Which isn’t a good sign. If he isn’t making any demands, then he could just be in it for the grand finale.
And if that’s the case then I’ll get to him before he sets it in motion.
Getting on the boat undetected will require a little bit of finesse, but I’m well used to operating in the water. I’ve been on or around the water in some aspect my whole life.
The adrenaline surging through my system when I saw the police waiting at the ferry entrance faded by the time I was leaving the hospital after I spoke with Emily and Taylor. A steady calm replaced it once I gathered my familiar gear, checking and double checking my supplies.
Now, I’m settled into the familiar place that allows me to prioritize tasks and mete out justice on my own terms. It doesn’t even occur to me to consider I don’t have orders for this particular mission, and I’m pretty sure the proper authorities will be incensed when they find me onboard the ferry after they specifically told me to leave it alone.
I pop in a piece of spearmint gum as I bob on the water about a hundred yards to the northeast of their position. The tail end of conversations and screaming and crying reach me. The offender is on the top deck speaking to the pretty woman with the black hair.
Their body language tells me she’s afraid of him, but not so much that she lets him intimidate her into cowering away. She’s a fighter, this one. The thought makes me grin a little around my piece of gum. Emily would like her, if they met under different circumstances. Taylor, too, probably. Lord knows the two of them give me enough trouble.
I’ll owe her a beer, hell, maybe even my grandma’s secret recipe for lasagna, when all this is over. Emily had made me promise to bring her rescuer over to see her.
Now how will I go about doing that?
My best bet will be the waist high rail located at the back of the boat. At the opportune moment, I can snake along the back and hide in between the cars for cover until I figure out my next move.
I can’t weigh anchor this close to the ferry. Otherwise, he may see and suspect something. I don’t need him knocking off hostages because of a stupid mistake, so I guide my boat a way out, until I’m sure it’s cloaked in shadows. Unfortunately, this means the swim from my location to the boat will be one hell of a workout, even with my handheld propulsion device.
After I make sure the boat is secure, I strap on my diving gear and tuck my bag strap around my shoulders. The fall back into the water is a welcome one.
Yeah, I could panic. Everyone does at some point when under extreme pressure. Instead of devolving into a quivering, pathetic piece of shit, I channel my energy into focus. Like I’ve trained to do.
The propulsion machine pulls me through the water like a slick little dolphin until I can see the froth mixed up from the ferry’s wake. Spying it, I dump the propulsion machine and work through the water with powerful strokes.
By the time I get to the boat’s edge, my muscles are well oiled and I’m ready for the fight I know will come. I spit out the mouthpiece and peer up at the side, looking for the best place to climb up.
There’s next to nothing on the side for me to grab onto. I’m as fit as the next gym rat former Marine, but there’s no way for me to climb up a wall with no foot or handholds.
Shit.
I swipe a hand across my face to clear the rivulets of saltwater. There’s an obtrusion on the side so I grab hold, if only to keep from getting left behind, while I sort out how to shinny up the side.
Then I hear the man take over the mic and my insides turn to ice. Blood rushing in my ears blocks out the beginning of his speech, but I catch the, “…if you attempt to get off this boat. If you attempt to harm me, the collars you’re wearing will decapitate you so fast, your body won’t even know what happened.”
My fingers go limp and I slide back into the water. It rushes up my nose and stings my throat. I claw my way back to the handhold but his words still haunt me.
What would I have done if the woman hadn’t saved Emily?
It doesn’t take me long to figure he’s got them all strapped with an explosive. My vision whites out when I think about Emily in just this situation so I push thoughts of her from my mind.
When’d you turn into such a fuckin’ pussy, Rossi? I hear Tyler say in my ear.
It’s enough to make me focus. Em isn’t here. She’s miles away surrounded by armed guards and I know her mother would fight to death to keep her safe. Hell, she almost had.
Over the sound of the water rushing around me and the hum and vibration from the engine, I hear the distinct sound of fist meeting face and a male cry of surprise. Are they trying to take on an armed man by themselves? It would take balls, even for a trained individual like me.
From the shouts going on above me, I’m able to deduce it’s two of the passengers, one who wants to take on their captor and another who’s trying to save the dude’s life.
In stressful situations it’s difficult to keep you’re cool. I’m not surprised there’s tension running through them. I just hope one of them doesn’t do something stupid and get a lot of people killed before I can stop them.
But it happens too fast.
One of the men goes flying over the edge of the boat and I recall the kidnapper’s last words. If he wasn’t bluffing, the explosives strapped to the guy’s neck will go off. It’s just a matter of time.
Once he hits the water, I’ve already decided I don’t have the time nor the opportunity to save him. And it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do—to clutch the side of the boat and stay out of his sight.
“Help!” he shouts, his voice garbled by the water.
“Someone throw him a float!” another person yells.
There’s the sound of wet footsteps, then a slap of an object hitting the water. Around the corner, I can hear the man thrashing in the water as he attempts to swim to the safety device.
He may make it before the device around his neck detonates—and it’s the only chance he’ll get.
When there’s a moment of pause and it doesn’t go off, I let out the breath I’ve been holding. Which is when it all goes to shit.
The explosion is enough to wrench me away from my hold on the ferry and toss me a couple feet. It rips the pack clean off my shoulders and my fingers grasp at empty water when I attempt to get it back.
Fuck.
I fight my way back to my hand hold again and shake my head to clear it of the ringing report from the explosion. I don’t want to think about what’s floating with me in the surrounding ocean. I’ll think about it, dream about it, live with it, later. That and the fact he was right there. I could have saved him, but chose not to.
His death is on me.
I give myself a moment to refocus on my goal: getting on the ship. Then I open my eyes. Above the ringing, I can hear the horrified screams of the other hostages.
If I was waiting on a distraction, this is it.
Then, I see the rope attached to a float that’s no longer dangling from the end.
Looks like I’ve found my way on the boat after all.
Chloe
There are no more tears. Just a numbing emptiness.
It doesn’t dull my other senses—I can still hear the screams from below, can still feel the breeze on my face, and the shudder of the ferry beneath my hands, and smell the tang of metal and grease over the ocean.
But I can’t handle all the rest so I tuck it in a box and stow it deep, deep inside my mind until the time comes when I can take it out and freak out properly.
Like never.
There was a part of me that hoped this guy was an irate employee using scare tactics in revenge of some corporate slight, but not anymore. The level of cold rage evident in the harsh downturn of his mouth speaks to a vendetta more personal than job termination.
Which doesn’t bode well for me—or the other passengers.
Back toward shore, I can see the faint flashing lights from the emergency response, but the more we travel in
the other direction, the farther away they—and safety—feel.
The man talks to the other passengers over the PA system again, but a low beeping sound distracts me from whatever threats or demands he’s making of them. I have to search the desk with all the displays for a while before I find the source of the sound. There are screens and monitors for everything, most of which I can’t even understand.
The monitor beeping seems to show our current depth. It reminds me of one my grandpa used to have on his boat when we went fishing. It would show if there were any fish or obstructions beneath us. There must be something beneath us, near our tail end.
I only wish I were fishing instead of taken hostage.
There’s a rope dangling off the end that must have been the remnants of the rescue attempt, which reminds me of the man. I shake my head of those thoughts.
But the odd thing is the rope is still swaying like there’s something attached to it. Which has to be the wind.
“I’m sorry about that,” I hear the man saying over the intercom. “Now I don’t want any of you to get hurt, and you won’t as long as you follow my directions.”
I hope he knows none of us are fooled by his attempts to be friendly with us. We all know his promises are a crock. We’re a means to an end to him. Something to bargain for his demands.
As he continues, reminding them about the rules: stay on the boat, don’t fight him, I study the little bit of rope still rocking from side to side. There’s something odd about it I can’t put my finger on.
Then I realize: it’s not swaying with the boat. It’s going in the opposite direction.
There’s something on the other end.
My thoughts are assailed with gruesome images of body parts hanging from the other side and I have to close my eyes and think about all my happy memories to blot them out.
Sienna, my family, my apartment. God, my life seems so boring in comparison, but now I fear I may never get back to it, I want nothing more than to live sixty years of boring.
Once I have control of my thoughts, I open my eyes and find a pair staring right back at me. I have to blink multiple times to make sure it’s not a terrible waking nightmare. Then I realize I’m not imagining things. There’s a man hanging from the rope.
People mention emotion or relief bringing them to their knees, but I’ve never understood the expression until the moment our eyes lock.
I can’t discern much about him through the shadows and dark clothing, but he’s here. He’s going to help us. That’s all I can think about.
He’s here to help us.
A sound escapes my throat, and our captor stops in the middle of his speech to look sideways at me with raised brows. I cover the sound with a garbled cry and turn away from him, hoping he mistakes my gasp of surprise for choked tears.
Smooth, Chloe. Get the guy killed before he’s even on the ferry.
I study the darkness in front of me as I pretend to get a leash on my emotions. The man goes back to his speech and a few seconds later, I risk a glance to the back of the boat.
He’s not there and for a second I wonder if I conjured him from a petrified place in my head. Then I see a wet trail leading from the back to my right side. He climbed up while the man was distracted looking at me.
I don’t want to draw more attention to him, so I stare without seeing at the space in front of me. My spine is ramrod straight, my vision is blurry and my eyes sting from the strain.
The man’s finished his tirade and his steps come close, though I don’t want to turn to look at him for fear my expression will betray my thoughts. I’ve never been very good at lying. He hands me the radio and I cringe inwardly when our hands graze.
“Use this,” he says. “Radio the Coast Guard, whoever, I don’t care. Tell them you want to speak to whoever is in charge of emergency operations. Then tell them the only person I will speak with is Gabriel Rossi.”
Then he leaves with nothing else by way of an explanation. I guess the gun prevents him from having to explain himself.
I know nothing about radios, so I flip the switch from the PA system and tune to the first channel they have listed for emergencies.
“Hello?” I tuck my shoulders in and pray my voice won’t crack. If the media gets ahold of this conversation or if a whole room of people is listening, I don’t want them to know how terrified I am. My heart is thundering so loud in my ears I can barely hear the static from the radio, but I press on. “This is the Jacksonville to Rockaway Island Ferry. I-Is anyone there?”
They must have been monitoring the channels because a firm voice responds seconds later. “ROF, this is Sheriff Stevens with the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office. Who am I speaking to?”
Thoughts bounce around in my brain like dueling ping-pong balls and it takes a moment for me to pluck my name from the jumble. “T-this is Chloe McKinney.”
“Hi, Chloe. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
I have to press the meat of my palms into my eyes to focus. “I’m okay. I’m not hurt.”
“How about everyone else on board? Are there any injuries?”
“T-there was a man who-he—” my voice breaks off. A bubble inflates in my chest, choking the rest of the words.
“The explosion,” Sheriff Stevens supplies after a few seconds, his voice gentler. “Was anyone hurt?”
I set my jaw and plant my feet as my breathing slows. “One. I don’t believe anyone else is hurt.”
“Can you tell me what’s going on now? Is there one man, or more?”
“One man, but he’s heavily armed. He’s…he’s put an explosive collar on all of us.” Its weight is a constant reminder of its presence. One I don’t think I’ll ever forget.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is tinny from the small speakers. “Can you say that again?”
I glance backward to make sure the man hasn’t come up the stairs behind me and then hunch over the radio now cupped in both my hands. “He has each one of us strapped with explosives. If we get off the boat, like that man did, he sets it off. If we try to hurt him, he sets it off.”
He curses under his breath. It’s so slight, I don’t think he knows I can hear it, but with my ears straining, it’s hard for me to miss. “Has he made any demands?”
My tongue darts out to wet my dry lips and I wish for a glass of ice-cold water. “Just that he wants to speak to someone named Gabriel Rossi.”
There’s a pregnant pause. “I’m sorry, say again?”
I raise my voice and hope the man below can’t hear me. “Gabriel Rossi.” I hope he can’t hear the frantic sound of my breathing over the line. “That’s all he said.”
“Is he there?” In the background people are yelling and Stevens quiets them with a sharp whistle. “Can you put him on to speak with our negotiators?”
I shake my head before I remember he can’t see me. “He said he doesn’t want to speak to anyone but Mr. Rossi.”
The thud of a boot against steps causes my heart to leap into my throat, so I say the next part in a rush. “Tell your man who just came on board to be careful. This guy is completely serious.”
“What did you say?” I hear from the radio as the gunman’s head appears at the stairs.
Gabriel
The hostages down below are huddled together in small groups, head’s bowed and arms wrapped around each other. They take no notice when I climb up the back along the rope and peer around the railing. They’re too busy listening to the man with the radio dictating rules.
But the woman at the wheel isn’t.
On one glance toward the front and her pale, over-wrought face finds mine. Her mouth gapes open and her wide eyes flicker toward the man brandishing a gun.
I don’t move—I can’t. Any quick movements might draw the eyes of any hostage and throw down a storm of unneeded and unnecessary attention. I’ve already lost one life today; I don’t want to risk any more. She looks away for a second and I heft myself up the rest of the way and duck behind the first car.
>
Aches and pains make themselves known as I crouch behind an old beat up truck with chipped red paint, but push those to the back of my mind.
All of my gear sunk to the bottom of the ocean. I’m unarmed and I’m surrounded by who knows how many explosives ready to go off at the whim of a psychopath.
I’d like to chance looking in each of the cars for a through-and-through American with a glove box stuffed with a semi-automatic, but each one I try is locked.
Threads of conversation carry over the air. From a rough count, I estimate a couple dozen hostages on this floor. Maybe a captain and an attendant up top, plus my girl and their captor.
Despite their outrage, those on this floor keep themselves contained. The show of force the low-life was no doubt counting on with the explosion, is as effective at corralling these people as the bombs strapped to their bodies.
His reminders over the intercom don’t hurt, either.
From my vantage point behind a rusted sedan, I can see through one roundish window into the main seating area on the first floor of the ferry. No one else seems to be hurt, but there are plenty crying hysterically and a few who look like they’re about to hurl all over the floor.
The stairs leading up to the top, where the woman and captor are, run through the right side of the room, in full few of the rest of the hostages. Walking right out in front of them may do more harm than good, so the stairs are out.
I inch around a couple more cars until I reach the front railing. The ramp drops off directly in front of me and to my right is a chained off area that will almost guarantee a dip back in the ocean, but it’s the only way for me to climb up to listen in on what the bastard’s saying.
The deck hangs out over the water so I climb up the railing and feel around for a foothold above me. My fingers clamp down on a notch of wood about an inch thick. It’s not much, but it will have to do.
Setting my jaw, I pull myself up by sheer strength of will, my biceps and shoulders burning with the effort. Above me is a rung for the second story railing and I swing one hand up to grasp it, but sweat slicking my palm weakens my grip and I damn near fall right back into the water below.
Anchor (First to Fight Book 1) Page 5