The Ocean Dark: A Novel

by Jack Rogan

  Only when she reached the metal landing just outside the wheelhouse did Tori stop, and peer, and try to understand. With a bright flash, the sun came over the eastern horizon and the shadows swiftly retreated toward the west. In the warm light of day, there could be no mistake.

  The island couldn’t have been more than a mile and a half long. The trees were tall and thin near the shore, but thicker toward the hilly inland. The shores were soft sand, except where dark rock jutted out from the land in jagged formations. And in the shallows all around the island were sunken ships.

  The prow of a fishing boat thrust from the gentle waves beside the mast of some rich man’s pride and joy. A rusting freighter, a quarter the size of the Antoinette, loomed out of the water like a man-made breakwater. A schooner at least forty or fifty years old lay on its side, one of its two masts snapped off and the other bleached white in the sun, tattered sail drooping, thin and torn as cheesecloth.

  And there were others. More fishing boats. Several sleek white cabin cruisers and larger yachts that looked like they ought to have been moored in the marina of some tourist mecca. As the morning sun spread farther, Tori could make out smaller boats washed up on the shore, or jutting half out of the surf—rowboats and little Boston Whalers that must have come off larger ships.

  “It’s a cemetery,” Dwyer said.

  Tori shivered, eyes scanning the island. A lot of the boats were clustered in the center where there was a natural cove thanks to the jetties created by the formations of dark rock. But there were others all along the shore.

  “I don’t get it,” Tori said. “What did this? Storms?”

  Even as she said it, she knew it didn’t make sense. The trade winds seemed gentle enough here, and the waves were low and lapped the sandy shores of the island. The rock formations jarred a bit with what she expected from this part of the world, which got her thinking about volcanoes and tectonic plates and weird theories about the Bermuda Triangle causing electromagnetic problems with ships’ instruments.

  “Hurricanes, you mean? I doubt it. The rich bastards who used to own those fancy boats wouldn’t have just left them out here. They’d want ’em repaired, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe not. They’ve got insurance. This far from anything, they’d probably just radio for help and be happy they got off the island.”

  “I’m thinking currents, actually.”

  Dwyer stood one step below the landing, and she glanced down at him. “You mean they drifted here?”

  The Irishman shrugged. “Could be. Engine trouble, derelict ships. Maybe the currents sort of converge here or something.”

  “Derelict ships?” Tori repeated, looking out across the gently swaying masts and wheelhouses and bows. “Then what sank them?”

  “Fuck if I know. It’s a mystery, isn’t it?”

  But Dwyer’s voice had a little tremor when he said it and she turned to him, eyes narrowed. He didn’t look at her, and Tori had a feeling he was purposely avoiding her gaze. The ship graveyard unnerved her, but it had gotten much further under Dwyer’s skin.

  “This has to do with the Mariposa. What aren’t you telling me?”

  Dwyer cocked his head. “They were attacked here. Put our cargo ashore.”

  Tori’s eyes still burned and her head still felt stuffed with cotton. She blamed tiredness for not making these connections earlier. Trying to wake up, desperate for coffee, she took a fresh look at the island and realized that, in among the trees and the brush and the thicker vegetation of the small island’s interior, there would be plenty of places for people to hide.

  “So you think there are people living on the island? Someone attacked them from there?”

  “Dunno,” Dwyer said, shrugging. “Could be pirates. Not Johnny bloody Depp, but the real sort, with guns and knives and a buyer waiting back in port. But radar isn’t picking up any ships nearby. Could be people on the island—”

  “Or they could be on the boats,” Tori whispered.

  Dwyer turned to look at her. “What?”

  Tori nodded toward the half-sunken derelicts. “Add up all the space that’s still above water on those boats … cabins and wheelhouses and stuff … and you could have dry shelter for dozens of people.”

  They stared at the ships together, and Tori felt like she was seeing the potential there for the first time. Many of them were so close together that a good jump would carry someone from one deck to the next. Some had been tied to others with rope or rotting sail. One large fishing trawler had been plowed right into the side of a little cargo ship, so that they were essentially the same structure.

  The door into the wheelhouse opened. Tori turned to see Gabe Rio staring at her, grim and urgent.

  “You coming in or what? We’ve got business to take care of.”

  “Sorry, Captain,” Dwyer said, hustling up onto the landing.

  “All right,” Tori said, following Gabe into the wheelhouse with Dwyer right behind her. Miguel and Suarez were both on the bridge as well. “What’s the story? Is the FBI coming?”

  Gabe stared out through the windows at the island and its halo of dead ships. “Not yet.”

  Tori felt her skin prickle with the flush of heat. She knew what was coming, and she wished he wouldn’t say it. But she had to ask.

  “So, what’s the next move?”

  Gabe looked at her. “We’re going ashore to find the guns. And you’re coming with us.”

  Tori blinked at him. “Why’s that, exactly?”

  Miguel snickered. “I told you, Gabriel. She wanted in yesterday when we went over to the Mariposa, but now that there might be danger, the girl’s all reluctant.”

  Captain Rio ignored him, gaze locked on Tori.

  “I’m not going to make you come,” he told her, “but a lot is riding on this. You said you were Viscaya’s eyes and ears out here, right? If we can’t find the guns, or this all goes to shit, I want someone to be able to tell them we did everything we could.”

  Tori glanced around at the men in the wheelhouse, took in the way they were looking at her, and she understood that this wasn’t just about Gabe Rio. If Miguel lost this job and word got out about what had happened, he might never get another job. Yet the captain’s concern extended further than Miguel for once. Staying out of prison would be cold comfort if they all ended up out of a job. If they brought Tori along, she might be the one person who could speak on their behalf, if it came to that.

  “What happens to Josh while we’re on the island?” she asked.

  “Nothing yet,” Gabe replied, his voice cold.

  Tori nodded. “All right. Then what are we waiting for?”

  –26– –

  Josh lay on his side on the floor of the rec room. If he’d had the strength, he would have climbed onto one of the two ugly sofas. Their cushions might be faded and stained, but at least they would be soft. On the other hand, the fabric felt like sandpaper on a normal day, and right now the cold floor felt good on his swollen, bloody cheek. Dirty boot prints didn’t bother him. Pain had pushed him past such concerns.

  He wished he still had the gun Miguel had let him carry during the night.

  Fucking Miguel. Josh figured that once the chief mate had figured out something was amiss—that the new cook was something other than what he seemed—Miguel had been waiting for the moment he could take that gun back. And once he had, things had swiftly unraveled.

  His right hand tensed, fingers instinctively clutching at the weapon he yearned for. If he’d had the gun, though, it wouldn’t have been Miguel Rio who caught the first bullet—he’d marked that for Hank Boggs. That son of a bitch had a reckoning in his future, and Josh figured it was only a matter of time. Really, the only chance Gabe had of getting the Antoinette free of the noose that was drawing close around it would be to throw the whole goddamn galley stove overboard and leave immediately, before Voss and the rest of Josh’s squad got restless and figured out that someone had spoiled their plans. Otherwise, Voss would run out
of patience, realize something had gone wrong, and the FBI would move in.

  The Rio brothers had twenty-four hours, give or take, and instead of using that time to slip quietly away, Gabe wanted to retrieve the guns, drag them back to Miami, and put them on Viscaya’s doorstep like a cat bringing its master a dead bird. The captain was a stubborn son of a bitch, but that was all right with Josh. The more time they wasted trying to get those guns back, the better his odds of survival.

  Josh had been emphatic about the squad not moving in until he set off the personal locator beacon he’d hidden behind the stove, but he knew his partner all too well. He’d called in on the sat-phone to tell them the Antoinette was about to rendezvous with the Mariposa. Already Voss would be wondering how come he hadn’t called in again or set off the PLB. She’d be tempted to throw out the plan they’d made, and to ignore the cautions he’d given to wait for his signal. All Josh had to do was manage to stay alive until Voss ran out of patience.

  The smell of his own blood filled his nostrils. He could feel a little pool of it growing tacky as it dried under his cheek. His jaw throbbed and his whole face felt swollen. His left eye had swollen up so much that he couldn’t open it all the way. Gently, he ran his tongue over his teeth, probing to see if any were broken. One tooth on the lower left side of his mouth felt loose, but otherwise they were all intact.

  He doubted the same could be said of his ribs. They probably weren’t broken, but given the way his right side felt when he breathed, he thought several must be badly bruised. Boggs had started with his fists, but once Josh had slid to the floor, the chief engineer had started kicking. Now there were places all over his body that were numb, and far too many others he wished he could not feel.

  As far as he was aware, Josh had been on the floor for about an hour, perhaps more. But he couldn’t deny the possibility that he had lain there longer, unconscious. His head still swam a little, and he figured he had a mild concussion.

  “Get up,” he whispered to himself. His lips felt numb and the words were little more than a mumble.

  If Boggs comes back, he might kill you.

  The thought raced through him like a jolt of adrenaline. Captain Rio didn’t seem inclined to kill him yet, but Josh knew that could change without warning. If he wanted to live, he ought to find some way to defend himself. If he could fashion some kind of weapon, even a club adapted from the leg of the Ping-Pong table, then all the better. Boggs had it coming, one way or another.

  Josh had given his loyalty to the FBI. Maybe not his heart and soul, but at the very least his mind and body. He knew the law, and throwing the big bald engineer over the side or shivving him in the throat with some makeshift blade snapped off a piece of rec room furniture would be frowned upon by the U.S. government. Josh wouldn’t be proud of it, either. That kind of justice didn’t fit with how he viewed himself or his job.

  But no one had ever beaten him for their own entertainment before, so his views were adjusting accordingly. When the shit hit the fan, if he couldn’t arrange for Boggs to catch a bullet, he would be severely disappointed.

  He took a thin breath, wary of his aching ribs, and lifted his head. The blood on his face had started to dry to the floor and it tugged painfully as he pulled his cheek away. Propping himself up with his left arm, right hand pressed to his bruised ribs, he managed to roll slowly and rise to his knees. His jaw still felt swollen and he blew a pained exhalation out through his teeth.

  Then he paused, taking stock. No jutting bones. Nothing punctured internally as far as he could tell. Just pain, all over. Breathing through his nose now—the way he did when he felt nauseous and was trying to stave off the urge to vomit—he put a hand on the chair he’d been sitting in when Boggs had started to work him over. Shaky as a newborn colt, he rose and slid into the chair, settling back gingerly, closing his eyes as he let out another breath.

  So much for looking for a weapon. If Boggs came back now, Josh would barely be able to lift a hand, never mind defend himself.

  A few more minutes. Just take it easy. Don’t rush. A few more minutes and he would get up from the chair, find something that he could hurt the chief engineer with.

  He let his eyes close and started to drift. The adrenaline rush started to subside and all he wanted to do was crash—just sleep, and heal. But Josh couldn’t afford to do that. Inhaling sharply, he opened his eyes and stared at the bright Caribbean light coming through the small windows on either side of the door. No telling when Boggs or the captain would return.

  “Up,” he whispered, wary now of how much the guards outside the two doors might hear. Valente and Tupper had been posted last night, one at either entrance, but he had no idea who might be out there now. Best to be quiet.

  Pushing himself up from the chair, he sucked in a painful breath, then crossed his arms in front of his chest. He hesitated, steadying his breathing, then forced his eyes open wider, steeling his nerves, focusing on the task at hand. He glanced around the rec room, moving his whole body instead of just his head, not wanting to twist anything too far just in case the muscles were torn. He didn’t have the strength to break up a chair or snap a leg off the Ping-Pong table, though he considered that for a moment.

  No, it had to be something he could hide, something sharp and quick.

  Shuffling around, right arm held against his ribs, he checked out the card table, the various bits of furniture, the crappy pool table. His eyes had glanced right past the Ping-Pong table for at least the third time before he paused to stare at the net, and the silver metal brackets that held it up on either side.

  The metal was thin. Worked back and forth, it would likely snap off, leaving a sharp end. It would take a bit of leverage, but if he took it slowly and was careful, he could manage any pain. If Boggs came for him again, and got in close enough, Josh would do the bastard as much damage as possible.

  He grabbed the net and had started to tear it off when the starboard door clicked open behind him.

  Josh turned quickly, instinctively putting a protective hand over his ribs, and was surprised when the only pain was a dull throbbing ache rather than the sharp jab he’d expected. Perhaps the bones were intact after all.

  The door swung inward and Angie Tyree poked her head in, wary and furtive. She glanced back out onto the walkway, then slid into the rec room, closing the door quickly behind her.

  “What the hell—” Josh began.

  Eyes widening, she put a finger to her lips to shush him, glancing past him at the port side door as though afraid someone would come to investigate. Josh stood quietly as she approached, studying the engineer. Despite her oil-stained tank top and jeans and the clunky work boots she had on, Angela Tyree was a beautiful woman. Her skin was a rich, dark coffee, and she had lovely eyes above full, sensual lips. But in the time they’d been at sea together, Josh had seen how hard she could be, which detracted both from her beauty and from how far he would be willing to trust her.

  Yet the fear in her eyes pleaded for his trust. It was clear she wasn’t supposed to be here, and didn’t want to be discovered.

  “How did you get in here?” he whispered, hating the mumble that his swollen mouth and aching jaw made of his words.

  “I’m supposed to be guarding the door.”

  Josh frowned. Angie didn’t have a weapon, and she was all that stood between him and freedom. He started toward the door she’d come through.

  “No,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Where are you gonna go? For a swim?”

  He paused, thinking about the layout of the ship, the distance to the galley, the chances of running into other members of the crew, some of whom would no doubt be armed. Every muscle urged him toward the door, but if Angie had other thoughts, he wanted to hear them.

  “You have a better idea?” he asked.

  “Just listen,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the door through which she’d entered. Then she locked her eyes on him, sizing him up as though for the first time. “I’m third ass
istant engineer on a container ship. It’s just my job. Yes, I knew the Rios made some stops along the way sometimes, and that whatever they picked up couldn’t be legal if it was so secret. But I swear I’ve never been part of any of it. I just do my job and mind my own business.”

  Josh saw the desperation etched in her face and decided that Angie couldn’t be that good an actress. He nodded. “Go on.”

  Angie licked her lips and shrugged. “Nothing. I just … I’m not part of it.”

  “You knew and kept quiet. You could’ve turned them in. You could’ve at least quit the job if you were worried about going to jail.”

  He understood what she was fishing for, but he twisted the knife anyway. The more terrified she was, the more useful she’d be.

  “Look, I can help you get out of here …”

  Josh held up a hand to hush her, cocking his head slightly as though he’d heard something. The effect on her was instantaneous, erasing any lingering suspicions he might have had that Gabe Rio had sent her in here trying to find out if Josh had any information that Hank Boggs’s fists hadn’t been able to extract.

  “What did you hear?” she asked, taking a step toward the door.

  “Nothing. Just the boat. Everything creaks. Listen, Angie, if you’re as blameless as you say, that’ll come out during the prosecution. But if you can bring me a gun and get me to the galley—or get us both to one of the lifeboats—I’ll do everything I can to protect you.”

  She gnawed her lower lip, more vulnerable than he’d ever seen her, looking almost like a little girl.

  “I wouldn’t have to be in jail?”

  Josh considered lying, but only for a second. “I can’t make any promises. There’s only so much I can do. But I can tell you this much—I think there’s a very good chance that if you help me, you’ll stay out of prison.”