Mist

by Miller, Maureen A.

  “And who the hell are you?” Jack tugged his arms away from the thug behind him.

  “Hawkins,” the man chuckled hollowly. “That’s what you can call me. Now can we move on?” He reached out to beckon Livvy. “Come on. We need to get off this ship. We’ll board your trawler and have a little chat.”

  “Why do we need to get off the ship?” Jack challenged.

  Thin lips pursed. “It’s not your concern.”

  “All of this is my concern. This is my goddamn family’s ship. It is my uncle missing at sea right now. It damn well is my concern.”

  Hawkins’s expression remained callous beneath reflective lenses. A quick jerk of his hand and the man behind Jack gave him a brisk shove. Livvy felt fingers clamp around her arm as she was propelled forward.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  They were beneath the Odyssey’s wheelhouse, tucked in a small cabin that served as a galley and bedroom. Narrow bunk beds were stacked on one side, while counter space with a sink and tiny burner lined the other. One end of the counter pulled out to form a table, around which two plastic chairs sat. A television was wedged into the wall above the chairs. On the opposite side, a modest window offered a view of the hull of the Algonquin shrinking on the horizon.

  Jack sat on the edge of the lower bunk with his hands fisted between his knees. Olivia sat beside him, her knee bobbing like a jackhammer. He rubbed at his wrists, surprised that they had cut off the nylon tie.

  Why not? Where were they going to go?

  The door to the cabin had an armed guard just outside it, and the window would never permit a pair of shoulders to pass through.

  Beside him a jean-clad knee continued to drill until he reached over and caged it in his palm.

  Troubled eyes sliced his way.

  “I’m nervous.”

  His hand left her knee to wind around her back and draw her to his side.

  “If I had left you on the Odyssey, they would have still captured you−whoever they are. I wish I could have−”

  “Wish you could have what?” she whispered, casting a skeptical glance at the door. “Handled it differently? Not brought me to the Science Center? Not approached me at my business? Not−”

  “Yeah,” he stopped her. “All of those things.”

  Olivia did not draw away. She tucked her head down and spoke into his chest. She didn’t want to be heard by the man standing outside.

  “Get over it. When are you going to accept the fact that you couldn’t have done anything different? That this is not in your control. The moment I picked up that trunk on the beach−I was doomed. It had absolutely nothing to do with you or how you handled anything after that.”

  There was merit to her words, but it didn’t pacify him.

  He held her closer.

  “How did he do it?” she whispered.

  It was something he had mulled over since first receiving the shocking news that his uncle had escaped.

  “Well, technically there is a way out of the lab other than the door.”

  “How?” Her hand landed on his chest for balance, but remained there. He could feel his heart beat against it.

  “The holding tank beneath the bathroom. The bathroom can only be accessed from out in the hall, but there is a panel to reach the holding tank inside the lab. It’s a tight crawl space—honestly the most fowl environment imaginable. It’s the holding bin for the sewage until it is jettisoned out to sea.”

  Olivia wrinkled her nose. “Could he fit in there?”

  Warren was sixty-two years old, but extremely lithe.

  “Possibly−hell, probably. How else did he escape to that dinghy?”

  Olivia shook her head in wonder.

  “But he never contacted me,” Jack mused quietly. “The first thing he would have done was try to get a hold of me.”

  Anxious, he rose and approached the small rectangular window. The Algonquin’s wake carved a black runway in the ocean. He searched the open sea in each direction, looking for the tiny dot that would represent the lifeboat. There was nothing.

  “He might have had to leave his cell phone behind,” Olivia suggested. “Is there a radio on the dinghy? Maybe he had no method to contact you.”

  As he turned to face her he could see it in her eyes. Despair and compassion. She knew that Warren would have hit land days ago.

  Had they offered her false platitudes when her family had gone missing?

  “Come here,” he commanded quietly.

  Regarding him for a moment, she slowly rose and took the two steps to cross the cabin floor. As soon as she was within reach, he drew her into his embrace. Her arms slipped around his back, her head resting on his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” she whispered despondently.

  He dipped his nose into her hair, smelling the ocean there. Every warm inch of her was pressed to his body. The carnal vista was one that he longed to explore.

  Maybe someday.

  Touching his mouth to her ear, he whispered. “There is a hatch to reach the water tanks beneath the bunk bed.”

  Olivia jolted in his arms, but he held her steady. “The bottom bunk folds up into the wall to accommodate more chairs−and to offer access to the water tank.”

  A rustle of soft hair and then her moist lips brushed his cheek, whispering directly into his ear. “Is there another route to the water tanks?”

  He didn’t want to respond. He didn’t want to lose the sensation of her lips tickling that sensitive patch.

  “Yes,” he whispered hoarsely. “The tanks lead to the engine room which has a main access door out onto the stern deck.”

  A gasp dusted his cheek and then she drew back to search his eyes. Hers were wide, blue, and earnest.

  “But where would we go? We’re in the middle of the ocean, and they set the dinghy adrift after we boarded.”

  Glancing at the cabin door he knew the clamor of the ocean and the drone of the Odyssey itself would drown out her hushed words to anyone standing on the other side.

  “I have a plan. It’s not a great plan, and it can’t be executed until nightfall−” if we can stay alive until then.

  That incisive gaze read his mind and she tossed her hair. “They won’t do anything to us. You heard him. We’re bait−or compliance material for your uncle.”

  These men weren’t fools. They had to suspect that Warren never made it to shore. How long would they wait until they determined his uncle was no longer a threat? And the moment they confirmed that, there was no need for Jack or Olivia.

  “He must be in hiding, Jack,” she pleaded quietly. “He probably doesn’t think it’s safe to contact you.”

  It was an optimistic consideration. One he could latch onto and pray for.

  A rattling of the doorknob had Jack reaching for her again. “Easy,” he whispered when he felt her tremble.

  The door opened and Hawkins barreled his way inside as his cohort filled the frame with wide shoulders and an automatic rifle. Rather than intimidate him, the whole situation infuriated Jack.

  “You better tell us what the hell is going on.”

  Hawkins’s sunglasses were off. Narrow green eyes lined with pale lashes gave him an almost reptilian look.

  “You’re not in a position to make demands,” he murmured, waving a hand at the bottom bunk.

  Olivia quaked against Jack.

  “Why don’t you have a seat,” Hawkins suggested flatly as he pulled one of the plastic chairs to face the bed.

  Surely he had overheard them discuss the access panel and was now playing a cruel game. Jack hesitated, waiting for the accusations to start flying.

  Hawkins sat back in the stiff chair and hefted an ankle onto his knee, thumbing his sock impatiently.

  “I don’t have time for all of this, and frankly my patience has reached its limit.”

  Too freaking bad.

  “Your uncle has not surfaced, so I’m close to presuming he is dead,” Hawkins announced.

  Jack winced at the
candor and finally stepped up to the bunk bed, waiting for Olivia to settle down next to him.

  “So either he manifests himself and debriefs us on what he discovered, or you detail what was in the trunk that washed up on your shore.”

  For the last comment Hawkins’s colorless eyes targeted Olivia.

  Jack felt her stiffen.

  “Or what? You’ll kill us? Seriously?” she cried. “Who the hell are you, anyway? I don’t see any badges. I don’t see any official identification. So what then−a well-dressed thug? What are you hiding that’s so goddamn important that you have a license to kill over?”

  Jack readied himself. If the man made any move on Olivia he’d have to get through him first.

  Surprisingly though, Hawkins grinned. It wasn’t a warm gesture−rather lifeless, actually. He reached up and scraped at his clean-shaven jaw and considered the woman before him.

  “You do have a flare for the dramatic.”

  Oh no.

  “Flare for the dramatic!” Her voice pitched as she launched off the bed and began to pace a three foot circumference with her fist pumping in the air. “I have been beaten. We have been shot at, chased at sea, held at gunpoint, and now locked up with some goon with an Uzi outside our door. This man−” she thrust her pointer at Jack, “his uncle is missing−attempting to escape whatever fate we’re destined for. And a damn fine research vessel has just been shanghaied from freaks that have absolutely no right to do so.”

  With all her claims, it seemed the last one irked her the most. If the situation weren’t so dire, Jack might have found that amusing.

  Across from them, Hawkins’s chest puffed as he prepared to speak.

  But she wasn’t done…

  “Do you want to know what we found?” Marching in a tight circle now, she looked slightly maniacal with the eggplant-rimmed eye. “A chair. A goddamn chair.” Her pacing ceased as she spread out her hands in appeal to their captor. “Is that what you want? A chair? Is the one your ass is on right now not good enough for you?”

  Jack rose swiftly, looping a comforting arm around her shoulders. He knew she was reaching the end of her limits.

  “Enough of this bullshit, Hawkins,” he spat. “We need answers and we need confirmation that you’re taking us safely back to shore.”

  A pale eyebrow cocked on a high forehead. “What kind of chair?” he asked evenly.

  “Uggg!”

  Olivia wound up for a punch, but Jack corralled her.

  “Fuck you, how about that?” Jack bristled.

  A dark shadow crossed over Hawkins’s face. It was a brief loss of composure before he stretched his shoulders back and exhaled slowly through tight nostrils.

  “Alright.” He tipped his head, cracking the back of his neck. “Let’s deal with some facts then.”

  “Splendid.” Olivia huffed, but Jack felt her sag against him.

  “Fact,” Hawkins lifted his pointer finger. “Warren Pennington stumbled across a wreck at the bottom of the ocean while filming his reality show. Fact−” Two fingers stretched out. “He reported to the Nova Scotia Coast Guard that he had spotted a field of debris as is the proper protocol.”

  “Fact,” Jack injected. “His ship was then boarded by a band of men who shot first and never asked questions.”

  “Not necessarily a fact. You claim this, but did you see any bodies on board? Did you see any blood? Is it not true that the ship’s engineers washed up on shore with no memory other than to suspect a storm?”

  “Both suffered blunt trauma to the head,” Jack countered, as he felt Olivia tug his hand and encourage him to sit on the edge of the bunk.

  He followed her lead, and sat, but he hunched forward in anticipation of Hawkins’s next claim.

  “As I understand it,” the man regarded him levelly, “the report indicates they hit their heads on the outboard motor of their rescue boat.”

  “Both of them?” Heat wrapped around Jack’s throat, climbing towards his face. “Both hit their head on the same motor?”

  The casual shrug infuriated him. Suppressing the effect, he proceeded. “Alright. Let’s continue with your supposed facts.”

  There was a slight flare of Hawkins’s narrow nostrils and the hiss of vinyl as he shifted in his seat.

  “Fact,” Hawkins enunciated. “Warren Pennington disappeared shortly thereafter, abandoning his ship.”

  Jack vaulted to his feet, and this time it was Olivia reaching out to restrain him. “Don’t you dare discredit my uncle like that. He was fleeing for his life.”

  A knock on the door startled the group.

  “It’s alright,” Hawkins called out. “Everything is under control in here.” He turned back to eye Jack. “Isn’t it, Mr. Morell?”

  “For the moment.” But instead of sitting, he hitched his shoulder against the wall and stood with his arms crossed.

  It was evident that Hawkins didn’t appreciate looking up at his hostage. Cold eyes narrowed. “I shall continue. Fact,” he paused, “before jumping ship, your uncle was able to set adrift several items he hauled up from the ocean floor. His plan was desperate, but somewhat successful. We thought we located everything. Most of the items were small. But, as we monitored the coastline we discovered Ms. McKay here, tugging a footlocker towards her house.”

  “Fact,” Olivia inserted. “My property. My garbage to pick up.” She tapped her chest. “My house, in which strangers are not permitted to enter and assault me. You,” Her finger jabbed the air, “You, Mr. Hawkins−or whatever−are a criminal, and you will be brought to justice.”

  To Jack’s astonishment, the man flashed a cheerless smile.

  From this perspective Jack could see that the man’s crown was nearing the bald stage. Thinning patches of reddish blond hair looked like defiant tuffs of grass on a dry lawn.

  Shaking his head, Hawkins replied blandly, “No. I won’t. I represent justice, Ms. McKay. Justice often comes in shades of gray. In this case justice is here to preserve the well-being of this country. It would be in your best interest to cooperate willingly.”

  “Versus being physically coerced,” she challenged.

  “Yes.” There was no hesitation.

  Jack hefted his shoulder off the wall and turned to look out the window. The Algonquin was fading, swallowed by an oppressive horizon.

  Still facing the window he said quietly, “So basically you’re claiming that you represent the government, and as usual, you’re hiding something. No,” he paused, “what was the phrase you used, preserving the well-being of our country?” His mouth twisted bitterly. “As Olivia already stated, she found a chair in that trunk. Preserve that.”

  Hawkins steepled his fingers atop his knee, disregarding the sarcastic jab. “Were you able to identify the origins of this chair?”

  “Oh, come on,” Jack pivoted. “Enough with the goddamn games. We know it’s from the sunken Eclipse ship. Your female pitbull has been more persistent than you.”

  “My female pitbull?” he repeated bewilderedly.

  Outside, the sun was nothing more than a blushing afterthought, leaving lavender scores across the darkening sky. Somewhere across this ocean Jack’s parents were engaged in yet another archeological adventure, or attending a museum social event. Hell, his father did not even know that his brother had gone missing. Jack tried to contact them, but the cell phone number he had was three phones old, as his mother would chastise.

  And whose fault was that?

  As the sky dimmed, the small bulb affixed to the ceiling cast Olivia’s pensive reflection in the glass. Watching him out of the corner of a wounded sloe-shaped eye, she nervously rubbed her hand up and down her fleece-covered arm.

  He envied the bond she had possessed with her parents. How cruel of nature to mercilessly sever that connection. How cruel of fate to place her in this danger.

  No. Not fate. It was this man. This Hawkins.

  And himself.

  “BLUE-LINK,” he bristled.

  “Ahh, yes
,” the cool mercenary nodded. “We have been interested in the phone calls you have been receiving from the UK. Amanda Newton, correct?” Not waiting for a response, Hawkins smugly continued. “We’ve dispatched a team to talk to Miss Newton.”

  Something in the way he said, talk scattered pinpricks of heat down the back of Jack’s neck.

  Was it possible? Did this man really not know the British lady that was so desperately trying to get a hold of Warren Pennington? Was it possible that she was sincere in her offers to help?

  Help. Nobody helped. No matter what her motivations, help garnered Amanda Newton something.

  Right now there was only one woman to concentrate on. One woman who had been his trusty sidekick. One woman who had kissed him and stirred up feelings he barely even identified. One woman who watched him now with guileless blue eyes and waited…

  “Good luck with that,” Jack uttered.

  He drew in a deep breath and contemplated his chances at taking this man out before the door opened. Reading his eyes, Hawkins dusted his hand inside his jacket and rested it there.

  He was armed.

  “So there you go,” Jack continued. “The trunk that washed up on Olivia’s shore contained a chair and a telegraph panel. That is what you have chased us both down for.” He waved his hand towards the window. “So what’s the point of keeping us around? We have nothing in our possession. It becomes a game of words, which surely you can squelch.” Eyebrows raised in challenge, he goaded, “And so, it’s time to let us go.”

  Not even bothering to conceal the weapon, Hawkins withdrew the handgun and rested it atop his knee, his fingers adroitly positioned on the trigger. He stared down at it instead of meeting Jack’s eyes.

  A churning growl from Olivia’s stomach was loud enough to attract the attention of both men. She blanched and flattened her palm over her abdomen.

  “Do you have any food in these cabinets?” Hawkins tipped his head back to search the two tiny cabinet doors above the sink.

  “I’m not hungry,” she retorted. “I feel like throwing up.”

  “Then Dramamine perhaps?”