She took the long cylinder with a doubtful look.
"There's no other way." Brant glanced at the ship to make sure no one was visible. "Can't go into the water. It's too warm to freeze, but not by much. This is probably the last ship in before spring. Hell, he probably had to grease palms just to get one in here this late to wipe out some of the evidence. Once they're gone, they're gone."
Colgrave snapped the cylinder onto the Glock and checked it. "I'll do my best."
Brant knew she could do it even if this pistol wasn't hers. In fact, she couldn't use her service piece, for the slugs would be fingerprinted once they left the barrel, and a match to her gun would eventually land her into an inquest. No, it was best to use the clean back-up gun, even with the risk involved.
"Wait until he's just past it."
"Assuming he returns at all."
"He will. He's roving."
She muttered a curse and racked the slide, muffling it as it snapped forward to chamber a round. The Glock was ready. But was she ready to commit murder?
Three interminable minutes later they saw the glowing tip of the sentry's cigarette approaching the top of the gangplank.
Brant nodded. Colgrave settled her arm solidly on the barrier behind which they were crouched and tracked him with the barrel, leading him slightly. It was a tough shot, but she knew her stuff. Brant could see the determination on her face. At exactly the right moment she squeezed the trigger and a second later the sentry tumbled out of sight, his arms windmilling. The report was flattened though still loud to their ears, but the suppressor muffled it so that a few yards away it would have sounded like a distant backfire. The slide's mechanical arc back and forth, chambering a new round, was the only extraneous sound.
"Go!"
Brant crossed the open space at a half-run and reached the gangplank in a few seconds. She waved him on, so he climbed the gentle incline and headed for the ship's railing above, careful not to rattle the planks beneath his feet. As he stepped onto the deck, he saw the sentry in a heap nearby, the very top of his head a pulpy mess. Brant dragged him under an old-fashioned covered lifeboat that dangled from davits and tucked him into the shadows. Then he squashed the glowing cigarette and leaned over the railing, waving.
Digger came first, under Colgrave's cover, then Colgrave herself as Brant watched the ship's superstructure. When they were all huddled near the railing, Brant spoke in a whisper.
"No way to tell whether the girls are in cabins or in the hold, together or separate. We'll just have to check. But keep our firepower together."
"Sarge and Smitty?"
"On their way. They'll cover our asses on exit." He looked at each of them in turn. It was almost as if the jungle surrounded them, and they nodded. They were ready. "Let's do it."
If he'd been more sentimental, he might have wished them luck. But all he wanted was a clear shot at Goran the Serb, and his niece back where she belonged.
No sooner had they rounded the corner of the superstructure than a surly-looking guard stepped out of a nearby hatch.
Brant had seen the guard in his mind's eye a second earlier, or it was a reverse deja vu. The Uzi cradled in his arms, the thin cigar between his lips. The look of surprise on his wide, flat features.
Before the guard could shift gears or open his mouth, Brant had him in a headlock that prevented a shout, and the stiletto that appeared in Brant's hand slid deeply between two ribs, piercing the heart without a fuss. He lowered the twitching body and held his hand over the mouth until all his movement ceased. Then he stepped quickly through the hatch and into the passageway, followed by Colgrave and Digger, who closed the metal door behind them to keep light from escaping into the night.
Digger prodded the body with his boot. "What about him?"
Brant considered quickly. There was no telling how many crew members were aboard, and how many of Goran's thugs. For that matter, they didn't know where Goran and his troops had gone. "Drag him in there, if it's open." He pointed at the first door to the right, ten feet away. He slapped the dead guard's pants and found a set of keys. Digger fumbled with them until the third key opened the door to an empty cabin that was probably part of the ship's miserly passenger accommodations.
They left the corpse locked up and headed down the passageway. Brant carried the dead guard's Uzi front and center, hoping its characteristic shape would fool another guard long enough to get the drop on him. All the cabin doors seemed to be unlocked and unreinforced, so Brant skipped them on the theory that any quarters used as prisons would be more secure. They reached the end of the passageway and Brant stopped them, thinking. If this deck was the passenger and perhaps lower officers' accommodations, then below would be the regular crew's quarters. Lockable storage, the infirmary, and even the brig, if there was one, might be located on that level. Height indicated higher rank on ships, so the captain, most officers and first mate would be at the top, nearer the bridge and ship's command center – even on a tub this old. Brant made a downward gesture and they filed down the companionway in a single file, aware of how exposed they would be against the whitewashed side of the ship's superstructure. They ducked inside the hatch directly below where they'd been.
Bingo.
Brant sensed they were closing in. He wasn't aware of Kit's presence just yet, but he felt as if he were on the brink – almost as if she were behind a lead screen and he could see her aura from around its edges. Perhaps she was aboard but surrounded by ship's metal acting as a lead screen that kept his mind from penetrating. He'd wondered before if his lack of recent visions meant she had been killed, but then he'd realized that there was always a tingling at the back of his consciousness that indicated her presence, however faint it might be. He wasn't sure he'd noticed it before, but he thought it might have been subconscious.
A new passageway lay ahead, but Brant's sensation intensified. Was he turning into a living GPS unit? He nodded and pointed at Colgrave and Digger, asking them with quick motions to cover each side of the passageway as he traversed it, selecting keys from the dead guard's ring. These doors were clearly less well-finished, less well-painted, giving them all the appearance of more daily use by the general crew, who would require less pretensions.
As he flipped through the keys, he visualized the ship's layout from memory, observation, and some of his previous experience.
The ship was a medium-tonnage freighter most likely built in the Sixties, with a traditional footprint and profile. The squat, block-like superstructure dominated the rear third of the hull, and open hold compartments and deck equipment extended from there to the gentle slope of the bow, where more equipment or cargo huddled under tarps. A forest of masts and cranes reached for the sky in-between. The top of the superstructure resembled a South American pyramid rising in square layers – the wheelhouse encompassed the entire top level, with large plate glass windows set all around for the helmsman and officers to overlook the ship and surroundings. The rusty metal funnels inside their squared-off stack sat centered behind the wheelhouse, and from them a wisp of smoke from the engine room swirled lazily into the chill night air. Below the wheelhouse were portholes for two decks of cabins intended for the ship's officers and perhaps a small number of paying passengers. This was the deck on which they now found themselves. Lifeboat davits held two old-fashioned covered lifeboats each at port and starboard, and a single bright orange freefall crash-boat squatted on an angled ramp directly aft of and below the funnel stack. Companionways, half-open metal staircases, connected the decks on which were ranks of hatches leading into the interior of the superstructure.
Another row of widely-spaced portholes below the railing indicated crew's quarters and storage – possibly the kind of places any captives might also be stashed under lock and key. Lower yet, the engine room was where relatively huge diesels turned the propeller shafts. Forward of that would be the fuel tanks, access to several deep cargo hold compartments, and more ship's storage. It was a virtual warren, a floating ant-
farm in which captives could be secretly held just about anywhere.
Brant would like to have studied the ship's manifest. He had noticed that several modern cargo containers were lashed to the deck between the superstructure and the hold compartments. More might be stacked below. He hoped the captives weren't imprisoned inside one of those, since possible asphyxiation was a danger people faced in such airless containers. He guessed any prisoners would be held either in the hold, in special cages perhaps, in the brig – if the ship had one – where they could be kept under watch, or in the crew's quarters belowdecks. The captain and his officers, assuming they were all involved with the ship's illegal cargo, wouldn't chance housing them in the passenger accommodations because of the visibility of being abovedecks.
"They're bound to be in or near the crew's quarters," he whispered to Colgrave. "And this looks like it, or below this level. I'm going in here. Give me five minutes, then follow."
"What about Goran and his troops? You're likely to run into him first, aren't you?"
He nodded grimly. "I'm not taking prisoners, Colgrave. You have to know that."
She nodded, grimly.
"If I can find her and any other girls and get them out without instigating a firefight, then I'll take that option. But if I come up against them, all bets are off. If she's already dead and I can confirm it, then all bets are also off. I can go from rescue to retribution with hardly a change in my blood sugar."
Her face wore her thoughts as clearly as if she'd stamped them on in ink. She was already far over the edge. Assassination, murder. Taking the law into her own hands. Her career was a memory, fading fast. Prison time extended indefinitely in her future. Perhaps death would be preferable to being paraded in handcuffs as an example of a corrupted public servant.
But she nodded again, and he felt some satisfaction in seeing that she agreed with his assessment. She'd take the risks. Somebody had to bring down the bastard, and he'd die trying. And if he failed, she would.
Digger waited wordlessly nearby. His story was already written. He was back in Nam as far as he was concerned. Shoot first or die.
"No prisoners," she said. "I'll cover you wherever I can, until the others get here."
"Keep an eye on the opposite end of the corridor." He gave a quick nod. "Five minutes," he said. "One thing first."
He took out the cell and dialed Sarge. There was a long wait. Then he only listened, his face darkening even more than it already was. Then he clicked off the phone, shutting it down, and swore.
"What?"
"Sarge says Smitty's dead. Bought it while they were getting out of Goran's club. He must've left behind a rear guard. Fuck."
They looked at Digger, who made a never-mind gesture with one hand. With the other, he gripped the HK harder.
"They'll pay for that, too, Digger."
"Yeah."
Brant looked at his watch. Time was slipping away, and the longer they stood here, the likelier somebody else would stumble into them.
Colgrave said, "Five. Go."
Brant checked his watch again, nodded, and opened the hatch, disappearing quietly into the darkness beyond.
KIT
Though Kit felt more comfortable than she had in days – was it only days? It felt like months, or years… – sitting on a warm cloth-covered sofa in the ship's saloon, her hands and feet were manacled, the door was bolted from the outside, and the two old-fashioned round portholes set in the side of the ship were both locked and too small in circumference for anyone to climb out even if they had been able to open them. There was just a bit of glow from the ship's exterior lights visible through either porthole, otherwise there was nothing but darkness – clearly, this cabin was on the side that faced the dark harbor, not the pier on which they had traveled in the van.
Kit had considered starting a fire, but there was literally nothing in the room she could use. No one had forgotten cigarettes and a lighter, no one had left a canister of propane or a welding torch. There were no matches, or indeed anything that would burn readily. Even the furniture was light and lacked any real wood, though she figured maybe the cushions would catch. But the fill was probably toxic when burned and would kill them even if they were able to try it, so that was likely out of the question.
"We've got to come up with something," Kit whispered to Anne Marie, but it was no use. The girl had been so traumatized after their aborted escape attempt that she was nearly comatose. Seeing Kit's father murdered had probably done it, but then being poked and prodded and maybe even violated – Kit hadn't been able to see – by the two so-called clients of the lion-haired man had driven her over the edge and into her own shell-like existence. Kit wondered if she'd ever snap out of it, and continued talking to her as if she were still a part of the team, the escape team.
We were a good team, for a while.
Until…
Seeing her father murdered hadn't helped Kit much either in the psychological department. She knew that, even if she survived her fate, she'd be scarred for life by the scene. It would replay in her head whenever she closed her eyes. It had been replaying already, over and over. It would take control of her nights and nightmares, and it would taint both her sleep and her waking moments. But at this moment she was so afraid her lifespan had indeed been shortened, that the life-long scarring hadn't yet set its hooks into her as a fear. She knew it would break inside her when she had the time to process it, but right now she felt strongly that if they didn't find a way to hinder or postpone the ship's departure, her life was all over anyway. The deck trembled and shivered beneath her feet, reminding her that time was short. She didn't think the ship's engines or whatever they were called would be on if it wasn't getting ready to sail.
She wondered if the confused, enraged look she'd spotted on the lion-haired man's face – what was his name? Goran? – was because of her uncle. She suspected it was. No, she almost could say she knew it was because of him, because she'd felt his presence moving closer and closer. Though maybe she was imagining him tracking her down, just badly wanting it so much. Maybe he was completely on the wrong track and her situation was as hopeless now as it had been before.
"What do you think, Anne Marie?" Her whisper was loud in the empty cabin. She glanced at the other girl but there was no change in her features, as if she hadn't heard. Kit felt as though she were bubbling over by comparison.
"I don't want us to get shipped to some weird place, Anne Marie. Please help me come up with something we can use, some kinda plan to get off this boat. Or maybe we can find a way to stop them from sailing."
She stopped and let the ship's vibration wash over her, through her feet and up her legs, into her heart and soul. She knew without a doubt the ship was preparing to sail. She'd never been on a ship, only pleasure craft a lot smaller, but her instinct said a throbbing, vibrating ship is getting ready to take off. Her instinct was much like her uncle's, she knew that, as if they'd both received a dose of something extra, something her father… She stopped her thoughts and saw her father as she had last seen him, dying, and she stifled a sob. That something extra was something her father never had, and it had made her relationship with her uncle much closer than that with her dad, and it made her sad to think she could never do anything to improve it any more.
She felt the ship's preparations and wondered what would happen once they left shore. Did anyone know she was on this old ship? Did anyone care?
Her uncle cared. She concentrated and felt a tingle sneak up on her, as if she'd sent out a ping like her hacker friends always said, and it had been answered.
Maybe her uncle was near. Maybe he was at the docks, having tracked her the last couple days. Maybe it was going to be over soon. Kit felt the impossible rush of hope surge through her and it almost negated the feel of the manacles.
She heard voices outside the room. The cabin or saloon, whatever they called it.
Irina, talking fast in her native tongue.
A male voice, responding. A
whispered argument, words flying back and forth.
Irina seemed to get the last word, and the door was unlocked and two shadows gained form as they entered. Kit had to crane her neck a little to see, but it was her roommate and one of those thug friends of hers. They stared at each other a long moment. Kit still couldn't quite place her roommate's role in everything that had happened – except that now she understood the kidnapping had occurred with Irina's help. Beyond that, Kit's mind was nearly empty of facts. She'd been more interested in escaping than piecing together bits of information. Now, she wished she'd done that, too.
"Well, my little Kit," Irina said. "You look very attractive when you're scared. A little messed up, but still very pretty. My father would have profited from your sale. That bastard. I hate him."
Her father!
The lion-haired man was her father?
Irina glanced at Anne Marie. "Not much profit there, I am afraid. That one is useless. Leave her! Well, let's get moving. My friend Boris has the keys and he is going to unlock your foot chains. Then we are going to take you deeper into the ship." She nodded and the man Boris came closer. "You see, my plan was working perfectly until my father decided to use this ship to help wipe out evidence. We are waiting for two more vans with girls, then the ship will sail and with it my chance to take over my father's organization. I should not be here. I should be at home, waiting for your angry uncle to fulfill his side of my plan." She paced as she talked. A model, planning her career strategy with an agent. Except this model was a female devil. "Boris, get her on her feet. I want you to take her down to the hold, the big one, and chain her there. I have chains ready. Leave this other one, she's dead weight. Then we get off this ship, eh? Before that uncle of hers catches us all."
Boris clicked the lock and the chains fell off.
Kit saw herself kicking out and catching the guy on the chin, but her chance was gone before she could even wind up because he hauled her roughly to her feet. Kit's thought process was slowed by her captivity; having lost her freedom and independence muddled her reflexes. And the canvas shoes she was wearing wouldn't have done any real damage anyway.
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