International Incident

by Melissa F. Miller

  “Something came up. He was called away to handle another matter. I’m confident I can handle one woman by myself.” He smirked.

  “The evidence suggests otherwise.” Jan gave him a long look, then pressed the power button on the row of monitors that were tied to the ship’s closed-circuit camera system. The screens flickered to life. He scanned them, sector by sector, then pointed to a screen in the middle row. “There, she’s on the bottom deck, just outside the engine room. And judging by the life vest she’s wearing, I’d say she’s not planning to stay long.”

  Derek was already halfway out of the room. Jan overrode the security program to interrupt the recording. There was no need to have video of what was about to happen to Mrs. Connelly. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He’d give Derek another ten minutes to do his work, then he’d instruct the staff to begin releasing the passengers.

  * * *

  Sasha eased her right leg over the ship’s edge and sat straddling the railing. She peered down. The water seemed a long way away. And she didn’t have a set of suction cups handy. She did, however, have a child-sized life jacket that she’d found in a box full of emergency equipment. And she had two flares jammed in her pocket of her sundress. Still, this idea seemed to be questionable at best.

  But when she examined her situation from a dispassionate point of view, her self-defense training told her to get off the ship.

  Here goes nothing.

  She swung her other leg over the bar and balanced atop the railing, gripping it with both hands and took a long breath. She couldn’t judge exactly how many feet she was about to jump. She could only hope she didn’t break any bones that would make getting to shore impossible. She removed her hands from the railing and leaned forward and—

  Suddenly, she was falling. Not forward, over the railing and toward the sea. But backward, her arms flailing as she toppled toward the deck. She twisted her head and felt a sharp yank at the base of her head, where her ponytail was secured.

  She wasn’t falling. She was being pulled by her hair.

  A flash of black registered in her line of sight. By the time she realized it was the man in the wetsuit, her back was hitting the deck.

  Get up, get up, get up. Move.

  Her brain screamed the instruction, and her muscles twitched, eager to comply. The worst thing she could do would be to land flat on her back. That would enable the man to straddle her, control her arms, and overpower her.

  Winded and already aching from the force of the impact with the deck, Sasha obeyed her brain and body’s signals and immediately rolled to her left side, coming to rest on her hip.

  Constant movement, she reminded herself, grateful that she and Daniel had been working on the principle of continuous combat motion in the studio.

  The man lurched forward, looming over her, trying to plant his knees on the deck on either side of her while she bucked. She folded her right leg and jammed her shin and kneecap up against his stomach. She pressed her left heel against his right thigh.

  As she lifted her leg, the flares fell out of her pocket and rolled along the deck, out of reach. Not that they were going to be much use in a ground fight, but they were the closest thing to a weapon she had. And now they were gone.

  Focus, she scolded herself.

  The man grinned down at her, as if he found her struggling to be mildly amusing or, worse yet, cute. Anger flared in her belly. Unable to straddle her, he brought his right arm up and back, open-handed. She realized he wasn’t planning to punch her. He was either going to slap her or grab her by the throat—and she didn’t intend to find out which it was.

  She pulled back her left leg, flexed her foot, and landed a heel kick to the underside of his chin, right at the base of his jawbone. His neck bobbled and his head whipped back as her heel connected and the shock rippled up his jawbone to his brain.

  If she’d been standing, she might have delivered the kick with enough force to knock him out. But she wasn’t standing; she was kicking from the ground. At best he’d be stunned and numb-faced for a few moments. She had to hurry.

  She crabbed backwards on her elbows a few paces to get out from under him then scrabbled to her feet. He was still on his knees, already reaching around for his backpack—and, no doubt, his gun.

  She stretched out her hand and snatched at the backpack straps. She jerked down hard, with all her might. He wobbled forward, but swatted her hand away. The bag stayed secured on his shoulders. She wasn’t going to be able to access the gun.

  Time for the second-best option: ensure he couldn’t get to it either. As he pushed himself to his feet, she turned and aimed her right elbow at his midsection, right in his gut, then followed with a punch from her left hand. He doubled over and braced his hands on his knees for a moment, then raised his head, enraged.

  He slammed into her, but she pivoted to the side. She evaded the full force of his weight, but even the glancing blow to her hip sent her flying off-balance. She hit a metal box built into the deck wall hard enough that it knocked the wind out of her.

  He was strong. And pissed. And he was coming at her again.

  He loomed over her. Then he grabbed her and pulled her to her feet in a tight bear hug. She went ragdoll limp and sagged into him. Her face was pressed against the fleshy underside of his arm—she could feel it through his neoprene wetsuit. She hinged her jaw, opened her mouth wide, and bit down hard.

  He yelped and tried to pull away. She clamped her mouth shut and held on tight, like Mocha and his favorite chew toy.

  He cursed and wriggled.

  She bit harder. He used his free arm to push at her jaw, forcing her face away from his armpit.

  This was her chance. She reached out blindly and yanked, pulling the backpack down over his shoulders. It landed on the deck between them.

  They both lunged for it, but she was faster. She grabbed it and hefted it over her head then threw it, two-handed, over the railing and into the water.

  She planted her feet in a fighting stance and raised her hands. Now that his handgun was on its descent to the bottom of the ocean, along with his suction cup system and, presumably, the key to his watercraft, she was ready for a real fight.

  “Let’s see what a big man you are without your toys,” she taunted him.

  His eyes narrowed to twin black pinholes. He didn’t waste any time. His fist came out of nowhere, and he aimed an explosive right cross at her face. She jerked her head to the side and evaded a straight hit. But his fist still caught the edge of her cheekbone.

  The pain radiated out from her cheek and covered the entire side of her face. He punched again but she deflected the blow with her right forearm. She continued to slide her blocking arm forward and raked her fingers across his eyeballs, gouging them.

  He screamed and clawed at her arm with both hands. She used the opening to throat punch him with her stronger left fist. His face contorted in rage and he reached out to choke her. As his hands closed around her throat, she launched a straight front kick, driving her right foot straight into his groin. He huffed out in pain and curved his body inward. She used her momentum from the kick to pivot and smash her right elbow into his ribs. She heard the crack of bone splintering, and he inhaled sharply.

  “Ms. McCandless-Connelly, may I be of assistance?” A polished, accented voice called from the stairs, just as she was preparing to finish off her assailant.

  She didn’t remove her eyes from the man, but he glanced toward the stairwell and his eyes widened. He froze.

  Sasha flicked her eyes toward the stairs and nearly fell over at the sight of Bruce, her buttoned-up butler, training what had to be a harpoon gun on the man in the wetsuit. Behind him, several of the ship’s uniformed security officers clattered down the stairs.

  Sasha let out a long, shaky breath. She stared at the gunman with blazing eyes. “You’re lucky they’re here.”

  He didn’t respond as two security officers hoisted him by the arms, expertly snapped a set
of handcuffs around his wrists, and dragged him toward the stairs.

  “Are you quite all right, Ms. McCandless-Connelly?” Bruce asked.

  She took a quick inventory. Aside from some aches and a handful of bruises that were already forming, she’d be fine. She pressed her cheekbone gingerly in the spot where the man had landed his first punch. It was tender, but the bone seemed to be intact. At worst, she’d have a shiner in the morning.

  “I could use a cup of coffee,” she cracked.

  “Respectfully, I think a nice chamomile tea might be a better choice,” Bruce shot back.

  Elli’s voice drifted down from the landing. “Oh, bother. This calls for the hard stuff. Let’s get you cleaned up, then we’ll have a couple of nice, stiff Hendricks and tonics.”

  Sasha curved her mouth into a grin and felt something stuck in her teeth. She used two fingers to remove what appeared to be a scrap of wetsuit fabric. Nice.

  She almost giggled at the absurdity of the situation, but then she remembered that Connelly was still unaccounted for, and the laughter died in her throat.

  30

  Leo yawned. It wasn’t because he was bored or even tired. Rather, in the aftermath of the confrontation with the captain, the adrenaline that had flooded his body drained just as quickly, and he crashed. Now, having contacted Mel and read her the coordinates off the boat’s instrument panel, all there really was left to do was wait. Wait and worry about Sasha.

  Mel had filled him in on Ron’s decision to send her back to The Water Lily. He understood the legat’s reasoning, but he also knew it would be driving Sasha insane to be sidelined on the cruise ship with no idea where he was or what Mel was doing to track down Mina’s killers. And a sidelined Sasha was apt to get herself into trouble. He’d just have to trust that Sasha was keeping herself busy with a good book or a spa treatment for a few more hours. As soon as Mel and the authorities arrived to arrest Vũ and free the crew, he’d hitch a ride back to the cruise ship.

  “Sir?” Thiha Bo poked his head into the cabin.

  “Please, it’s Leo.”

  “Leo, can you come talk to the men? They have a lot of questions about what will happen to them.”

  To be honest, he didn’t have any answers—other than the obvious one: they were about to win their freedom.

  “Okay, sure,” he agreed. He needed to stretch his legs. Plus, it would give him an excuse to check in on Binh, who was guarding Captain Vũ.

  He stood up, and the gun he’d placed on the instrument panel caught his eye. It was better not to leave that laying out in the open—just in case. He instinctively slipped it into his pocket before trailing Thiha Bo out of the room.

  He stepped out onto the deck and filled his lungs with salty sea air. Despite the circumstances, he had to admire the otherworldly beauty of his surroundings. The sun, low and about to set, was a golden fireball that lit the deep blue water. He took a long look, searing it into his memory, wishing he was sharing the view with Sasha, and then turned back to the ship.

  Thiha Bo stood at his shoulder, ready to translate his words into the handful of languages that would hold meaning for the assembled men who were staring at him with a mixture of expectant and frightened expressions—maybe even the occasional glimmer of hope.

  Hope made him think of Binh. He turned to Thiha Bo. “I’m going to go get Binh. He should be here for this. Tell them to wait a minute.”

  Thiha Bo nodded his understanding and began to speak to the men. Leo ducked under the mast and started toward Vũ’s private quarters.

  He was halfway down the hallway when he heard the roar of a motor approaching.

  Mel. She’d made great time; this was much sooner than he’d thought she’d arrive.

  He detoured to the aft, toward the noise, to greet her.

  But, it wasn’t Mel with a cadre of police officers and FBI agents dropping anchor. Instead, a beefy white guy, with thinning blond hair and a sunburnt neck, had brought a personal watercraft to a stop near the boat and was climbing the rigging one-handed, a snub-nosed revolver in his right hand.

  Leo snorted in irritation. This yahoo was clearly not one of the good guys. In fact, if he were a betting man he’d guess that the wetsuit-clad gunman was one of Thale’s so-called soldiers.

  He was in no mood for a protracted struggle. “Binh!” he called, projecting his voice toward the captain’s quarters.

  After a moment, Binh’s face appeared in the doorway. He was wide-eyed.

  Leo gestured for him to come join him. Binh glanced back, no doubt to ensure that his prisoner was secured. Leo wished he had the vocabulary to tell him that Captain Vũ wasn’t going anywhere. But Binh must have come to that conclusion on his own because he pulled the door firmly shut and hustled down the corridor.

  Leo put a hand on the Vietnamese man’s shoulder and directed his attention to the man who was in the process of hoisting himself up onto the deck.

  “Is that one of the men who killed Mina? One of the soldiers?”

  Leo hoped Binh would be able to follow the gist of what he was saying. Whether he understood the question or not turned out to be irrelevant. Binh’s entire body went rigid and the veins in his neck throbbed as he stared unblinkingly at the man. That was all the answer Leo needed.

  He patted Binh on the arm. “Stay here,” he whispered.

  Then he walked purposefully toward the intruder, reaching into his pockets as he did so. Without missing a step, he loaded the magazine into the gun, chambered a round, and raised the weapon.

  He skipped the preamble and aimed the Smith & Wesson just below the man’s right shoulder. He steadied his hand and fired.

  The blond man jerked his arm and released his gun, which hit the deck with a thud. Then he grabbed his shoulder with his left hand and fell back into the water with a splash.

  “What the—?” the man shouted.

  Leo walked over to the edge of the boat and pointed the gun down toward him. “Good, you speak English. I hope you understand it, too. Now shut your mouth or I’ll do you like you did Mina.”

  The man screwed up his face in confusion.

  “The woman you shot had a name, genius. It was Mina.”

  Comprehension lit in the man’s eyes, and fear mingled with the pain that was etched on his face.

  Leo turned to Thiha Bo, who had come out to see what all the noise was about. “Have someone fish him out, please. And put him in the cage next to the captain.”

  He hoped Mel got here sooner rather than later. He was running out of cages.

  31

  “On behalf of The Water Lily and, indeed, the entire Sacred Lotus family, I extend our profuse apology for what you’ve endured, Ms. McCandless-Connelly.”

  Sasha arched a brow at the name. So all it took for Captain van Metier to use her actual legal name was an attempted abduction? Nice to know.

  Despite his flowery, overly formal apology, the captain looked as though he were sucking on something exceedingly sour. And he was sweating. And his eyes were flitting all around the medical center.

  She realized Captain van Metier was waiting for her to say something in response to his speech. “Okay,” she said dully.

  The captain exchanged worried looks with Julia, who was hovering near the spare cot against the wall. The hostess stepped forward and kneeled beside Sasha’s chair.

  “Ms. McCandless-Connelly, we’re just beside ourselves about this … horrifying incident. Please, what can we do for you?”

  “Well, for one thing you can explain why the ship’s response to being boarded by armed men was to round up the passengers like sitting ducks instead of deploying the security unit to handle the attackers.”

  Julia jerked her head toward Captain van Metier. “I don’t think it’s my place to answer that, Captain?”

  He pushed back his shoulders. “I personally encountered the men on one of the upper decks. I was alone and unarmed; they, as you know, had weapons. In my judgment, the safest course of action was to acced
e to their initial demand. Your experience was regrettable, I don’t deny that. But, by the same token, no one was killed or abducted. So I stand behind my actions.”

  Sasha stared at him. He did seem to be at peace with what happened. That made one of them.

  “Ms. McCandless-Connelly, are you sure there’s nothing you need?” Julia asked. Her tone was warm and soft and undeniably upset.

  Sasha looked into the hostess’s troubled eyes and relented. She could believe Julia was genuinely concerned about her, and not just because of the possibility of a negligence lawsuit.

  “I’m okay. Truly. What I’d really like is for someone to track down my husband on the mainland.” Her voice caught in her throat.

  “Of course,” Julia said. And without asking any questions as to how she was supposed to find him, she slipped out the door in a rustle of silk.

  A flustered Dr. Harmon piped up, “Are you sure you won’t take a sedative, Ms. McCandless-Connelly?”

  “I’m sure.” She considered suggesting he offer one of his pills to the ship’s captain, who looked like he could benefit from one.

  “I’m ready to go now,” Sasha said, looking at Dr. Harmon, although she was really addressing the captain. She pushed herself out of the chair.

  “Please rest. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal,” the doctor intoned.

  “I’ll escort you to your room,” Captain van Metier said in a voice that made clear the issue wasn’t up for discussion.

  That was the last thing she wanted.

  “I don’t think—”

  “I’m afraid I must insist. Your embassy will be wanting a statement from you, and I’ll need to make the necessary arrangements. So we really should speak about your availability.”

  At the mention of the U.S. Embassy, Sasha’s mood brightened. If she could get in touch with Mel, she might be able to get an update on Connelly and the fishing boat.

  “I understand,” she said. As they stepped out into the corridor, she tensed reflexively. “Where’s the man who attacked me? Is he still on the ship?”