Murder Island (A Rogan Bricks Thriller Book 3)

by Steve Richer

  “Details,” he said dismissively. “Come on, we don’t have much time.”

  He put his hand in the small of her back, pushing her gently toward the ladder. She didn’t resist.

  “Hold on tight.” Rogan shrugged out of his blazer and watched her descend the rungs. She kept looking at the water below, but she continued going down. “You’re doing great.”

  “Oh God!” she yelped as she entered the water, her small body being thrown about.

  “Hold on tight, I’m coming!”

  He turned around and moved down the ladder as fast as he could, making sure not to land on top of her. She was in his way, holding on for dear life. He swung his legs to the side and dropped into the ocean.

  He was immediately pulled under!

  Had this been a mistake? Chances were that they wouldn’t last a minute in these conditions. But he had to try, it was the only way to survive. He reached blindly until his hand found the bottom rung. He hauled himself up to the surface.

  “See how easy it is?” he said with the fakest smile he’d ever made.

  Gina wasn’t amused. “I can’t do this. I can’t swim. I can’t!”

  “Kick with your legs, keep calm, and it’ll be over in a jiffy. I’ll be right there with you, I promise.”

  Rogan reached over and pried her hands away from the ladder. She didn’t give up easily, but he carried her with him as he pushed himself away from the pier.

  He felt bad because he knew that she was terrified of water. It was cruel to do this to someone. They simply didn’t have a choice.

  “I can’t!” she screamed.

  “You can do it, Gina.”

  Would he have to encourage her every step of the way? It was bad enough that he had to swim slowly so she would keep up. He wasn’t a violent man. He rarely lost his temper, but she was trying his patience.

  “Rogan, help!”

  With a sigh, he turned his head toward her. She wasn’t there. She had gone under.

  She was drowning.

  Chapter 38

  Rogan stopped abruptly and turned around. Gina wasn’t simply on the other side of the wave. She really was underwater.

  He ducked below the surface and reached to his right. He made contact with her shoulder immediately and pulled her up. She was coughing out water, her eyes wide.

  “I got you.”

  “I can’t…” she repeated for the two hundredth time although it was with much less conviction now. She wallowed in defeat.

  “Turn around, Gina.”

  “What?”

  “Get on your back and float. I’ll bring you over like a rescue swimmer.”

  Before she could speak again, he helped her flip on her back and she drifted to the surface. Well, almost. The waves kept splashing onto her, threatening to sink her body.

  He told her again to stay calm, not to fight, and he grabbed a handful of her collar. It was the classic clothes tow method. He was basically swimming sideways, pulling her along. It was hard, but they made progress.

  He hated himself for having left his jacket on the pier. He could have tied it up and used it as a flotation device for Gina. It wasn’t as good as a pair of pants, but it could have worked out. Now, even if he wanted to do it with their pants, it was too late. By the time he got it working, they would both be pulled under.

  Slow and steady, he told himself.

  That’s when he realized the water was cold. It was the middle of the night—the middle of a hurricane—and being at tropical latitudes didn’t make much of a difference anymore. The longer they remained in the water and the more they risked hypothermia.

  Normally, the water around here had to be close to eighty degrees, which meant that they had about an hour before they started losing dexterity. However, the temperature was dropping rapidly. Time was running out.

  They had to move fast!

  So much for slow and steady, he thought, kicking harder with his legs while doing his best not to hit Gina. The fabric of her blouse felt light between his fingers. It was flimsy and loose. Without looking back, he knew that the blouse had to be half off her chest by now.

  He had to get them both to the yacht before he tore off her shirt completely.

  “Rogan! Oh shit, Rogan!”

  What now? He didn’t have time to stop and ask her what was wrong. Every conversation slowed them down and they couldn’t afford that.

  But that’s when he understood that what was on her mind wasn’t unimportant. He saw it from the corner of his eye.

  Oh shit, indeed.

  A rogue wave hit them broadside. Rogan lost his grip on her blouse and swallowed a mouthful of saltwater. Everything became black.

  His body was spinning uncontrollably. It was like jumping out of an aircraft when you haven’t prepared for it. Up was down and up again. His heart was beating a mile a minute.

  Rogan extended his arms to gain stability and blinked several times to get used to the darkness and being underwater. He couldn’t see much. After a second, he felt some movement, like an unnatural current.

  He kicked to his left and made out the sinking shape of Gina. He kicked again, going after her. She was sinking, going down toward the bottom. She was panicking and every movement she performed made her drop deeper.

  He was running out of air and he could only imagine how she felt. Still, he had to get to her. Every second counted.

  He ignored the burning sensation in his throat and lungs and dove deeper, flexing his legs with strength he didn’t even have anymore.

  Yet it worked! He grabbed her shirt collar again and tugged. She looked at him, he could feel it. He yanked on her and she got the idea, kicking like he was doing.

  “Ugh!” she coughed as they broke the surface.

  She was choking and he kept her afloat even though he was himself coughing up water and catching his breath. That heavy rain made it seem like he was drowning, even out of the water.

  Rogan looked at the Jersey Devil; it was a lot bigger than it used to be. They were halfway there.

  “Gina, I’m gonna grab you differently, okay?”

  She nodded, still clearing her lungs.

  It was time for the cross chest tow technique. He spun her around and wrapped his arm across her chest. It wasn’t time for modesty, he concluded as he felt her breasts. Her body was jammed between his arm and his side, making her very snug against him.

  “I got you,” he said. “Don’t fight, all right?”

  “Okay.”

  “When we start moving, kick your legs so we go faster.”

  He was holding her a lot more firmly and his confidence grew. She took his advice and scissored her legs as he did. It compensated for his swimming with only one arm. Soon they found a rhythm that worked for them.

  One, two, three, kick!

  One, two, three, kick!

  One, two, three, kick!

  As they got into the groove, the yacht was within their grasp and with that Rogan started thinking. What else could go wrong?

  At first glance, nothing. They would be far enough from the island to be out of danger. They would get to call for help. He would get in touch with the two FBI agents who’d gotten him into this mess.

  They were safe. What if…

  Rogan glanced around. Were there sharks in these waters? Of course, there were. But what about in a hurricane? How did that affect their behavior? Did they go hide somewhere to ride it out or did the turbulent waters act as an invitation? What if the sharks were hungry?

  What if Rogan and Gina were an open buffet?!

  “Fuck me…”

  “What?” Gina asked, her voice trembling with concern.

  “I said ‘we’re home free’, that’s all.”

  One, two, three, kick!

  One, two, three, kick!

  He kept an eye out for fins, but it would be impossible to see in the dim light and with all these waves. Regardless, the ship was right there. They were at the stern.

  The objective being
so close gave Rogan energy. He swam hard as if they really had sharks on their tail and, at long last, he was able to touch the boat.

  “We’re here, Michael Phelps,” he said.

  He held on to the swim platform and helped Gina into an upright position. She got the gist of it and heaved herself up. He followed once he was sure she was on solid ground.

  “We made it,” she whispered between coughs and nervous giggles.

  “Promise made, promise kept. I would make an awesome politician. Tell your friends.”

  Rogan collapsed on his back. He was exhausted, but also relieved that the crazy night was finally over. No more fighting, no more chance of dying. No more killing.

  Then again, with his luck, it couldn’t be that easy.

  Chapter 39

  Rogan glanced around, euphoria becoming more intense than his other feelings had been for months. There were deck chairs. After all, this was the area of the ship from where people went swimming.

  “Over here,” he said.

  Gina barely looked up at him so he had to take her hand and lead her to the chairs. They both sat down and continued to rest. They were far away enough from the edge so they weren’t pelted by the rain anymore.

  “Are we really safe now, Rogan?”

  “Like kittens in a TP commercial.”

  Without another word, they wrung the water out of their hair, which was a somewhat more protracted process in Gina’s case. The wind was still harsh, the yacht rocking underneath them. It was cool and not that comfortable. Rogan didn’t mind though. He could have easily spent the rest of the week in the safety of this location.

  There was a bang.

  Rogan perked up. At first, he decided that the sound came from the marina in the distance. Probably a boat breaking in half or the pier finally crumbling into the sea. But no, the sound was sharper. Closer.

  He swiveled to his left and saw a shadow against the horizon. Someone was coming toward them.

  Rogan stood up, impulsively balling his fists. The entire night had been one giant clusterfuck. Why should this moment be any different?

  “Hello?” the stranger called.

  Gina got on her feet, siding up to Rogan, as if they were putting up a wall.

  The person came closer until they were illuminated by the dim bulbs of the stern deck. It was a man they had seen yesterday. Young, Hispanic. He was one of the stewards who had welcomed them on board.

  “What’s going on?” he asked with uncertainty.

  “Hey,” Rogan greeted. “Remember us? We flew in by helicopter on Friday. You gave us champagne.”

  The steward nodded, but he was still wary. “What are you doing here? We weren’t notified that anyone was coming. I didn’t hear any boats.”

  “We didn’t come by boat. Ever heard of Michael Phelps?” Gina elbowed him. “We swam, okay?”

  “You swam through this? Through a hurricane?”

  “We had a busy night and now we’re tired, cold, and wet. Could we possibly continue this conversation indoors?”

  “Oh yeah, sure, sure! Come inside.”

  The steward led the way. They were ushered to the grand salon, the luxurious living space where they had first hung out on Friday. The place was much more intimate at night like this. The windows on each side acted as mirrors and therefore made the area seem smaller.

  Rogan didn’t waste time and sat down on one of the cream leather sofas. Gina hesitated, but then took position next to him.

  “I’ll get you guys some towels.”

  “Thanks.”

  Just as the steward was leaving, the second steward came in. She was a woman in her mid-twenties.

  “I heard you talking before coming in,” she said with an Australian accent.

  Indeed, she was carrying a stack of towels in addition to some water bottles. Rogan and Gina took the water first, drinking with thirst. Rogan knew that it was best to pace himself, to go slowly to avoid cramps and other complications, but he was unable to stop himself.

  “Thank you,” Gina said as if the water had been a winning lotto ticket.

  “They swam to us,” the man told his colleague.

  “Swam? How is that even possible?”

  Rogan was out of breath from the drinking. He grabbed a thick terrycloth towel and dried himself as best as he could.

  “Don’t you know what’s going on?”

  “You mean the hurricane?”

  “I mean the marina going fucking boom! Didn’t you guys see it happen?”

  The Australian looked at the other steward. “We thought it was caused by the storm.”

  “Haven’t you heard gunshots?” Gina asked.

  The man shook his head. “We don’t hear nothing out here. It’s just four of us here—us, the captain, and the engineer—and we have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “What do you mean about gunshots?” the woman inquired.

  Rogan stood up. “We need to speak with the captain.”

  “Of course,” the young woman said.

  “Wait,” Gina exclaimed, raising her hand and looking down at her blouse which was ripped along every seam. “Is there any chance you have shirt I can borrow?”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Five minutes later, Gina and Rogan were heading to the bridge, feeling refreshed.

  The Australian woman had given Gina her University of Queensland sweatshirt, with matching sweatpants, while the other steward had given Rogan a blue polo embroidered with the Jersey Devil logo. The shirt fit well enough, but neither suggested trying each other’s pants. The steward was shorter than Rogan by almost a foot.

  Walking through the passageways, Rogan went over what he would tell the captain. He figured that the truth was a good place to start. In spite of everything, he had done nothing wrong.

  The only issue was how the captain would feel about his boss getting killed. His meal ticket was gone. Would he lash out at Rogan and hold him responsible? And what then? Surely, he wouldn’t throw them overboard because of that.

  They got to the bridge, the yacht’s pilothouse. In the front were large panoramic windows which covered the entire width, and right below was the helm and control panel. There was a proverbial captain’s chair and, behind that, a seating area usually reserved for the owner when he wanted to feel like he was in charge and show off to his guests.

  The captain was still in a white uniform. He turned toward the stewards.

  “What is happening?”

  “Captain Nemec,” the Hispanic man began. “These people swam from the island.”

  “What? Swam?”

  “We escaped,” Rogan explained.

  “Escaped from what?”

  “Seriously? Didn’t anyone notice the marina exploding? They probably could see that thing from the damn International Space Station!”

  The captain crossed his arms and creased his brow. “Tell me what is going on, sir.”

  “What is going on is that assassins got on the island and they killed everybody.”

  “What?” the Australian asked in a muted gasp.

  “Professional mercenaries, equipped for the Battle of Stalingrad. Everybody is dead.”

  “Everybody?” the captain asked.

  “Everyone. Sabatini, his kid, his hot psycho wife…”

  “Who was in on it, by the way,” Gina added.

  “They’re all dead. Her and me, we’re the only ones left.”

  Rogan didn’t think it was the time or place to elaborate on how the main mercenary, Blake, was still alive. He could rot on that miserable island for all he cared. That’s what he deserved.

  “My God…” the captain whispered.

  “So now that we made it over here, we need your radio. We need to call the US Coast Guard, the Bahamians, and a shitload of morticians.”

  The captain shook his head. “We… we can’t.”

  “Okay, forget about the morticians.”

  “The radio is down.”

  That was something Rogan hadn�
�t expected. “Excuse me?”

  “Because of the hurricane. We lost the signal. The radio doesn’t work.”

  Rogan was about to explode with rage, but all wasn’t lost. “Then let’s leave this place, okay? Raise the anchor, take off the parking brake, and we’ll have breakfast in Miami.”

  “In this weather, sir? With all due respect, that is crazy. It’s too risky.”

  “Captain, I didn’t want to say anything before, but there’s still one of the bad guys on the island. He has to have a boat stashed somewhere. That’s how they came on the island, has to be. That also means that he will eventually make his way over here. To us.”

  Gina looked at him, realizing for the first time that what he was saying was true. “Oh man…”

  “Yeah, what she said,” Rogan said. “If he comes here, we’re all fish food. So we either take the risk of hitting a few waves or we wait until Blake comes over here and finishes the job, killing everybody.”

  Nemec straightened up, clasping his hands behind his back like a junior officer at parade rest.

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “This ship and everyone on board is my responsibility. The odds of capsizing are more important than one man coming here from the island.”

  Gina snorted. “We made it!”

  “Yes, but this yacht wouldn’t make it out there,” the captain almost shouted, pointing at the wild seas through the windows. “It is my call.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Rogan said, shaking his head.

  No radio, no possible way to get out of here, a hurricane bearing down on them, and Blake out there wanting them dead. They were stranded and hopeless.

  Chapter 40

  All of a sudden, Rogan perked up. Maybe not hopeless. These days, most ships were equipped with DSC, Digital Selective Calling. It was a VHF maritime radio protocol that was part of the Global Maritime Distress Safety System. It was basically a signal burst encoded with a ship’s information that was sent out in case of an emergency.

  Glancing around, Rogan noticed the device on the control panel. It had an LCD screen along with a few buttons, looking like a modern car radio. One of the buttons was big and red, labeled DISTRESS.