by Linda Mooney
Warkowski laughed lightly. "Yeah. I'd see red flags, too, if a cop was dragging a gagged prisoner through the airport and onto a plane."
There was a moment of silence. He could hear the sound of traffic as she thought. The captain was standing outside the station.
"Quazar, you know, he could have drugged her. Stuffed her in some sort of container, or maybe a coffin, along with an oxygen tank and an air hose, and had her loaded as freight."
Quazar shook his head, even though he knew she couldn't see him. "It's too elaborate a plan. But at this point, I wouldn't put anything past that son of a bitch."
Warkowski exhaled loudly. "All right. Assuming Duncan didn't fly out, what does that leave us? Crossing the border into—"
"A boat," Quazar interrupted. "Duncan has a yacht at the marina in Trafalgar Point."
"I'll check with the marina to see if it's still docked."
"We don't have time." He was already up and heading downstairs. "Notify the coast guard."
"What if you're wrong, Quazar? What if she's not on his yacht?"
"Where else can I look? There are too many variables, and too much time has already passed. She could already be dead. Look, once I'm airborne, you won't be able to reach me."
"Not surprising. Frankly, I can't imagine where you'd stash your phone, even if you took it with you." The humor in the captain's voice was unmistakable, and reminiscent of one of Sherandar's barb. He winced, praying she was okay.
"If you need me, notify the Borden county sheriff's department in Trafalgar Point when you contact the coast guard. One of them should be able to find me."
"Will do. Be careful, Quazar. Remember, Duncan knows your Achilles' heel."
"Don't worry. First sign of a storm cloud or black lightning, and I'll go underground if I have to."
There was a pause. Enough to where he could hear the captain breathing on the other end. He was about to end the call when she replied.
"I'm not talking about the lightning, Quazar. I'm talking about Sherandar. She's your Achilles heel. She's your soft spot. And the sooner you come to terms with that, the safer you'll be. And the greater the chance you'll find her still alive."
Chapter Twenty-Three
Proof
Quazar pushed himself, flying as fast as he could toward the small coastal city known for its multi-million dollar beach homes of movie stars and corporate giants. The marina was easy to spot, and he aimed to touch down near the smaller building with the blue roof adjacent to the larger, longer one, which he knew held the clubhouse and restaurant.
A portly man with gray hair in a military cut exited the office as soon as Quazar's feet hit the ground. "I'm Curtis Slocum. I'm the dock master." They shook hands, and Slocum threw a thumb over his shoulder. "Captain Warkowski phoned to let me know you were coming. You're looking for the Mission Accomplice, correct?"
"Is that the name of Bob Duncan's boat?"
"Sure is. Pretty thing, too. Forty-eight feet, with enough horsepower to push her up to sixty miles per hour. Come inside the office and I'll show you a picture of her."
"I take it she's not here," Quazar commented as he followed the man inside.
"Nope. Took off early this morning, right before I came on duty." He stopped and looked at Quazar, adding, "I get to work around seven, in case you're wondering when that might be."
A log book was already opened on his desk. Slocum picked up a handful of snapshots and handed them over. Shuffling through them, Quazar could see they were various shots of the yacht, including its registration number. The name was written on the stern in bold black letters.
"Did anyone see Duncan go aboard?"
"Nope." Slocum smiled broadly. "But the camera did." He crooked a finger at Quazar, and they entered a smaller room containing a bank of video monitors. "Gotta have the security when you're sittin' on millions of dollars’ worth of floating playthings," the man quipped. "Normally, I don't watch these things. Only when there's been a break-in, which rarely happens. Or when some rich guy claims he was robbed. Then I have to review the tapes to see who the culprit might be." The man winked at Quazar. "Most times it's the ex. Or the mistress. Or the wife. Sometimes all three. Know what I mean?" He turned his attention back to the video monitor. "So when I got the phone call from your police captain, I first checked the log books. When I didn't see anything on the manifest saying the boat was being employed, I hurried in here to check the cameras. Make sure the right owner took it out. I was about to call the police back when you showed up. Ah. There." The man pointed a beefy finger at the screen.
Quazar leaned in and watched the playback. That particular camera was angled to show a dock leading out where four boats were tied. At the far end of the pier lay the Mission Accomplice, easily identifiable in the marina's arc lights.
Presently, a slender-built man came into view. He was casually strolling toward the yacht as if he was doing nothing more than taking an early morning walk. At one point he stopped and turned to look behind him. The light was to his back, keeping his face in shadow, but his silvery hair was the color of the full moon. Although the video was indistinct and dark, Quazar knew it had to be Bob from the photos Cheyenne had sent him. The multi-millionaire stepped aside, allowing a big husky man to pass him.
Carrying someone in his arms. Someone with thick, shoulder-length hair.
Sherandar.
"Hold it. Freeze it right there."
Slocum obliged, backing up the video one frame at a time until Quazar lifted a hand to stop.
Breathing grew difficult as he stared at the limp, unconscious figure in the big guy's arms. Her head was tilted backwards over the man's arm, one arm dangling at an odd angle. He glanced at the time stamp at the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. 7:18 AM. Forcing himself to remain calm, he nodded. "Okay. Keep going."
"There's not much else," Slocum commented. "They get on the boat, and after a while, someone throws off the ropes, and they take off."
The rest of the video showed exactly that. Someone, a third man, removed the lines securing the vessel to the dock, and the yacht glided away. Slocum stopped the video. Quazar panicked. "Wait! No! Keep it going!"
"Ain't no point," the man remarked.
"But I need to see which way it went!" Quazar protested.
"Sorry, Quazar. Once it's out of frame, it's gone."
"Do you have a camera overlooking the bay? Maybe it caught which way the boat was heading." He felt desperate. Now that he'd seen Sherandar, the need to find her became more important.
The dock master shook his head. "I'm sorry, but we don't track the boats coming in and out of the bay. Just the ones that dock."
Quazar pointed a finger at him. "Don't erase that feed. The police will need to take it as evidence."
The man nodded, and Quazar rushed out of the office with Slocum right behind him. He rounded the corner of the building and stopped in the front. Overhead, the restaurant's balcony overlooked the marina, providing an excellent view of the waters for its customers. Quazar scanned the restaurant's eaves, and found what he was looking for.
"There. That camera. Where does the feed go?"
"Uhh, to the manager's office," Slocum provided.
"Then let's go see the manager." Grabbing the man under his arms and around his chest, Quazar lifted the dock master up and over the railing, setting him down on the patio tiles. The restaurant didn't open until six that evening for dinner, but Slocum had a key to get them inside.
Immediately, a couple of workers saw them and tried to approach to speak to the superhero, or to chat with him, but Quazar held up a hand. "Sorry, fellas. I'm in a bit of a hurry here. But I'll be back. Promise."
"This way," Slocum said. "Merani should be in his office."
They went through a narrow hallway to the manager's office. A short, dark-haired man was on his computer when Slocum opened the door and entered without knocking.
"Tomas, we're gonna need to access your video feeds."
Meran
i stared in surprise at the two men in his office, at Quazar in particular. "Uhh, certainly." He went over to a small desk on the other side of the room, where two computer monitors were located. Each monitor showed four different feeds—one screen set for inside the restaurant and bar, the other set for the patio. Quazar pointed out the camera overlooking the bay.
"That one. Back it up."
The restaurant manager took the seat at the desk and pulled out a sliding tray that held the keyboard. Quazar waited for the yacht to move into view. When it did, he remained staring at it until it motored out of sight.
Heading due east. Eastward, toward international waters.
"Duncan is no longer within the long arm of the law."
The man thought he could escape prosecution in the U.S. by escaping into the ocean. Buddy, you have no idea how big a mistake you've made.
"Thank you for your help, gentlemen." Quazar thanked them, then ran for the exit.
Launching himself into the sky, he gained altitude in order to give himself a wider expanse of water to survey. He pushed himself to make up for as much time as he could, all the while praying he would reach the boat before it was too late. Bob had half a day's lead. Quazar couldn't afford for that to increase.
He zipped above the waves, keeping an eye on the horizon. White, non-threatening clouds prevented him from climbing higher, forcing him to stay below their shelf to maintain an unobstructed view.
It was very possible his hunt would be unsuccessful. Bob could have changed his course once he left the bay, and even a couple of degrees variance would mean a hundred square miles of empty ocean would separate them. But Quazar counted on one very important issue: Bob wanted to get out of U.S. waters as soon as possible, to where he felt it would be safer. Logic said he would take the most direct route to get there.
Quazar knew he could be wrong, but he had nothing else to go by. If Bob managed to elude him, and Quazar felt he had to call in the coast guard to help in the search and rescue, it would be too late for Sherandar.
Pressing his clenched fists into his thighs, he tensed his muscles, trying to add more speed. Behind him, he knew he was leaving a visible vapor trail as he burned a path through the atmosphere, but he didn't care.
He almost missed spotting the vessel. The sun beating down on the white decking nearly camouflaged the boat.
"All right, Bob. Let's see how sure you are of yourself," Quazar muttered.
He angled slightly to keep himself from hitting the water, and sped by the ship's port side before he realized the yacht was not moving. Quickly, he doubled back to take in the starboard side. No one hailed him or called out a warning. Not a single person was visible on deck.
The boat looked completely empty.
"No. No!"
He looped around, this time landing near the stern. His powers at the forefront, he braced himself for a return attack as he hurried below decks.
With the engines killed, it was quiet. Too damn quiet. The big ship floated on the calm waters like an abandoned derelict. There was no telling how long it had been deserted. It was pure luck he'd been able to spot the craft.
He went first to the bridge. The wheel was unmanned and untied. It turned slightly as the ship moved with the wind. The anchor light was on, showing it had been dropped, preventing the big craft from wandering aimlessly at the mercy of the ocean and currents. Quazar stared at the row of flashing lights, and suddenly realized the hatches had been opened. The ship was filling with water.
"Dear God!"
Flipping the switches to close the valves, he turned on the bilge pumps and hoped the boat would remain afloat long enough for it to be towed back to port. He found the switch to turn on the homing beacon, and activated it to give the coast guard something to home in on.
Unnerved, he systematically searched every cabin and opened every door he found. Although he believed the boat was deserted, he tried to keep from making any noise, or call out Sherandar's name for fear someone could still be aboard. Someone who could be with her. Waiting. Maybe with a gun or knife on her.
A set of stairs led downward to the lower deck. He checked there, following the narrow hallway that led him from the staterooms to the kitchen area. Fortunately, sea water had yet to infiltrate this level.
Standing at the preparation station, he surveyed the space, looking for another route, another passageway that he might have missed. She had been brought onto this boat, but now he was beginning to think she'd been taken off it, along with Bob and his crew. How they'd left remained a mystery, as well as where they could have gone.
Disappointment hung heavy in his chest like a cold. Lowering his internal powers, Quazar turned to leave, when he caught sight of several boxes of supplies stacked against the back cabinets. For a second the oddity didn't register with him.
"Maybe they didn't stay on the boat long enough to unpack them," he commented to himself. As big a hurry as Bob had been to leave port, he could understand the crew dumping the boxes until they could get around to unloading them.
Then he took a second look, and his eyes widened. Several of the boxes were marked perishable. Meat products. Dairy. Why drop them here, along with the other supplies? Why weren't they put into the meat locker? "You don't leave the cold stuff out, no matter how much of a hurry you're in!"
The walk-in freezer wasn't in the kitchen, but was located in the adjacent hallway.
And the galvanized steel door was padlocked.
Crying out, Quazar grabbed the handle and jerked it from the wall. Throwing open the door, he nearly collapsed at the sight of the figure bound to the chair inside. Her head was bowed, as if she were asleep.
"Oh, God. Oh, God! Sher?"
Tears burned in his eyes as he stepped into the large vault. His foot almost went out from under him, and he looked down to see swathes of blood streaking the floor. Shoe prints crisscrossed the smooth concrete.
"Sher!"
He rushed over to her, dropping to his knees, when he encountered something lying on the floor. Picking it up, he discovered it was a hammer, slick with gore. Bile rose in his throat. "Oh, dear God."
Dropping it, he leaned forward to gaze up into her face. Her skin was splotched, cut, bruised and battered to the point of leaving her unrecognizable. Both eyes were swollen shut. Shoving a hand under her nose, he sobbed and gave a prayer of thanks when he detected the barest hint of breath coming from her.
Once again, time was his enemy. He had to get her to a hospital as quickly as possible. He knew now that she was here alone. Bob had jumped ship, leaving her to die out in the middle of nowhere.
Quazar stared in growing horror at the ropes binding her. They were saturated with blood that was beginning to dry. If left on her, they would swell, cutting off all circulation if they weren't removed.
He bent closer, pushing back her blood-streaked hair. "Sher. It's me. I'm getting you out of here, understand? If you can hear me, I'm taking you to the hospital. Just hold on, ma cher. Hold on."
He reached to remove the ropes, when common sense took over. Her bindings could be acting like a tourniquet. If he removed them, she might bleed out. Maybe bring about her death even quicker. No, he'd have to transport her, chair and all.
A quick inspection revealed the legs were bolted to the floor. Grabbing the iron supports one at a time, he pulled them loose. Then lifting her into his arms, he exited the freezer, and flew up and away from the boat.
His mind was a blank, his emotions a jumble of confusion. Nearest hospital. Where's the nearest hospital in Trafalgar Point? Where's the fucking hospital located?
Pressing his mouth to her ear, he continued to whisper encouragement. Begging her to hang tight. Reassuring her she would be okay. Yet, at the same time, he expected to lose her any moment.
Saint Michael Hospital stood out like a beacon of white amid the other buildings in Trafalgar Point. Quazar landed next to the emergency room doors and hurried inside where he placed her on the first empty bed he found. Instan
tly, three nurses and an ER doctor rushed over to help.
Stepping aside, he watched as they went to work, inserting IVs and hooking her up to monitors as they cut away the loops one at a time, eventually removing the chair to straighten her flat on the bed. The sound of them struggle to save her was both soothing and heartbreaking as he heard them describe her condition.
"She has massive blood loss! We need a blood type, stat!"
"Pulse is thready."
"BP is ninety-seven over forty!"
"She's struggling to breathe. Somebody intubate her!"
"Prep her for surgery. Call for an OR. Let's get her stabilized, people!"
A hand touched his arm, interrupting the drama transpiring in front of him. At first he tried to wave it off, when a voice insisted. "Quazar, give them room to work." It belonged to an older woman, her face a reflection of her Asian heritage. She gave him an encouraging smile and tugged on his arm again. "Come with me."
"No. I want to stay here. I need to be with her."
"Quazar."
"No!"
She sighed, relenting. "Okay. Then can you at least tell me the name of the young lady? For our records?"
"Sherandar. Her name is Sherandar," he told the woman, his eyes never leaving the nearly lifeless form on the bed.
And she means more than life to me.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dared
He had no idea how long he sat inside the small alcove next to the registration desk, waiting for news. He'd been allowed to remain inside the trauma room while the physicians worked on Sherandar. Once she was stabilized to the point where they could operate, they'd hurried her up to the second floor where surgery was located. The kind nurse had then led him to this tiny office to wait. With the exception of the occasional nurse coming and going, and the clerks changing shifts, the place was calm and allowed him a place of refuge from the public.
He didn't consider himself to be a religious man. But as the day progressed, he found himself praying for Sher's life. It no longer mattered to him whether or not she loved him, or even cared about him. The important thing was that she lived. That she survived and would get well.