They had set out when the sky was barely tinted gray. The tide had just turned, meaning the rocks were once again submerged enough for the kayaks to skim right over them. Paddling out of the inlet was fine, the tide giving them a smooth ride. The moment they turned east, back into the channel, that changed.
Yesterday, he’d seen how narrow it became, but he liked it even less once they were in it. If one boat waited ahead for them, and another came up behind, they were dead.
But how could their pursuers know for sure where they were? Adam had studied the map and charts Claire carried long enough to doubt Boyden and Gibbons could feel any certainty. The waterways were too complex, lace studded with islands and the dark humps of rocky islets. He and Claire could have gone any number of ways. Even using the skiff, too, it wouldn’t be possible to watch every route they might have taken.
He especially hoped they weren’t watching this one.
His shoulder felt stronger yet today. He wasn’t having any trouble keeping up with Claire, even as he searched the shoreline to each side. His gaze lingered on a small cove choked with what had to be kelp, although the veil of rain let him see only a dark mat.
They wound between fingers of rock, abutments that offered no place to beach even if they’d wanted to. Everything around them was painted in shades of gray, from pale to almost black. Wind sighed through the trees and ruffled the water. The rainfall was steady but soft. He had to blink away droplets now and again.
They’d gone a surprising distance, the channel having widened, when it swung south. Claire slowed once and gestured with her paddle toward a cluster of lower rocks on the shore—and the bear and cub both peering into what he guessed were tide pools. Mama swiped a giant paw in one, a silvery fish wriggling from her claws when she pulled the paw out. She flipped it onto the rock slab, then lifted her head and stared at the kayaks.
Adam saw dark shapes in the water that could have been seals or sea lions a few times—probably too big to be otters, like the one he’d seen close-up the one day. If he hadn’t been paddling, he’d have been getting chilled despite the multiple layers he wore, he realized.
Claire stayed in what appeared to be the middle of the channel. Maybe she’d paid more attention than he had to the depth. Stood to reason.
He split from her path to round a small islet, partly to take a better look at what appeared to be a cove or inlet to his right. Starboard, he corrected himself. He was about to turn his head to look for Claire when his attention was snagged by a shape that didn’t quite fit on what might be a gravel beach, or simply smooth slabs of rock tilting into the water. A pile of snoozing sea lions?
Damn. Could that be the inflatable?
He didn’t see any movement around it. Nothing that looked like a tent—but he doubted there’d been a small tent available in the freighter’s stores. A little grimly, he hoped Gibbons and Boyden had spent a miserable night huddled under a tarp. If they were lucky enough to have one of those.
He used his paddle to come to a near stop, and waited until Claire reappeared, her head turned anxiously. Then he gestured for her to come closer.
When he pointed, she stared.
“They won’t see us going by.”
“This is my chance to cripple them. I can beach twenty yards or so away, do some damage to the boat and take off.”
For all the sunburn, her face looked pale, her eyes dark in the gray surroundings.
“You hover just past their camp.”
“I can help.”
Adam shook his head. “If things go wrong, get the hell out of here. Do not put yourself in danger by thinking you can help me.”
She nodded.
“We’re not far from Kildidt Sound, are we?”
“No. Wait! Even if you slow them down, they must carry a VHF radio, which means they can pinpoint our location.”
“That’s a downside, but you saw how inadequate the skiff is for any serious pursuit. It ran dangerously low in the water carrying two men. This will give us a jump start.”
Adam could tell she wasn’t happy, but she dipped her head and said, “Be careful.”
He lifted the paddle in a casual response, then dug it in to glide away from her, not letting himself look back. He couldn’t be sure whether he was doing the smart thing or not, but if he could eliminate these two, he and Claire might actually have a chance of not only stopping Dwayne and his crew, but also of coming out of this alive.
The alive part wasn’t usually something he let himself think much about, but this time...something had shifted in him.
Adam shook his head. He had to get in the frame of mind to do this job and get out. He couldn’t afford anything else.
Chapter Fifteen
The sole of Adam’s boot skidded on rock that was both wet and slimy with seaweed. Twisting, he barely kept his footing. Damn, damn, damn.
He took a moment to regain his composure before gingerly reaching for the carrying toggle at the stern of his kayak and lifting, taking several careful steps until he was sure he had the kayak far enough out of the water that it wouldn’t go adrift. It had taken a few minutes to turn it around, but he wanted to be able to jump in and take off with maximum speed.
The flare gun stayed in the vest pocket, but the butt protruded so he could lay his hand on it in an instant. The knife he held in his left hand as he made his way along the shore.
A snort sounded, and he froze. Not a bear. Please, not a bear.
But there were no crashing sounds, and nothing moved except overhead branches and the eternal rise and fall of the sea.
At twenty yards he saw lumps beneath a blue tarp. If the sleepers hadn’t gotten soaked last night, they were lucky, he thought dispassionately. Hard to be sure, given the rain, but high tide had to have come close to lapping at them. Tying the boat to a tree trunk was smarter than he’d have given them credit for being.
Quiet. Quiet.
He crouched beside the boat and studied what had been left in it. No guns that he could see. He rose to his feet and carefully opened a canvas bag before sticking his arm in it. Almost immediately, he traced the shape of what felt like an aluminum pot. Some energy bars, a jar that might hold...coffee.
Apparently, they’d kept their weapons at their sides.
Okay. He flexed the fingers of his right hand a few times to be sure his grip would be strong, then switched the knife to that hand.
Another snort was followed by a ripple of the tarp. He held his breath. One of the men waking up? Or just rolling over?
If the tide had reached them, an unwelcome surprise, they’d have had to stumble up and relocate during the night. No wonder they weren’t up with the dawn.
Nothing else happened. The rain kept coming down. He rolled his shoulders, suspecting Claire had been right. If he slashed the fabric, air would escape with a rush. Probably a loud rush. Too bad the wind wasn’t blowing harder—except if it had been, he and Claire might not have been able to launch.
What if he only pierced a few compartments? Would the air seepage be slow enough they’d make it onto the water before the boat began to sink?
Slash, he decided, and make it fast. It would take them a minute to wake up enough to realize what they were hearing and fight their way free from under the tarp.
Slash, and then shoot. He might disable at least one of them.
Adam took a few slow breaths, lifted the knife—and stabbed the blade into the side, wrenching it toward him before yanking it out. Escaping air was as explosive as a whale expelling a breath. He moved fast, gashing, moving a few feet, doing it again.
Shouts came from beneath the tarp as the men thrashed. Looking at the damage he’d done, Adam tucked the knife away and raised the flare gun. Just as one end of the tarp lifted, he fired.
The flare whistled as it sped faster than his eye could follow. Adam didn’t wait to se
e the result, but heard the screams as light flared in an orange-white cascade. He bent over as he jogged away as fast as he dared over the slick rocks.
Vicious profanities reached his ears. Then a shouted, “Beckman? You’re dead.”
Almost there.
The buzz sounded like a wasp, but he knew better. He dropped almost to his belly for a minute, then threw himself to his feet again. A bullet stung his arm and he reeled before pushing the kayak downward into the water and leaping into the cockpit.
The bow almost submerged but then bounced upward. Adam began to paddle, heading northeast, wanting to put as much distance from the gunman as he could. The sting in his arm became a burn, but he was able to ignore it beyond cursing the fact that the wound was in his good arm. More bullets skimmed over the water too close to the kayak.
Gibbons—he thought that had been his voice—kept shooting until he emptied his magazine. Adam gambled that he was now out of sight and turned gradually to rejoin Claire. He hoped she hadn’t panicked, hearing the gunshots.
* * *
WHAT IF HE was dead? Oh, dear God.
Claire’s fingernails bit into her palms. Her instincts all but screamed at her to go back. To see what had happened. There had to be something she could do.
There was. She could follow Adam’s instructions. Save the world—or at least some people—from the possibility of a rogue consortium of nutcases with a nuclear bomb.
She couldn’t abandon him.
She had to, if he didn’t show up soon.
Was that even remotely possible? Considering the number of gunshots she’d heard, how could he be able to get back in his kayak and paddle away?
He can’t, she thought in despair, but braced her paddle against the pull of the tide to stay where she was. He hadn’t said how long she should wait—and he hadn’t thought to give her the watch, anyway—but she didn’t dare linger too long, not if he’d failed in his mission. If the inflatable boat was still seaworthy—
Movement through the sheets of rain had her straining to see. She prayed. Please, please.
“Claire?” His gritty voice, even kept low, carried.
“Adam?” she whispered. He wouldn’t hear her. “Adam?” she repeated.
The bright kayak appeared, altering course until it came straight at her. Claire was terribly afraid tears were running down her cheeks, but she consoled herself he wouldn’t be able to tell, as wet as her face was anyway.
He came abreast of her, and laid his paddle across her forward deck where she could grab it. She did the same, the two paddles forming a bridge to turn the side-by-side kayaks into a raft.
“I heard shooting,” she managed to say.
“Yeah, I think I got winged.” He sounded unconcerned. “They won’t be able to follow us.”
“You did enough damage to the boat?”
“Yeah.”
“What about the men?”
“I think one of them is dead. Badly hurt, at least.”
Claire saw grief on his face, grief he was trying to hide. Any tiny bit of reservation about the truth of his original story dissolved in that moment. She was also afraid she fell the rest of the way in love with him.
He continued, “Gibbons probably got burned, but he was in good enough shape to pull the trigger a few times.”
A few times. It had sounded like a fusillade to her.
“He recognized me.” His eyes met hers from beneath the dripping brim of his hat. “Let’s hope the radio was damaged.”
Claire swallowed and nodded. She had to do her best to match his near stoicism. She wouldn’t tell him how terrified she’d been when she heard those gunshots.
* * *
THEY SEPARATED AND went back to paddling. Claire started worrying about what he’d said about being winged. That meant shot, right? In his case, shot again. Surely he’d have the sense to suggest a quick stop to bandage his arm if he thought it was seriously bleeding.
The rain let up enough she’d call it a mist. Thank goodness for her spray skirt, mostly keeping water out of her cockpit. Otherwise, she’d be sloshing. She hoped Adam’s was working, and that he wouldn’t forget the hand-operated bilge pump he carried.
The neoprene booties he wore would keep his feet reasonable comfortable, no matter what, but enough water sloshing around in the cockpit could make its response sluggish.
Maybe another hour on their way, he signaled toward what the generous might call a beach. One that would quickly disappear once the tide started coming back in, Claire realized, but adequate for a quick stop.
A soaking-wet log provided seating once she spread a tarp on it. Adam reluctantly peeled off the rain slicker—which looked as if it had been sliced by a knife on the upper left sleeve—and let her see the bloody garments beneath. No, he wasn’t hemorrhaging or anything like that, but when she separated the fabrics, she found a significant gash cut through skin into the muscle.
Peering down at it, he said, “I can ignore it until we stop for the night. Look, it’s clotting.”
Claire gave him a stern look. “Let me wrap it over your shirt. I’ll just cut up an old T instead of digging for the first-aid supplies. But at least it’ll be covered. The rain soaking in probably doesn’t hurt anything, but the water might be a lot rougher out in Kildidt Sound, and salt in an open wound wouldn’t feel good.”
Looking chastened, he handed over the knife he’d been carrying and waited semipatiently while she cut and ripped until she had a couple of strips of reasonably clean cotton fabric. Once she tied it off, she helped him slide his arm back into the sleeve of the rain slicker.
Then they ate cold foods they had on hand: almonds, dried fruit and granola topped off with candy bars. He swallowed more ibuprofen, restocked from poor Kyle Sheppard’s supplies.
The picture of Kyle’s body dangling awkwardly over the tree branch flickered in Claire’s mind’s eye. She did her best to push it back down into whatever recess it had been staying. Forgetting... No, she’d never forget, either the sight of his body or the things they’d had to do to it.
After she and Adam bundled the remains of lunch back into their kayaks, they sat down again. She had an awful disinclination to move. Now that the most immediate enemy had been vanquished, she wanted them to have won. For rescue to be immediately at hand.
She wanted a hot shower, damn it! A real bed. The knowledge that the authorities were on the job, and the threat of nuclear attack was no longer a burden only she and Adam carried.
Instead, gray mist made her feel chilled however warmly she was dressed, and it worried her that Adam didn’t look any more excited about getting a move on than she was.
“Are you all right?” she asked at last.
Predictably, he nodded. But then, after a pause, he added, “Wrenched my back a little, and this, uh...”
“GSW?” she supplied tartly, remembering the acronym for a gunshot wound from some mystery or thriller she’d read. Probably one of Mike’s.
“Yeah.” Adam’s eyes smiled more than his mouth did. “Now that we’ve stopped, my arm has stiffened up some. And the wound does burn.”
“There’s a shocker.”
He laughed. “Are you mad at me?”
Yes! “No. I understand you were doing your job. Waiting for you, hearing the shots when I knew you didn’t have a gun, that was...” Claire found she didn’t want to put into words what that had been like. She was too close to doing what she’d sworn she wouldn’t.
Any humor on his face had gone, leaving his expression... She couldn’t decide. He was troubled, certainly. By the reminder of what he’d had to do? Or because of what, in his view, he’d put her through?
He had to be a remarkably strong man to do a job this hard, one that had to have left him with internal scars to go with the ones on his body. And yet, he hadn’t hardened so much as to lose his sense o
f empathy and compassion, felt even for men like their pursuers.
When she studied him again, she saw that he’d taken care of whatever emotion she’d so briefly seen. Sounding brisk, he asked, “You haven’t changed your mind about our route?”
“No. This is still our best bet.”
They’d discussed this earlier. If they didn’t see any boats right away close enough to stop, they’d head southwest across the sound, aiming for Nalau Passage, which they could follow to Fitz Hugh Sound. That being one of the major inside passages, they could wave down a cruise ship or ferry. Claire didn’t expect them to get that far, though; Nalau Island and Passage were popular with fishermen. She’d read there were even a couple of lodges aimed at sportfishermen.
Adam nodded. “A nice big fishing boat would suit us just fine.”
She made a face. “If I just hadn’t dropped my SPOT—”
He gripped her forearm and looked steadily into her eyes. “You had every reason to be shaken by what you’d just seen. Hardly anyone would have had steady hands in the middle of something like that.”
“No, but—”
He interrupted her again. “Even the best-planned operations often go off the rails. That’s the way it is. You’ve more than made up for letting the damn thing slip out of your hands by saving my life, and guiding us through these past few days. If you hadn’t had the courage to put yourself out there to rescue me, I’d be dead. No question.”
“I couldn’t just paddle away,” she protested.
“No.” This smile was crooked, deepening the lines between his nose and mouth, warming his eyes. “You’d never have done that.”
He was right, she decided; she’d screwed up the one thing, but done a lot right since then. It was time, once and for all, to ditch the inner critic exacerbated by a desire to head off Devin’s constant discontent with her. In fact, she could just plain quit thinking about a guy so inadequate, he had to put other people down to make himself feel better.
Dead in the Water Page 16
