She had no choice but to hold on to his shoulder as she stepped into the device, which he’d stitched together himself. Just the touch of her hands gave him all sorts of signals that even he found creepy. Blocking the uninvited reflexes, he yanked the buckle into place, pinching her in at the waist. If it hurt, she gave no indication.
Eleven minutes.
He lived for this kind of shit, and his nerves were buzzing. But having a woman in the crosshairs was fucking up his focus.
He met her gaze. “You ready?”
“No.”
“You don’t have to do anything but keep your mouth shut. Even if something brushes against your legs.”
That had her eyeballs popping.
“Trust me. It’s better the shark in the water than the sharks about to come on board.”
“Oh, that’s just great. Why’d you have to tell me that?”
“Because you’re gonna start thinking it anyway.”
She did an eye roll that confirmed he was right.
“Let’s move.”
He clutched her suitcase, launched up the stairs, and scanned the horizon. It took two seconds to see it. The light was closer and brighter, and if his brain was working well, they had about nine minutes. Behind him he heard both the clang of the harness buckles and Charlene’s panicked breathing. It wasn’t good. Not if they were going to avoid the dogs.
As a tornado of anxiety twisted his gut, he grabbed the string attached to the rope he’d secured beneath the rim of the bow for this exact purpose. By the time he’d hauled its short length aboard, Charlene was at his side. He squared her shoulders so she faced him. Her lip quivered. Her wide eyes begged for another solution. But there wasn’t one. This was it. “I’ve done this twice before. Each time with success. The only thing stopping us from cell time is your silence. Understand?”
She nodded, but the expression on her face didn’t match it.
“Good.”
“How long will I be down there?” She bit on her bottom lip, but it didn’t stop her chin from quivering.
“Longest so far was twenty-two minutes. It’s going to feel like hours. Have you done meditation?”
“What?” Her face twisted with confusion.
He glanced at the growing light. Seven minutes. “Meditation takes you to your happy place. Find it. Go there. Got it!”
“I’ve been trying to find it for months.” A tear spilled down her cheek.
The urge to thumb it away, to pull her to his chest and tell her everything was okay, was huge. But not a damn thing was okay. Not when a young woman’s life was on a slippery slope to deeper trouble.
Six minutes.
A lot can happen in six minutes.
He clutched the brace at her waist. “Sorry.” Then he picked her up and tossed her overboard. Her scream was cut off when she hit the water, feet first and with a huge splash. The second she surfaced, he yelled down at her. “Charlene.”
Five minutes.
“Charlene!”
“What?” She screamed up at him, while simultaneously treading water and wiping hair from her face.
“Look up. See that hook. To your right. Charlene!” He yelled and hoped her clenched jaw was a sign of both determination and fury. That’s what she’d need to get through this. Along with a good dose of luck.
And he didn’t usually believe in luck.
“There’s a loop on the rope. Get it over that hook. Do it!”
Her panic seemed to abate in a flash, replaced with a sense of urgency, impressing him once again. She hooked herself up quicker than the two men had done, and he now had to lean right over the railing to see her. That’s what made that hook the perfect position. Unless the Coast Guard approached him from that side, she should go undetected.
“Good work.” He hooked a rope onto her suitcase and lowered it down. “Grab hold.”
She did. No fuss. Efficiency plus. She’d make a great marine.
Four minutes.
“Hook it on, but keep it in tight to the hull.” Again, she followed orders efficiently.
“Okay, Charlene. This is it. I’ll get you up as soon as I can. And no matter what, keep silent.”
Marshall pushed off from the railing and dashed back down the stairs. His training kicked into place as he yanked the telescope from the compartment beneath the oven, shut the door, and raced back up the stairs. At the stern deck, he plucked open the three legs of the tripod and pushed the plugs into the precision-aligned holes he’d drilled in the decking a year or two ago.
Three minutes.
With the telescope in position, he yanked open the door concealed beneath the stairs leading to the flybridge and hauled out the frozen blackfin tuna that had been in place for a few weeks. He tried to ignore the sensation of centipedes crawling in his gut as he drove the hook through the tuna’s lip, raced to the rear, and tossed it overboard. The other end of the line was threaded to his trusty Calstar rod, which he’d set up before they’d left the marina. He unhooked the rod from the base of the stairs and rammed it into the port-side holder at the stern. The line was zipping out with the weight of the frozen fish, and he adjusted the gear to slow it a fraction.
Satisfied with that ruse, he returned downstairs, cracked open a Bud, tipped out a good slosh, washed it down the sink, and climbed the stairs again. Just before he edged into the swivel chair next to his rod, he flicked the switch to turn on the back spotlight. The brilliant beacon lit up a good hundred and fifty yard of ocean behind them. Hopefully, it’d lure the Coast Guard into that position.
He swigged his beer, fought the bitterness on his tongue, sucked in a few calming breaths, and prepared himself for the best acting of his life.
A foghorn split the silence, and he jumped up and spun toward the noise, playing the part of the surprised fisherman to perfection. If his thumping heart was any gauge, he’d win an Oscar. He waved his hand and lifted his beer in an alcoholic salute to the blazing lights.
At fifty-seven feet, the patrol boat wasn’t much bigger than Miss B Hayve, yet when it drew up alongside, Marshall felt dwarfed by its presence.
“Fuck, Crow, what the hell are you doing out here?” The booming voice bellowed over their diesel engines.
Marshall squinted against the glare, desperate to see the face that matched the voice he’d heard a thousand times before. Kirt Kilpatrick. Friend and foe rolled into one.
“Killer Kirt, is that you?” It was a stroke of luck he hadn’t expected.
“Permission to come on board.” Kirt’s gravelly voice sounded much older than Marshall recalled. Which shouldn’t be surprising; it’d been a good ten years since they’d seen each other.
“Of course. I’ve got beer and cigars for all of you.”
The two of them started out as strangers sharing sleeping quarters and grew closer as the years went on. But when Marshall got the jump in rank over Kilpatrick, things didn’t sit so well. Nothing had ever been said, but Marshall felt the hostility. It was a shame. Years of comradeship, ruined over a set of stripes. Last he’d heard Kilpatrick was still in the navy. Some serious shit must’ve gone down for him to be doing a job like this. Not that Marshall would ask. At least, not this night.
Kilpatrick stepped aboard, and Marshall’s first thought was how chubby the guy had gotten. Years back, Kirt had been a champion boxer and would have been disgusted by someone in the shape he was in now. Marshall offered his hand, prepared to let Kilpatrick dominate the squeeze.
“You know you’re outside American waters, Crow.” Kilpatrick strangled Marshall’s fingers in his oversized paw.
“I am?” He edged toward the Calstar that was still feeding out the line.
“Caught you on the radar about twelve miles out.”
“Sorry about that. I’ve got a big one here, lost track.”
“Want to tell me why
you have your lights off?”
Two patrol officers climbed on board, along with a big, black German shepherd. Marshall nodded at the two men, who’d halted at Kirt’s side, clearly awaiting instruction.
Marshall pointed at the telescope. “I’ve been doing a bit of star gazing. Works best out here. No lights and all. Check it out.”
Kilpatrick’s dubious expression said it all, yet he didn’t shift his stance.
Marshall held his hand toward to the officer without the dog first. “Hi, Marshall Crow. Nice to meet you fellas.”
He took Marshall’s hand without the pretentious grip Kilpatrick seemed to need to showcase. “Max Tucker.”
The other guard shifted his hold on the dog’s lead as Marshall held his hand toward him. “Tony Livingston.”
“Nice to meet you too.” Marshall strode to his seat, picked up the rod, and began winding in the frozen fish with all the showmanship he could create. “So,” he shot a glance at the men, “how you coping with Killer Kilpatrick here?”
Kirt shot him a glance, and Marshall knew what he was thinking. Kilpatrick might’ve been a killer in the boxing ring, but he got his nickname because of his bodily functions. When you shared sleeping quarters with seven other guys, and one of them could clear the bunks with his rumbling farts, it was not something that you tended to forget.
The two guards looked from him to Kilpatrick.
“Oh.” Marshall continued to pretend he was fighting against a feisty fish. “Hasn’t he told you he was the boxing champion for two years running?”
Kilpatrick’s gaze was as sharp as ice picks. Marshall had just lied, and Kilpatrick was probably wondering what the motivation behind it was.
When Kilpatrick leaned back on his heels and met Marshall’s gaze with a distrustful glare, Marshall’s nerves twanged. He detested the feeling.
“We’re gonna search your boat, Crow.” Kilpatrick raised an eyebrow.
Marshall shrugged. “Sure. Help yourself to a Bud while you’re down there.” He raised his beer bottle and took a swig.
“We gonna find anything we shouldn’t? Drugs?” The curl on Kilpatrick’s lip confirmed he’d enjoy such a find.
“Nope. Mind if I stay here?” He indicated toward the rod. The line was about half a mile out, and if he wasn’t careful, something bigger would come along and take a chunk out of his fish. Marshall eased into the chair, and while he played the part of the excited fisherman hauling in an immense catch, Kilpatrick, the men, and the dog disappeared downstairs. His mind shot to Charlene with half her body dangling in the water beneath the curve of the bow, possibly straining to hear what was going on.
She’d be cold. Even with the wet suit.
He’d always hated the cold. But he hated it even more now that he had a slice of shrapnel still wedged in his collarbone. The damn thing was barely bigger than a maggot, but it stung like a bitch when he got cold.
Charlene wouldn’t have much light down there either, not wedged in under the bow like that.
Cold and dark she could probably handle. But it would be her fear-loaded thoughts that would become the wild card. Her mind would play cruel tricks. He’d seen battle-hardened soldiers crumble under delusional thoughts. It wasn’t pretty. Charlene played a tough game, but this was different. Her life depended on her complete silence. Not an easy ask when you pictured sharks lurking below your dangling bare feet.
How long could she last?
Now he had a new clock ticking in his brain. He guessed she’d been down there about seven minutes. Seven minutes too long.
He cursed himself. What he should’ve done was talk her out of this nonsense before they’d left the marina. But even as the thought blazed across his mind, he knew it would’ve been pointless. She was determined enough to go through with it. Or stupid enough. The jury was still out on which one it was.
Kilpatrick appeared at his side. For a big man, he was light on his feet.
“How’d you go? Find any stowaways?” Marshall offered what he hoped was a cheeky grin.
“What you got on the end of the line?” The question was loaded with suspicion, and Marshall’s gut burned with the ramifications of it.
“Don’t know till I land it, but I’m guessing a tuna.”
“Right. Let’s see it then.”
Shit! Marshall hadn’t even considered this scenario. He was in trouble. First up, he had so much line out there, it’d take a good ten minutes to wind it in. Time that Charlene shouldn’t have to spend in the water. And he’d have to make a show of it, like he was fighting the fish. But that was the least of his problems. Fishermen don’t catch dead fish. The second he got the fish to the surface, they were going to know something was up. And third, if he got it on board and the damn thing was still frozen, they’d be likely to attach electrodes to his balls and question him till sunrise.
They probably wouldn’t, but it pissed him off that his mind went there.
He started winding in the tuna. Fast. But with each spin of the handle, his mind spun through all the possible scenarios. One of the first things he needed to do was create a distraction. “Hey, fellas, down in the cupboard above the sink, you’ll find a box of the best Cuban cigars. Help yourself to a couple.”
The two guards looked to Kilpatrick with hope in their eyes.
“Sure. Why not?” Kirt indicated with his head, and the officer without the dog disappeared down the stairs.
Nine minutes.
“What’s the dog’s name?” Marshall shot a glance at the German shepherd; although it was sitting, its ears were forward, on alert, and he knew from experience that one simple command from the handler would have those canine teeth around his wrist in a heartbeat.
“Pepper. She’s four, still a bit feisty, but she knows her stuff.”
“She looks healthy. I’ve taken in a stray, and I’m working on putting some meat on him. Poor thing looked to be on his last legs when I first found him.”
“This them?” Max returned with a polished wooden box that he held up like the Olympic torch.
“Sure is. Check them out. Light one up if you want. Trust me, they’re the best.”
The three men reached into the box, plucking out a few cigars each. Marshall didn’t care how many they took, as long as they were distracted.
Twelve minutes. He tried to think how long it would take for hypothermia to set in. The water wouldn’t be that cold, but Charlene didn’t have an ounce of fat on her, not like the last two guys he’d had dangling over the side. She’d be shivering by now. Her gorgeous lips would probably be blue.
That thought had him winding faster and forcing his brain to make a plan.
“Hey, Holland, send us over a lighter.” Kilpatrick called up to a guy leaning on the railing of the law-enforcement vessel.
During the time it took for the fourth man to board Miss B Hayve, Marshall knocked a plan together. It wasn’t the best plan. It was hardly a plan at all. But it was all he had.
The additional man didn’t bother introducing himself, and while the four of them got busy squirreling away his cigars and lighting them, Marshall simultaneously wound in the frozen fish and rehearsed his intended actions in his mind.
He was about to execute one of the greatest performances of his life.
The fish reached the surface. It was time.
Sixteen minutes.
Usually when either he or his customers successfully lured a fish to the surface, it would be met with much celebration. Not this time. The last thing he wanted was any of the men watching his next move. He put the brake on the line, eased out of his chair, and plucked the gaff from its spot beneath the siding. Marshall leaned over the side, reached for the line, and tugged the fish closer. He contemplated letting the whole lot go, gaff and all, but that’d only make Kilpatrick more suspicious.
Laughter from the men both confirm
ed their distraction and raised his hopes he’d get away with this.
Normally, he’d drive the hook into the tuna’s shoulder to haul it on board. Generally, that would still have the fish flopping about once it hit the deck. Dead fish don’t flop. Especially frozen dead fish. He needed to look like his gaff had killed it. It’d make him look like an amateur, but that was a label he was willing to risk. Once he’d done that, his only hope was that the tuna had had ample time in the water to defrost enough that it didn’t bounce like a giant hockey puck once it hit the deck.
Another burst of laughter was the trigger he needed.
Taking into consideration the potential for the tuna to still be frozen, Marshall rammed the hook though the fish’s eye and hauled the twenty-pounder out of the water. Rather that his usual flourish, he lowered it to the deck gently. “There you go, boys. Who wants sushi?”
Chapter 14
Charlene’s jaw ached. Her fingers throbbed. And her eyes stung so much, she wouldn’t be surprised if they were bleeding. Yet she held on, hanging there like she’d been committed to some form of evil punishment.
The water hadn’t been cold at first, but as it leeched into her wet suit and settled at the pit of her back, icy serpents began slithering up her spine. They crawled up her neck and entered her brain as tiny, painful daggers. And the paralyzing spread of cold inched through her veins, settling in her extremities like frozen cement.
Each time she unclenched her jaw, her teeth started chattering.
It wasn’t long before holding on became as difficult as believing the situation she’d gotten herself into. But she had gotten herself into this situation. Even if she’d had a year to plan this, she would never have considered this scenario. Sure, she knew what she was doing was illegal. But the ramifications of it had escaped her attention. She was stupid.
Freezing. Scared. And stupid.
Her fingers throbbed out a painful beat, matching the thumping heartbeat in her ears. She took turns peeling her fingers off the rope and repositioning them, like an octopus readjusting its tentacles.
Out of Luck Page 12
