“Mr. Jones,” I repeat, then glance toward the groaning captain. “Should I help him?” I jerk my head toward the man. He’s got his eyes open and is trying to blink away the blood dripping down his forehead.
Jones scoffs and turns from him. “Leave him. He’ll live.”
I purse my lips in an effort to keep my retort back and focus on readjusting our direction toward the Florida coastline. It shouldn’t take long, but I know the decisions we make in the next few minutes risk all our lives.
With a furtive glance at Mr. Jones, I say, “We should hear something from them in the next few minutes.”
He says nothing in return, but he does toy with a paperclip on the dash and switch his weight from his left foot to his right, and then back again. His gaze darts between the radio and the invisible line of the coast in the distance.
My breath comes out in little pants and I have to wipe my clammy hands on my clothes to keep them from slipping on the steering wheel. The necklace slips and slides on my throat, the weight listing with the movement of the heavy lock from side to side. I desperately want to clear my throat, but I don’t dare draw any more attention to myself.
Finally, when I fear I may vomit or faint, or a combination of the two, I spot the faint bluish-green line of land to our right. The knot inside my stomach loosens and I take a deep, though not calming, breath.
Then, the ferry gives a great shudder and jerks to a stop. I find myself sprawled over the dash in front of me, my nose and lip throbbing viciously from the impact. I straighten and touch a hand to the tender flesh. My fingers come away stained red with blood.
I blink my eyes rapidly to get my blurry vision to clear, then I realize the reason why it’s hard to see is because someone’s shining a bright spotlight on the front of the ferry.
“This is the Jacksonville’s Sheriff’s Office. We’d like to speak with the individual in charge.”
Mr. Jones turns and my knees wobble. The gun is pressed to my temple before I can offer an explanation. I don’t get the chance to faint like I want to before he’s grabbing me up with his free hand, his grip bruising the flesh on my wrist, and pulling me in front of him as a human shield. In mere seconds I have not only one, but three guns aimed at me.
Two officers flank the Coast Guard vessel in front of the now stationary ferry. Another two man a huge spotlight. Yet another has a megaphone.
“I want to speak to Gabriel Rossi,” Jones shouts before they have a chance to say another word. “Right now or I’ll start executing hostages.”
“We’re working on it,” the man with the megaphone says. “But as a show of faith, why don’t you offer to let some of those innocent people go? It’ll grease the wheels with the brass.”
The muzzle of the gun bites into my head. I swear I can almost feel it drilling into my skull. Sweat, or blood, drips down my cheek and salts my lips. I don’t dare move to wipe it away.
His responding laugh is bitter and hollow in my ear. “You’re not gettin’ shit until I get what I want.” Jones shuffles behind me as he checks his watch. “Running out of time, boss. Got five minutes before I execute the first hostage.”
Controlled chaos explodes on the other boat. Officers converse over the radios, others rush back and forth with materials, setting up God-only-knows what kinds of gadgets and weapons. My vision blurs and I blink rapidly. I will not cry. I may not see tomorrow morning, but I won’t let this bastard see me cry.
Picturing Gabe’s competent and steady hands as he searched the cabin, his reassuring voice, his self-assurance, allows my breathing and my thoughts slow. As if he can sense my inner calm, Jones’ arms vice around me, squeezing what little air remains out of my lungs, his will trying to dominate my own.
“They won’t save you,” he says in my ear. “No one can save you.”
“You’re wrong,” I tell him. His arm tightens and I gasp helplessly for air against his grip.
“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
“You don’t expect to get out of this alive, do you?” I wheeze. I can only draw in pants of air at this point and white spots fill my vision. “The entire police department is waiting for you. They’ve probably mobilized the Coast Guard, contacted the F.B.I. You’ve already killed one person. If you’re aiming for a police-assisted suicide you’re on the right track.”
“You have no idea what I expect to get out of this.” His eyes are on the officers on the other boat, but he trembles behind me and I know I’ve struck a chord.
“A lot of dead bodies?” I hazard.
“Next one will be yours if you don’t shut your trap,” he growls.
“If that were the case you would have killed me a long time ago. Waving a gun in my face is starting to get a little old.”
“Oh, I’ve got more planned for you, pretty bird. Just you wait.”
“Fuck you.”
Jones twists and shoves me to the ground with one powerful hand in between my shoulder blades. My knees and palms take the brunt of the damage, as the thin carpeting covering the floor doesn’t provide much cushion. It doesn’t crack, but my right wrist gives under the impact and I crumple with a shout of pain.
I rest my weight on my left arm as I get up to my knees. I don’t have time for theatrics, can’t allow myself the opportunity to give in to the pain radiating up my arm. Staying curled up in the fetal position on the ground isn’t an option. Cradling my injured arm close to my chest, I clamber to unsteady feet.
My eyes strain to the bench that opens to storage where I know Gabe lies in wait. I send mental signals I know he can’t hear for him not to jump out yet.
I nearly let the threatening laughter spill over my lips, but manage to hold it back as I hear the gun cock startlingly close to my head. A person shouldn’t be this comfortable with death so close, but the constant adrenaline rush has overwhelmed my common sense—along with any other emotions.
Jones grabs my arm with a bruising grip and the gun presses intimately underneath my jaw, a lethal kiss. He shoves me again, pushing me toward the stairs. Pale faces shine up at me, blurring together as he knocks me forward. I stumble and take hold of the railing before I take the plunge down the stairs, momentarily forgetting my injured arm. A scream threatens to rip from my throat, but I suck it back.
“Pick one,” he says. “Since you got rid of the girl, it’ll be up to you who dies tonight.”
It would be easier if he’d just shoot me.
Picking up my feet is almost impossible. I have the sudden, irrational fear if I were to fall overboard they would turn into concrete blocks and sink me down to the bottom of the ocean. My thighs strain with the effort it takes to pick up one foot and place it on the next step.
It’s a different world on the first floor. The resentful looks and anger are ravaged by fear. All around me I see the whites of terrified eyes. For each move I make toward them, they take a collective step backward, like I’m the personification of death and they know it’s catching.
Sweat drips down my forehead despite the cold that wracks my body. I wipe it away with an impatient hand and stare at the faces of the people I’m supposed to sacrifice, but all I can see is the face of Gabe’s little girl.
“Time’s up,” Jones says.
I turn back to face him and climb back up the stairs before I have time to change my mind.
Jones stares at me with a half-smile pulling on his monstrous lips. “Well?”
“Me.”
He stares, then jerks his gun at me. “Playing the martyr again are we?”
“You can’t make me choose,” I say. “If you want to kill someone, you’re going to have to kill me.”
Jones looks at me, then at the boat full of cops and before I can read his actions, he pivots, strides to the stairs, and shoots a young woman, who can’t be more than nineteen, in the center of her forehead. She goes down, her face frozen in a gasp of eternal fear. The only evidence of her demise is a small dark circle and a thin trail of blood on her brow.
/>
When time speeds back up, I find myself cowering on the floor, my hands covering my head in an instinctual response. Disoriented, I shake my head to clear it of the echo from the gunshot and reach out for something, anything to hold onto. I grip a rail and only realize I used my strained arm when it starts throbbing. Cradling it, I take automatic steps away from the sight of the dead woman and nearly trip over Gabe as he storms down the stairs behind me.
“Rossi.” If it weren’t for the twinge of movement at his brows and the microcosm of a frown around his lips, I wouldn’t have caught Jones’ surprise at Gabe’s appearance.
Gabe moves in front of me, his broad shoulders blocking the horrific sight from view. Without thinking, I inch closer and burrow my face into the space between his shoulder blades. For a fleeting second, his left hand finds mine. He clasps it, squeezes, and steps forward.
“I’ll talk to you under one condition.”
Jones lips twitch for a second. “It doesn’t seem like you’re in the position for negotiations.”
Gabe climbs out of the bench, his hands still raised in front of him. “You’re the one who wanted to talk so badly. If you want to talk, then let’s do it. Let these people go and we can gab as long as you fuckin’ please.”
“And get rid of my only bargaining chip?” Jones questions.
“I’ll stay,” I blurt out.
Both men turn and the expressions on their faces couldn’t be more different. Jones looks…happy and if that isn’t frightening enough, Gabe’s entire body is trembling, probably with the effort it takes to restrain him from murdering me himself.
“Let them go,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady, “and I’ll stay. You’ll have two hostages and a ferry to bargain with. You’ve already got the entire state of Florida’s attention, if not the whole country’s.”
Gabe controls himself long enough to add, “Those are my conditions. Let everyone else go and we’ll talk.”
Jones considers it for a second. “Get on your knees,” he tells Gabe, who shakes his head.
“I’m not doing shit until those people are safe.”
“So we have two martyrs on board,” Jones says. In a flash faster than I’d expect from an older man, he pummels Gabe over the head with the butt of the gun and then he turns. “Get on your knees and don’t move.”
I drop next to Gabe until Jones disappears down the stairs. His chest is lifting, barely, and when I shake him he groans.
“Oh, thank God,” I whisper. For a tense second, I thought he was dead, too. I don’t dare move him, but I move to his side, unsure of what to do to help him. “Gabe?” I whisper.
My hands run along his face as he fights unconsciousness, memorizing the features I was too frightened to pay attention to the first time I saw him. My fingers map the defined line of his square jaw covered in thick, raspy stubble. They travel over his chapped lips and hollow cheeks to his heavy brow and closed lids. Beneath my fingertips his eyes flutter and I have to wipe away a tear as it streaks from my own. His hair is still damp from the ocean and I frown when my hands come away soaked in red.
With a yelp, I take off my cardigan and hold it up to his forehead to soak up the blood oozing from the gash. I flash to the memory of the girl falling not minutes before and I’m overcome with a mindless panic. I can’t be here alone. He can’t leave me here alone. I’ll be okay as long as he’s here.
“Gabe?” His name breaks as a sob nearly tears its way out of my throat.
My eyes flutter closed when he stops groaning. I duck my head, my chin pressing into my chest. The world around me, blockaded behind the numbing effect of adrenaline, comes rushing back, filling my ears with the sound of screams from everyone downstairs, the orders from the sheriff’s on the boat, and the stunning silence from Gabe.
I have no illusions about making it off this boat alive. I know the chances are slim, and grow even more desolate with each passing moment and execution, but those odds are easier to face when I have someone to lean on.
A bracing wind helps to clear my thoughts and my eyes snap open to find his staring back at me. Warmth floods my chest and I launch myself at him, not thinking about my arm. He catches me and I whimper as my hand comes in contact with the floor.
With a groan he sits up, still holding me. His warmth combats the chill and I look up, startled to find myself sitting on his lap, surrounded by his arms. The cardigan flutters to my lap and I retrieve it to press against his wound.
He winces and then his hands are on me. They trace my legs and my breath strangles in my throat at his touch. I don’t catch it until his fingers probe the tender swollen mass of my wrist. “Are you okay?” He winces and cradles his head, his hands fumbling around mine on the makeshift bandage. “Shit. This wasn’t how I planned to spend this weekend.”
“Yeah, me neither.” He starts to stand, but I stop him with a hand on his arm. “Wait, let’s make sure your head isn’t still bleeding.”
He humors me while I dab at his wound until the flow of blood slows to a trickle. “Diagnosis?”
The cardigan is ruined, nearly soaked through with red, so I toss it under the dash. “I think you’ll live.”
He eases me off his lap and then gets to his feet. He holds out a hand and I take it. “How’s your arm?”
“Hurts like hell, but I’ll be okay.”
“Whatever happens next just follow my lead, okay?”
I don’t have time to answer because Jones reappears with an armful of collars dangling from his wrist. He nods to the boat, spotlights still trained on us. “Make the trade,” he says.
Gabriel
“Didn’t I tell you not to get yourself dead?”
“I’m not dead yet,” I tell Tyler over the radio. “Good news, though. Have them move the boat to the back. Jones is gonna let the rest of the hostages off.”
“How the hell did you manage that?”
I ignore the question and say, “He took off the explosives so Stevens needs to move his ass before this guy changes his mind.”
“They’ve deployed boats to remove the hostages. You stay there and keep your man calm while we direct them off the ferry.”
“I’ll do what I can.” My voice low, I add, “And see if there is anything you can find about former customers I’ve had or rescue operations involving anyone named Jones. Maybe someone I dealt with during my time in the Corps. I don’t know what the hell this sonofabitch wanted with Emily, Ty, but we need to find out. And as soon as you can.”
“Jones,” Tyler repeats back. “I’m on it, Gabe. I promise.”
“How are things on the mainland?”
“Smooth as they can be. Will you and your lady friend be ready to move if our friends over here rock the boat?”
I hiss out a string of curses, but don’t let my body language communicate anything. “Jesus Christ, Ty, are you trying to get me killed.”
“Starting to think you’re like a cat, Rossi. I’m sure you’ve got a couple lives left to spare.”
“Try not to use them all in one go,” I tell him.
After I hang the radio back on the hook, I press my lips into a line and turn to face him. Chloe stands between us, her whole body trembling. I catch her gaze with my own and communicate my concern with a twitch of my brows. She frowns for a second and then she nods. With my hands loose, unassuming and unthreatening by my sides, I take a tentative step toward them both.
Jones jerks his gun and twitches it toward the bench. “No fast movements,” he says. “You take a seat there and keep your hands where I can see them.”
I do as he says and I keep him in my eyesight the whole time. When I’m sitting with my hands resting on my thighs, Jones shoves Chloe across the room and I catch her just before she goes down on her injured wrist. She doesn’t make a sound, but what little color remaining in her face drains away. I try to help her up, but she gives her head a little shake and stands on her own. By the time she collapses in the seat next to me, her lips white. Her body is as t
aut as a bowstring, but she jerks her chin up and maintains eye contact with Jones.
The stubborn jut of her chin almost makes me grin. She may appear to be an angel, but she’s got the spirit of a warrior.
“You two stay right here while they unload the cargo from below,” Jones is saying when I turn back to face him. “Put out your hands.”
I won’t gain anything from arguing with him, so I do as he says, even though it makes my skin crawl to be at his mercy. He zip-ties Chloe’s wrists in front of her first and I don’t miss the wince when he jostles her injured wrist. It’s already turning colors and I’m worried it may be broken instead of just strained.
A chilling grin pulls at Jones’ lips by the time he finishes with her and gets to me. First is the collar around my neck followed by restraining my wrists. He’s humming and all the earlier tension that seemed to grip him about the surprise visit from the sheriffs is gone. In fact, he seems…happy? For someone with no less than ten assault weapons trained on him this very moment, he’s too relaxed. Especially considering we outwitted him and he’s cornered, giving up the one bargaining chip he had. Three hostages—including the captain—is nothing compared to the dozens he’s voluntarily giving up.
Something about it nags at me.
I know there’s an ulterior motive at play. A man doesn’t just hijack a boat with this many hostages on a whim and then relinquish them at the first chance. Which means either he has what, or in this case who, he wants, and he no longer needs those hostages, or he has something else planned for us.
It’s pitch black out, but the spotlights from the Coast Guard’s boat are trained on the area where they’re preparing to unload the small crowd of people. They’ve situated a makeshift ramp and are helping everyone off one by one, a few uniformed officers guiding them along the wobbly plank.
If I were him, I’d have contingency plans. He has to know a boat isn’t the most secure place. He has to know being ambushed by the cops was an option. Since he’s got me, they’re no longer important.
And then it hits and before I can second guess myself, my brain goes into auto-pilot and I move.
Anchor (First to Fight Book 1) Page 7