Got Thrills? A Boxed Set (A McCray Collection)

by Carolyn McCray

  After this most recent interaction, Buton decided that he didn’t just dislike some reporters. He now was not particularly fond of reporters in general.

  The heavily painted woman tittered just above and behind his left shoulder, a constant irritant that felt like a fruit gnat at a picnic. She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at one of the displays as she gasped in Buton’s ear.

  “Look out!” She indicated a blip that represented one of the now numerous sharks circling ever nearer toward the wreckage of the Spanish ship. Her breath sighed out in an exaggerated fashion as the blip moved away once more.

  “Ms. Broadhope, the team is perfectly capable of extricating themselves from this situation with no adverse consequences.” Buton had helped the crew out of far worse scenarios than the one they were currently facing.

  “But why take these ridiculous risks when there are Star Diamonds on the moon, ripe for the picking?” Even the timbre of the newscaster’s voice set Buton’s teeth on edge. He did what he could to keep the disdain out of his response.

  “That, my dear lady, is nothing more than dumb luck.” He looked back to see her mouth pucker in what some might consider a pretty pout. His irritation bubbled to the surface once more.

  “Do you not realize the level of sophistication represented here?” Buton indicated the complicated rows of machinery and monitors surrounding them. “Over half of these items were designed by a Rogue. Between us, we have eleven degrees.” He watched the woman’s eyes widen in evident surprise, with no small amount of satisfaction. “No, you will never find us on our knees panning some pathetic moondust.”

  “Whatever.” Her attention span had clearly ended. She pushed a button on her remote control, starting the recording disk spinning and blinking once again.

  “But if they get killed, it’ll make great copy.”

  * * *

  “Incoming!” Rob heard Cleo yell as a dark silhouette blocked the light from the porthole.

  The shadow of the shark filled Rob’s vision, blocking everything else. His body jerked, the involuntary response knocking him into Cleo. His breath surged in and out of his lungs, and a harsh taste of iron lay on the back of his tongue.

  Cleo held him close, her tone unmanning in its gentleness. “It’s okay. The breach is too narrow for them to get in.”

  Rob pulled away from her, finding his voice. “Let ’em come!” He was pleased at the lack of tremor in his voice.

  Jarod called over his shoulder while clamping a heavy cable to the chest. “Rob, can you give us some tension here?”

  Happy to shove aside those dark memories, Rob leapt at the chance to help out. “Abso-freaking-lutely!”

  Rob took the cable offered by his uncle, and then touched a button on one of his prosthetic legs. Water jetted in a strong burst from the appendages, propelling him toward the treasure far faster than his legs ever would have. There were some perks to having no legs.

  The whirring from the jets built to a rumble that shook everything around them. Rob cut the power to his legs, but the shaking continued unabated. He scanned in all directions, checking the walls for falling debris.

  “No worries. They were worse earlier,” Jarod assured them.

  But the rumbling didn’t end. It continued to build and build…and build.

  “That’s no aftershock!” Cleo shouted. “Get clear!”

  Um, there was no way that Jarod was gonna leave this find, this close to the goal line. And if she thought Rob was going anywhere, she really was still smoking dope. Rob moved to his uncle’s side, hooking his shark prod back on his belt, ready with both hands to claim the gold.

  “Move!” Cleo’s obvious fear made her voice strident. She grabbed the cable. “Now! Now! Now!”

  That got Jarod’s attention fast enough. He whipped around to face her, yanking the cable out of her hands. “I’m not leaving this much gold to…”

  Rob felt the hold shudder with something more than the growing quake. Riled beyond reason by the tremors, an enormous hammerhead shark slammed against the porthole right in front of Rob, splintering the wood and thrusting its body in up to its dorsal fin. It writhed, caught, as its thrashing continued to widen the hole. It was only a meter away from reaching him.

  Rob’s muscles froze, straining, contracting on themselves. Yet with all that activity, Rob couldn’t move an inch.

  He watched in sick fascination as the head bulled its way ever closer. The prod rested inches from his hand. It might as well have been miles away.

  “Ten o’clock!” Cleo screamed.

  Rob watched, detached, as Jarod spun to face the new danger. His uncle grabbed for his shark prod, only to discover it wedged between the chest and the cable.

  “Crap!” He yanked at the immovable prod.

  Rob urged his unresponsive hand to action. Why couldn’t he move?

  Too far away to bring her own prod to bear, Rob watched Cleo grab for his leg, opening a compartment in the side. She grasped the silvery spiderlike shards within. Her hand flew in an arc as she released a string of the tiny spikes at the head of the frenzied predator.

  The glittering objects struck, tiny hooked limbs embedding themselves in the hammerhead’s smooth skin. Electricity arced between the mini-Tasers, stunning the shark and sending it reeling back out of the hole.

  Only as the head retreated did Rob feel life begin to enter back into his leaden body. Even before he thought to advance toward the chest, he felt the distinct sensation of movement. All around him.

  The San Rafael was sliding toward the ridge.

  * * *

  “We’ve got to surface!”

  Cleo’s voice could decalcify bone when she put her mind to it. Jarod fumbled with the cable hooks, fingers bumping into one another. They were so close, and there wouldn’t be any second chances here. If he could just…”It’ll only take a second to secure the chest.”

  Out of his peripheral vision, Jarod watched Rob shake himself out of his shark-induced haze. Rob latched onto the cable, giving Jarod the perfect amount of slack to finish the job.

  Cleo grabbed Jarod’s arm, causing him to misplace the hook. Her grip—as well as her voice—urged him, “Don’t make the same mistake twice.”

  Jarod yanked his arm back, his face burning. He couldn’t keep from glancing at Rob’s missing limbs. He forced his eyes back up to meet Cleo’s, his glare challenging.

  “Chuck’s only problem was not being fast enough,” Jarod shot back.

  Buton’s voice broke into their Mexican standoff. “Perhaps I did not make it clear that it was a 6.4 seismic event?

  Rob joked, albeit nervously. “Buton likes to repeat himself a lot, doesn’t he?”

  “Only when he’s right,” Cleo retorted.

  The last of her statement was nearly obscured by an earsplitting crack that resounded throughout the hold. The shipwreck had split entirely in two, and the half containing the hold was tilting toward the waiting crevasse.

  Jarod redoubled his efforts with the chest. The ravine, the earthquakes, and the sharks were all working against him, but screw ’em. Not when he was this close to the prize. His and Chuck’s.

  He felt a tug. Jarod craned his neck to see Cleo looping the cable through Rob’s belt and fastening the hook with precision. The same cable attached to his belt. Jarod tried to hit the release lever as Cleo yelled over the intercom.

  “Buton, start the winch!”

  The scientist’s tone was as even as ever. “But you haven’t—”

  “Now!” Cleo demanded.

  Jarod strained to free himself as he felt the irresistible pull of his ship calling him home.

  “No!”

  He watched, helpless, as the prow of the San Rafael slid past them, sinking into the abyss with hundreds of millions of dollars in gold. And what did he have? One lousy chest of it.

  “You can thank me later,” Cleo muttered.

  Not sharks. Not earthquakes. Not the Tongue of the Ocean. Apparently, it just took a friend t
o keep him from his destiny.

  * * *

  Gil Chapman focused his digi-laser binoculars on the puny bottom-feeding ship bouncing around on the waves churned up by the recent quake. Rogues’ Gamble. Ridiculous name for a craft, but fitting, he supposed, for that tub. He followed with the lenses as the bedraggled team hauled themselves up onto the deck. From the hand waving and scowls, it seemed that they were fighting.

  Let’s give them something else to fight over, shall we?

  He smoothed his hair down over his scalp, making sure his thinning patch was masked. Appearance counted. Gil spoke without turning to the dark-skinned captain beside him.

  “Time to take care of these pirates, don’t you think?” The man grimaced, his eyes white against skin so dark that it almost appeared blue. The captain picked up the loudspeaker handset.

  “This is Caribbean Fire representing the Bahamian government. Rogues’ Gamble, prepare to be boarded.”

  Even the officials in this part of the world sounded like they were about to sell them some sort of herbal refreshment. Gil couldn’t listen to any of them without getting some obnoxious reggae song stuck in his head. I shot the sheriff…but I didn’t shoot the deputy…

  The speaker spit and hissed. Gil smirked at Jarod’s attempt to remain calm. “Caribbean Fire, we are in compliance with all regulations and have the necessary permits. Please advise.”

  Ah, Jarod. Jarod, with his silly permits and foolish regulations. When would he learn?

  The captain acknowledged, “He is right on all accounts…”

  Gil picked an annoying bit of leftover pork from between his teeth.

  “Either you fire on them, or I’ll hire one of your crew to do it.” Gil motioned to his second-in-command, Talon, who fanned out a weighty stack of bills in front of the now very attentive crew. Talon’s height, bulk, and shaved head were persuasive. The money he held in his fist was downright motivational. “I don’t particularly care who I pay.”

  The captain glanced from Gil to Talon, to the money. Then he glanced back to the crew. The frank greed in their faces must have persuaded him. The captain’s grip tightened on the handset as he spoke into the mic. “Those permits are no longer valid. Our government believes in historic preservation. We are here to confiscate any items you have stolen.”

  Oh, permits? Regulations? Gil bared his teeth in anticipation of the victory to come. The only real power lay in cold, hard cash.

  * * *

  Brandi watched as Jarod slammed the handset down, jamming his thumb in the process. He shook his hand to relieve the pain as he spoke.

  “Stolen? What the hell—?”

  The biologist stepped in, holding out a pair of binoculars without a word. Jarod accepted them, and then scanned the bridge of the Caribbean Fire. His jaw clenched and unclenched.

  “Damn! It’s Gil. Buton, fax our permits.” He wheeled on his heel to Cleo. “Get the engines going…I’ll try to buy us some time.” How on earth was he planning on buying time? What? Was he going to take his shirt off again? Although, come to think of it…

  Brandi interrupted her own thoughts before they became R rated. She also took this moment to check on her recording disk. Thankfully, it was still rolling. She turned to the teenager, who was busy attaching a pair of complicated instruments that she could only guess were “feet” to the ends of his prostheses.

  “Can you tell us what’s going on?”

  The boy spoke without taking his attention from his feet. “Gil runs ‘Undersea Specialists’.” Such a sneer for someone so young. “Think pirates. Overweight, combed-over pirates bent on plunder.”

  This was great stuff. Brandi punched a button on her remote, nudging the disk so that it captured her best angle. She probed further. “With the Bahamian government’s help?”

  “Hey, bribery, corruption. They’re not above—”

  Cleo shouted a warning, “Jarod! We’ve got a problem!”

  That problem was made crystal clear when a pair of explosions rocked everyone aboard. Brandi clutched at the counter for support. This story just got a whole lot more interesting. Take that, Chad.

  Jarod staggered to the array of monitors. “What the hell?! Buton, evasive maneuvers!”

  The Indian scientist stated with baffling calm. “Might I remind you that this is a scientific vessel, not a—”

  The world tilted dangerously as an eardrum-bursting explosion opened the hull of the Rogues’ Gamble.

  “We’re hit!” the teen stated, rather redundantly.

  Okay. There was good footage, and then there was crazy good footage.

  “Lower decks are taking on water,” Cleo stated. “Bilge pumps are shorting out. We’ve got to prep the lifeboat.”

  “Rob!” Jarod shouted, “Get our cargo—”

  Another explosion rocked the boat, carving out a hole in the hull the size of a wrecking ball.

  “Damn it! No time,” Jarod announced, gnashing his teeth. “Abandon ship!” He swung around to Brandi. “And turn that damn camera off!”

  Brandi obliged. Why not? She’d already captured possibly the best segment of “Rags to Riches” ever.

  * * *

  The tiny lifeboat sloshed and rocked as Jarod repositioned himself, trying to get comfortable. Hey, when the world ends, there’s no use suffering needlessly, right? He tried not to pay attention to the fact that his lifeblood was slowly, almost gracefully, sinking below the surface of the bright blue waters.

  Decades of work. Years upon years of blood, sweat, and tears. Countless hours of researching, tinkering, inventing, creating…dreaming. Everything left of the vision he had shared with his older brother was drifting to the bottom of the Caribbean.

  This sucked.

  He scanned the faces of the rest of the crew. Each one dealt with it in different ways. Cleo stared inward, arms folded, shut off from the rest of the world. Rob seemed completely shell-shocked, gazing out at the water, turned completely away from the rapidly disappearing ship. Only Buton appeared unfazed as he observed the gradual submersion.

  “I wonder what we did in a previous life to deserve such humbling…”

  Rob shook himself out of his stupor long enough to mutter, “This karma of yours is such a bitch.”

  Jarod was inclined to agree.

  The Caribbean Fire came about, creating a wave that threatened to completely capsize their tiny vessel. Cleo grabbed an old metal bucket and started bailing the water that had sloshed over the edge. Jarod peered up at the passing ship, glaring at the redheaded reporter, who was busy waving like some sort of beauty pageant queen in a parade. Gil draped his arm over her shoulders, his greasy comb-over gleaming a mix of orange and fuchsia in the light of the setting sun.

  “Survival of the fittest, my man!” Gil called out over the water as the ship pulled away. “Too bad you’re always the lesser specimen.”

  Jarod could feel his face burning, echoing the hot core of rage in his belly. “I swear, that bastard is going to—”

  Cleo ended his rant before it began, slamming an oar into his hand. “Row. We’ll check into his lineage later.”

  Jarod sent the paddle slicing through the water, anger fueling his actions. According to his calculations, it would only take them four more hours to get to shore. Four more hours until he could use the oar on Gil’s grub-white face.

  * * *

  The shoreline’s lights frosted the tips of the waves with winking splashes of color, creating a fairyland between the raft and their destination. It gave the water the appearance of something somehow solid, and yet ever changing. Were the crew to step overboard, it was as if the surface of the water would support their steps.

  Cleo snorted to herself as she pulled her paddle through the sea for the millionth time. Fairyland, indeed. A blade of pain cut down her spine, dividing her shoulders into two separate landscapes of agony. A popped blister on her right palm chafed with every single stroke. One bead of sweat pooled on her eyelid before building up enough substance to sp
ill over into her eye, irritating her further.

  She peered into the almost-darkness, seeing Jarod’s hunched figure dragging the lifeboat through the waters on the starboard side. His frustration radiated from his shoulders in wavy lines of silence. Cleo knew him well enough to know that his rage wouldn’t remain quiet for much longer.

  The music of a beachside club floated over the water. The sound carried above the crashing surf, creating a strange counterpoint to the reggae beat. As they neared the shore, the gyrating dancers became more detailed, showing every curve, every muscle, and every drop of sweat. These tourists sought to dance the night into oblivion.

  As the lifeboat ran aground, Jarod and Rob jumped over the side, dragging the craft up onto the beach, well past where the waves could drag it back out to sea. Cleo and Buton staggered out and onto the sand, following the sand-weighted steps of the two in front.

  How long had it been since they stepped on land? Her sea legs refused to function on anything that wasn’t a deck. Buton caught her as she tripped and nearly landed face- first in the white Caribbean sand. His “land legs” came in handy.

  After a few steps, she shrugged off his help. His pace was far too meticulous. Jarod and Rob were pulling ahead. As they neared the nightclub, the music became omnipresent, beating almost in time with Cleo’s pulse—now throbbing in her parched throat. Cleo thought she saw a glimpse of red hair flash through the pulsing lights of the club. Red hair paired with a gleaming scalp. She must not have been the only one. Jarod let out a hoarse cry and managed to turn his lurching gait into a sprint as he raced up the remaining beach between them and the partying crowd.

  Just before he could crash into that mass of bodies, two rather large men in uniform grabbed him under his arms, halting his forward progress. These were the officials that you wouldn’t want protecting you in a dark alleyway. A third, older policeman stepped in front of Jarod, eyeing him with some degree of sympathy.

  “I wouldn’t do it, mon. It’s not worth it.”

  Jarod fired back with a fair amount of heat. “I have business in town.”

  The policeman’s eyes bored into Jarod. “Trust me, mon, you don’t.” He nodded at Gil, jerking around in an attempt to find the beat. “That one’s spread around enough money that nobody will care about your claim. Now head over to shantytown…” he paused with some significance, “…or spend the night in jail.”