THE MIDDLE SIN

by Merline Lovelace

  "Of co­ur­se. She cal­led me from her doc­tor's of­fi­ce." His lip cur­led. "She sa­id she had to me­et me. At our 'spe­ci­al pla­ce.' She bab­bled on abo­ut how she lo­ved me, how I had to marry her, how she wo­uld do an­y­t­hing for me. I wan­ted only one thing from her, tho­ugh."

  "You slimy prick! You used her preg­nancy to worm her pas­sword out of her."

  "It to­ok lit­tle wor­ming."

  They fa­ced each ot­her ac­ross ten yards of ste­el gan­g­way, sur­ro­un­ded on all si­des by stac­ked con­ta­iners, each de­ad cer­ta­in the ot­her wo­uldn't le­ave the car­go hold ali­ve.

  That be­ca­me cle­ar when Mo­ore re­ac­hed for the small of his back and pro­du­ced a six-inch bla­de. The na­ked ste­el didn't worry Cleo as much as the Hec­k­ler & Koch still tuc­ked un­der his right arm. She gat­he­red her mus­c­les, went up on the balls of her fe­et. She was re­ady to spring when anot­her fi­gu­re lun­ged out of the sha­dows bet­we­en the con­ta­iners.

  "E­at this, you mur­de­ring son of bitch."

  Mo­ore whir­led, threw up his arm, but co­uldn't block the vi­ci­o­us thrust. Snar­ling, Slo­an stab­bed the po­int of the shel­lac­ked star­fish in­to his thro­at.

  Red spe­wed from the wo­und in a glis­te­ning arc, dren­c­hing both at­tac­ker and at­tac­ked. Cho­king, gur­g­ling, stran­g­ling on his own blo­od, Mo­ore slas­hed at Marc.

  Slo­an dan­ced to one si­de to avo­id the bla­de, jer­ked the star­fish free and stab­bed aga­in.

  The hi­j­ac­ker stag­ge­red, then went to his kne­es, the star­fish em­bed­ded in his jugu­lar. With a last cho­king gur­g­le, he ra­ised his we­apon.

  Cleo le­aped for­ward but co­uldn't clo­se the dis­tan­ce in ti­me. The bas­tard fi­red, eit­her from ref­lex or in­tent.

  She knew one in­s­tant of ab­so­lu­te ter­ror as bul­lets pin­ged off me­tal con­ta­iners. Anot­her when a stray shot hit so­me vi­tal ship's or­gan and plun­ged the en­ti­re hold in­to dar­k­ness.

  "Marc!"

  To­tal­ly blind, she thrust out her arms and star­ted to fe­el her way for­ward.

  "Whe­re are…?"

  She bro­ke off, win­cing, as a Kla­xon be­gan to scre­am. In the next in­s­tant, the hat­c­h­ways bet­we­en the wa­ter­tight com­par­t­ments be­gan to thud shut.

  Now blind and de­af, Cleo didn't da­re mo­ve for­ward. She sto­od fro­zen for a mo­ment, then grab­bed her pur­se and pa­wed thro­ugh it.

  The key cha­in was the­re.

  She knew it was the­re.

  So­mew­he­re.

  Ears ac­hing un­der the si­ren's vi­olent as­sa­ult, she fum­b­led in the dar­k­ness. She was al­most we­eping when her fist clo­sed aro­und Do­re­en's so­uped-up pen­light.

  The high-in­ten­sity be­am pi­er­ced the dar­k­ness. Flin­ging up an arm to shi­eld her eyes from the ref­lec­ti­on off the me­tal con­ta­iners, she di­rec­ted the be­am down the cen­ter of the hold. A so­lid wall of ste­el se­pa­ra­ted her from Marc. With a sin­king sen­sa­ti­on in the pit of her sto­mach, she spun aro­und.

  Yep, the­re it was. Anot­her eight or ten in­c­hes of so­lid ste­el, stan­ding smack bet­we­en her and the sta­irs.

  And that dam­ned Kla­xon wo­uldn't stop shri­eking.

  Fig­h­ting the ur­ge to fi­re a few des­pe­ra­te ro­unds in the ge­ne­ral vi­ci­nity of the si­ren, Cleo tri­ed to re­mem­ber Marc's crash co­ur­se on the Pit­sen-bar­ger's la­yo­ut.

  Every wa­ter­tight com­par­t­ment ca­me equ­ip­ped with an es­ca­pe hatch. Slo­an had gu­ar­ded the one over the en­gi­ne ro­om. All Cleo had to do was lo­ca­te the one in this com­par­t­ment, scram­b­le up the lad­der and crawl out on­to the deck.

  She fo­und the lad­der easily eno­ugh. Hol­ding the pen­light bet­we­en her te­eth, she even ma­na­ged to climb the rungs and wres­t­le the iron lat­c­hes se­cu­ring the hatch free of the­ir flan­ges.

  The he­avy co­ver to­ok all she had, tho­ugh.

  Scrun­c­hing aro­und, she put her sho­ul­ders to the re­in­for­ced lid and sho­ved up­ward. The first he­ave dis­lod­ged it. The se­cond sent it flop­ping back. Wed­ging her hips thro­ugh the nar­row ope­ning, Cleo scram­b­led on­to the deck. The wind whip­ped at her ha­ir. Salt spray ne­ed­led her fa­ce. She gul­ped in se­ve­ral de­ep bre­aths, drop­ped the fo­re­ver light in­to her pur­se and tur­ned in a cir­c­le to get her be­arings. The tall, air-con­di­ti­oned pods bloc­ked her vi­ew of ever­y­t­hing but the an­ten­nas and glass eyes of the brid­ge.

  Still de­afe­ned by the shri­ek of the Kla­xon, she '' ro­un­ded the far pod and star­ted for the dec­k­ho­use.

  The sight that gre­eted her at that po­int sho­ved the bre­ath back down her thro­at. The ra­dio ope­ra­tor le­aned aga­inst the ra­il hal­f­way down the deck. He had a roc­ket la­un­c­her prop­ped on one plump sho­ul­der and the muz­zle aimed at the Sea-hawk still per­c­hed on the pad.

  Cleo saw the pi­lot thro­ugh the bub­ble of the coc­k­pit, his hands on the throt­tle. Saw one of his crew­men di­ve for the.50 mm ca­non. Saw Lady Mar­s­ton spring out of the si­de hatch and drop in­to a two-fis­ted sho­oter's stan­ce.

  Johan­na was too far out of ran­ge. All the way at the bow of the ship. Cleo re­gis­te­red that fact even as she her­self le­apt for­ward, sho­uting wildly.

  "Hey! Ra­dio Man!"

  His he­ad whip­ped aro­und at the sa­me in­s­tant the roc­ket la­un­c­her's tar­get-ac­qu­isi­ti­on in­di­ca­tor light went from red to gre­en. Set­ting his fleshy lips, Ra­dio Man whir­led and aimed the muz­zle at the chop­per on­ce mo­re.

  Cleo didn't he­si­ta­te. Blan­king out any tho­ught of the ex­p­lo­si­ves stac­ked all aro­und her, she bro­ught the.38 up and fi­red.

  24

  I he bul­let to­ok Ra­dio Man in the sho­ul­der and spun him aro­und. Cleo had all of half a se­cond to con­g­ra­tu­la­te her­self for spo­iling his aim be­fo­re a sle­ek whi­te mis­si­le erup­ted from the la­un­c­her.

  "Oh, shit."

  Hor­ri­fi­ed, she wat­c­hed the let­hal cylin­der fly stra­ight for the Pit­sen­bar­ger's brid­ge. Glass splin­te­red. Me­tal shri­eked. The mis­si­le di­sap­pe­ared.

  For a de­li­ri­o­us in­s­tant, Cleo tho­ught the thing must ha­ve pi­er­ced right thro­ugh the brid­ge and splas­hed har­m­les­sly in­to the ship's wa­ke. The tho­ught had no so­oner for­med than the en­ti­re up­per por­ti­on of the dec­k­ho­use blew.

  Shock wa­ves from the ex­p­lo­si­on threw Cleo aga­inst a sto­ra­ge pod. She hit with a thud that jar­red every bo­ne in her body, re­ma­ined flat­te­ned aga­inst the con­ta­iner for a se­cond, then slid to the deck.

  She sat the­re, legs spla­yed, ears rin­ging. Black spots dan­ced in front of her eyes. With every thud of her he­art aga­inst her ribs, she ex­pec­ted the pods sur­ro­un­ding her to blow.

  Ra­dio Man must ha­ve ex­pec­ted the sa­me thing. When the spots cle­ared eno­ugh for Cleo to fo­cus, she saw the hor­ror on his tubby fa­ce as he sta­red at the fla­mes now en­gul­fing the up­per half of the dec­k­ho­use.

  Tos­sing asi­de the la­unch tu­be, he whir­led and ran for one of the li­fe­bo­ats. Be­fo­re Cleo co­uld stag­ger to her fe­et, he'd rip­ped off the oran­ge co­ver, scram­b­led in­si­de and be­gan fran­ti­cal­ly cran­king the da­vits to swing the bo­at over the ra­ils.

  She didn't spa­re the lit­tle cre­ep anot­her glan­ce. Her first pri­ority right now-her only pri­ority- was fin­ding Jack and Marc and the ot­hers be­fo­re the fi­re re­ac­hed the car­go deck.

  She ra­ced along the ra­il, aiming for the ne­arest hatch co­ver. Marc was in the next com­par­t­ment. He had to be. And Jack… He was he­ading for­ward with the crew. Or was it aft? Cur­sing, Cleo tri­ed to re�
�mem­ber.

  A pan­ting Johan­na Mar­s­ton ca­me ra­cing to­ward her. "Whe­re are Marc and Do­no­van?" she sho­uted over the still-sh­ri­eking Kla­xon.

  JBe­low. So­mew­he­re."

  "Sod it! I as­su­me that blo­ody Kla­xon me­ans the emer­gency systems ha­ve ac­ti­va­ted and the car­go com­par­t­ments are se­aled off."

  "Right."

  She whip­ped a glan­ce at the row of hatch co­vers stret­c­hing the length of the ship. "So the men will ha­ve to es­ca­pe thro­ugh one of tho­se hat­c­hes."

  "If they can lo­ca­te them! It's pit­ch-black down the­re."

  The Bri­tish agent cur­sed and threw a lo­ok at the fla­mes and smo­ke po­uring from the up­per dec­k­ho­use.

  "You ta­ke this one. I'll get the next."

  She was al­re­ady off and run­ning as Cleo drop­ped to her kne­es be­si­de the ne­arest es­ca­pe hatch. The deck that had lo­oked no big­ger than a pos­ta­ge stamp from two hun­d­red fe­et up now se­emed to stretch to in­fi­nity. Thir­te­en com­par­t­ments from stem to stern, all with he­avy, stub­born hatch co­vers to wres­t­le off.

  Cleo at­tac­ked the first, twis­ting the flan­ges, pop­ping the co­ver, sho­ving it to the deck. She po­ked her he­ad in­to the ope­ning and scre­amed in­to the inky dar­k­ness.

  "Slo­an! Do­no­van! An­yo­ne!"

  The­re was no an­s­wer ex­cept the scre­am of the si­ren. He­art po­un­ding, Cleo pus­hed to her fe­et.

  Pan­ting, she and Johan­na Mar­s­ton le­ap­f­rog­ged down the deck. The iron lat­c­hes scra­ped the skin from Cleo's palms. The he­avy co­vers rip­ped her na­ils off at the qu­ick.

  "Do­no­van!"

  The fla­mes ro­ared hig­her, hot­ter. She re­mem­be­red the hi­j­ac­kers they'd left bo­und and gag­ged in the lo­wer por­ti­on of the dec­k­ho­use. Jaw set, Cleo sho­ved the tho­ught away. Jack and Marc and the Pit­sen­bar­ger's crew ca­me first.

  Par­ti­cu­larly Jack.

  Mostly Jack.

  The aw­ful, ago­ni­zing fe­ar that Do­no­van might die loc­ked in a dark car­go hold sent her ra­cing to the next hatch. The ship co­uldn't blow un­til she'd fo­und him. It co­uldn't!

  Every pul­sing shri­ek of the Kla­xon spi­ked in­to her skull. He­at blis­te­red her skin. Smo­ke se­ared her thro­at. Na­ils blo­odi­ed, she rip­ped at anot­her hatch co­ver and scre­amed in­to the blac­k­ness.

  "Do­no­van! Whe­re the hell are you?"

  "Right he­re."

  The whi­te blur of a fa­ce pop­ped out of the dar­k­ness. When fi­ve or six ot­hers crow­ded be­hind it, Cleo sat back on her he­els and gul­ped down a lump the si­ze of Te­xas.

  Sho­oting her a grin, Jack ha­uled him­self up. "'Bo­ut ti­me you sho­wed, North."

  "Ye­ah, well, things got a lit­tle hot up he­re on deck."

  When he ca­ught his first glim­p­se of the fla­mes sho­oting from the dec­k­ho­use, his grin di­ved stra­ight so­uth.

  "J­esus H. Christ! What did you do?"

  "Ra­dio Man fi­red a mis­si­le. He was aiming for the Se­ahawk, but I, uh, got in the way."

  "What?"

  "I'll tell you abo­ut it la­ter. Right now I think we sho­uld just con­cen­t­ra­te on get­ting the hell off this ship."

  Jack ag­re­ed. Kne­eling be­si­de her, he re­ac­hed down to help a filthy, be­ar­ded se­aman thro­ugh the hatch.

  Crew lo­yal­ti­es di­ed hard, Cleo dis­co­ve­red when she and Jack got the small, rag­ged band on deck. No­ne of them wan­ted to le­ave the­ir ship­ma­tes be­hind. Nor co­uld Cleo or Jack aban­don Slo­an and his sis­ter.

  One of the crew who'd clim­bed thro­ugh the hatch was the se­cond en­gi­ne­ering of­fi­cer. He spor­ted a bru­ise the si­de of a gra­pef­ru­it on one si­de of his fa­ce and his no­se was a pulpy, swol­len mass, but Cleo gu­es­sed he'd be­en kept ali­ve be­ca­use he was ne­eded to ope­ra­te the ship's systems. Tur­ning a grim fa­ce to the fla­mes, he as­ses­sed the si­tu­ati­on.

  "We've got ten, may­be fif­te­en mi­nu­tes be­fo­re the fi­re re­ac­hes the lo­wer dec­k­ho­use. Who's left in­si­de?" Thank God she'd kept a run­ning tally. "Last ti­me we saw Cap­ta­in Ko­be, he was on the brid­ge. The ra­dio ope­ra­tor-or the man dis­gu­ising him­self as a ra­dio ope­ra­tor-has al­re­ady hit the li­fe­bo­ats. We left one of the hi­j­ac­kers trus­sed to a cha­ir in the cap­ta­in's ca­bin, two mo­re on the thirds' deck, anot­her on the crew deck."

  "Fuck 'em. What abo­ut McCa­uley, our co­ok's ma­te?"

  "He to­ok a bul­let and was too wo­ozy to walk.

  We left him in the gal­ley."

  "Po­wers, you and Han­der­hand go for McCa­uley. Jer­rold, you co­me with me. We'll try to find the cap­ta­in. The rest of you, la­unch the li­fe­bo­ats and aban­don ship."

  "We've still got two of our own abo­ard," Jack sa­id. "We ha­ve to-"

  "Is that them?"

  With a jerk of his chin, the en­gi­ne­er in­di­ca­ted the fi­gu­res plun­ging out of the smo­ke. Lady Mar­s­ton had Marc's arm dra­ped over one sho­ul­der. Bo­wed un­der his we­ight, she half car­ri­ed, half drag­ged him ac­ross the deck.

  Jack hur­ri­ed to re­li­eve her of the bur­den, his jaw tig­h­te­ning at the glis­te­ning red splas­hes on Slo­an's bor­ro­wed kha­kis. "Did you ta­ke a shot?"

  "No," Marc cro­aked. "Just ca­me up…on the win­d­ward si­de and…s­wal­lo­wed so­me smo­ke." Des­pi­te the smo­ke still rat­tling aro­und in his lungs, he ma­na­ged a small, sa­va­ge smi­le. "The blo­od isn't…mi­ne."

  "Marc put Trish's kil­ler out of bu­si­ness," Cleo sa­id, get­ting a sho­ul­der un­der Slo­an's ot­her arm. "Co­me on, let's get you two in­to a li­fe­bo­at."

  With the elec­t­ri­cal systems out, the crew had to ma­nu­al­ly crank the da­vits to swing the bo­ats cle­ar of the ra­il and lo­wer them to sea le­vel. Jack hef­ted Slo­an in­to one al­re­ady full to over­f­lo­wing and ste­adi­ed Johan­na Mar­s­ton as she clim­bed in be­hind her brot­her.

  "Ta­ke her down!" Jack sho­uted to the man at the crank. "We'll go for the next one."

  Two of the ga­unt crew mem­bers we­re al­re­ady rip­ping the co­ver off the next li­fe­bo­at. Cleo to­ok a co­up­le of steps, skid­ded to a halt and saw the de­ci­si­on she'd just co­me to ref­lec­ted in Do­no­van's blue eyes.

  "They're scum. I know they're scum. But we can't let them fry."

  "Get in­to the li­fe­bo­at, Cleo. I'll go af­ter them."

  She didn't bot­her ar­gu­ing with that wo­men-and-chil­d­ren-first ab­sur­dity. Spin­ning on one he­el, she ra­ced for the dec­k­ho­use.

  "You ta­ke the en­gi­ne­er's deck," she sho­uted abo­ve the crac­k­ling fla­mes. "I'll ta­ke the crew qu­ar­ters."

  The smo­ke wasn't as in­ten­se as she'd ex­pec­ted. The wind was suc­king it up thro­ugh the dec­k­ho­use li­ke a chim­ney, Cleo re­ali­zed, and blo­wing it back over the ship. But the he­at was blis­te­ring.

  "Use this to shi­eld yo­ur fa­ce." Jack flung his sport co­at at her. "And don't to­uch the ra­ils. They'll se­ar the skin off yo­ur palms."

  Rip­ping off his shirt, he wrap­ped it aro­und his fa­ce and he­ad and sprin­ted up the sta­irs three at a ti­me. Cleo threw a last lo­ok at his ba­re back and duc­ked in­to the crew qu­ar­ters.

  She fo­und the un­con­s­ci­o­us hi­j­ac­ker still fol­ded in­to the loc­ker whe­re they'd stuf­fed him. Cur­sing the po­tency of Do­no­van's sub­du­ing agent, she ha­uled the man ac­ross her sho­ul­ders in a fi­re­man's lift and stag­ge­red back down the sta­irs.

  The fla­mes must ha­ve con­su­med anot­her deck. Cleo co­uld he­ar them abo­ve her, his­sing and spit­ting. Clo­se. Too dam­ned clo­se to tho­se tons of ex­p­lo­si­ves on the up­per car­go deck.

  "Get him
in­to the bo­at!"

  Dum­ping the un­con­s­ci­o­us man at the fe­et of the crew man­ning the da­vits, she whir­led and star­ted back for Jack. She was a few yards from the dec­k­ho­use when the hatch flew open and No-Pants Guy burst out.

  Wi­de-eyed with ter­ror, he ra­ced for the li­fe­bo­at. Le­aving him to ma­ke it on his own, Cleo wrap­ped Jack's co­at aro­und her he­ad and fo­ught her way back in­to the in­fer­no.

  A half deck up, she was al­most bow­led over by the Pit­sen­bar­ger's se­cond en­gi­ne­er. He car­ri­ed a body slung over one sho­ul­der. Cap­ta­in Ko­be, she saw in a qu­ick, fran­tic glan­ce.

  "Fo­und him on the thirds' deck," he sho­uted over the ro­aring fla­mes. "Bas­tards put a bul­let in­to him, but he's still ali­ve."

  "Did you see Do­no­van?"

  "Ye­ah. Sa­id the­re was one mo­re, up in the cap­ta­in's qu­ar­ters."

  Dam­mit! He'd go­ne for Wes­ter­beck.

  "You'd bet­ter get the hell out of he­re," the en­gi­ne­er war­ned, his bo­ots thum­ping on the sta­irs. "You've got to put so­me blue wa­ter bet­we­en you and the Pits be­fo­re the fla­mes re­ach the car­go deck."

  Right! As if she ne­eded the re­min­der!

  Mo­uth and no­se mas­ked, eyes stre­aming, Cleo pe­ered up thro­ugh the well in the cen­ter of the dec­k­ho­use. All she co­uld see we­re smo­ke and fla­mes.

  Le­aving the hi­j­ac­kers to fry was one thing. Frying along with them wasn't on Cleo's im­me­di­ate agen­da. If that was an­yo­ne but Do­no­van up the­re…

  She star­ted up the sta­irs, only to dis­co­ver frying wasn't on Jack's agen­da, eit­her. He ca­me bar­re­ling down, grab­bed her hand on the run and yan­ked her af­ter him.

  "Co­uldn't re­ach Wes­ter­beck," he sho­uted. "The of­fi­cers' deck is ab­la­ze. Let's get the hell out of Dod­ge."

  They shot out of the dec­k­ho­use and saw they we­re alo­ne. The crew had evi­dently de­ci­ded a hi­j­ac­ker wasn't worth get­ting blown apart for. They we­re al­re­ady in the wa­ter and fi­ring up the­ir bo­at's en­gi­ne.