’t check,” Cat cut in.
“Course not. I have my mos’ val’able possession here any…” Daugherty trailed off.
“Daddy?” Bethany said shrilly. “Daddy? Vincent? Dr. Jones?”
Vincent handed Archer to Cat and together with the ship’s doctor bent over Bethany’s father.
“So he blew up my ship to steal something?” The captain was incredulous.
“He only meant to start a fire big enough to send us to our muster stations,” Cat elaborated. “It got out of control.” She stayed on subject. “So that means that everyone still aboard is accounted for, and we can all leave.” She added an emphatic, “Now.”
“No,” the captain rasped. “I won’t.”
O’Brien leaned over Captain Kilman. “Sir, please give the order for us to abandon ship. At this point there is no saving her.”
The captain remained defiant. “Do as you wish, O’Brien, but I’m staying aboard my ship.”
O’Brien shook his head. He looked at Dr. Jones. “I never thought I’d be asking you this question, ma’am,” he said. He cleared his throat. “In your medical opinion, is the captain able to fulfill his duty as commanding officer in this crisis?”
“I’m staying,” the captain repeated.
Dr. Jones rose and said, “Mr. O’Brien, as ship’s physician, I certify that the captain is unfit to remain in command because of the extent of injuries suffered in the line of duty. As you are the executive officer and next in line in the chain of command, the Sea Majesty is yours.”
“All hands abandon ship,” Mr. O’Brien said.
* * *
The ship was listing even more to starboard as the ten humans and three dogs descended the same tight stairway they had come up. Two of the crew carried the stretcher bearing Mr. Daugherty between them. Acting Captain O’Brien and another crewman slung the captain’s arms over their shoulders and helped him navigate the steps. He had fallen silent.
Vincent and Cat carried powerful lanterns that revealed a gaping hole in the sloping top deck. Inside the ship the room lights visible through the stacked rows of windows erratically flickered on and off. The driving cold rain that plastered Cat’s hair to her head and her clothes to her skin did nothing to extinguish the flames leaping high into the black sky. The wind flattened the billowing dark smoke into a caustic, smothering blanket as she held onto Bethany, who was trying to maintain control of the dogs’ leashes. Vincent, who had gone slightly ahead with O’Brien to scout out the best way to get to the stern, carried Archer under his arm like a bag of potato chips.
They hurried along the high side of the slanted deck, using the superstructure for one-handed support as heavy seas lifted and battered the wounded ship. It was a desperate and miserable trek. A blaze of floodlights above the stern deck illuminated the entrance hatch to the escape pod, which hung suspended, bow downward in a cradle of heavy pipe. The steel boat was painted bright orange. With angled slits for forward windows it looked like a Stealth Bomber without wings. As the ship rose and fell in the waves, the pod remained stationary, held fast to the railed ramp by a massive stern bracket.
O’Brien climbed onto the frame, un-dogged the hatch, and opened it. Getting Daugherty and the stretcher through the hatch was easier tha
n convincing the two big dogs that they should follow, but the crewmen handled it with aplomb and precise application of muscle.
As Cat climbed onto the skeletal frame, she made the mistake of looking down. An angry sea summited and valleyed a hundred feet beneath her, and the ship’s motion made her feel like a yo-yo. She had to close her eyes for an instant.
Then she felt Vincent’s firm touch on her arm.
“Here, let me help you,” he said, guiding her through the opening.
Inside, in the red glow of the boat’s emergency lights, everything was perpendicular—the high-backed rows of seat all faced straight down. Forrest’s stretcher had been strapped flat on the ribbed deck with his feet pointed towards the bow. The dogs had their own seats and seat harnesses—all except for Archer, who was still tucked under Vincent’s arm.
Cat used her hands to pull herself into the nearest available seat, then braced with her legs so she could fasten the shoulder harness. By the time Vincent climbed in beside her, the blood had begun to rush to her head. That coupled with the yawing and pitching motion of the ship made her stomach rebel.
She focused her attention on O’Brien in the pilot’s seat. He was unlocking something on the control panel. He swung back a hinged cover, exposing a fat button.
“Is everyone securely belted in?” he said over his shoulder.
The response was affirmative on all sides.
Though her head was spinning, Cat was elated. They were actually going to survive this nightmare.
“I’m going to blow the explosive bolts,” O’Brien said. “There will be a long drop, then a hard impact. Our momentum should carry us away from the Sea Majesty’s stern. When we are clear I’ll start the engines and move well off. Brace yourselves. Firing in three, two, one…”
Cat waited. And waited. Nothing happened.
“Firing in three, two, one…”
Again she clenched every muscle, anticipating a roller coaster ride to end all.
Again, nothing happened.
“Is something wrong?” Vincent asked.
“We seem to have a problem,” O’Brien said. “The explosive bolts did not fire. We’ve got plenty of battery power in the pod, certainly enough to detonate the charges, so it’s probably a wiring or circuitry issue. Maybe the pod’s umbilical has partially disconnected or been damaged. Or it could be something mechanical. No way to tell without checking the bracket and the winch. I’ll go do that now…”