Code Name_Redemption

by Natasza Waters

  His brow arched. “Why are you so sure I will?”

  Because you’re a fucking psychopath! She wanted to scream, but losing control would only end her life quicker.

  A dribble of sweat coursed down her cheek, and she rubbed it off on her shoulder. “Because you have no empathy. You love to cause pain. I don’t know why, only you do. No matter the reason, you spilled the blood of nine innocent women.”

  “It was their choice. All they had to do was please me. They didn’t. I want the perfect Sub, and I’ve found her.”

  “What about the Sub you had when you killed Diana. He was with you. Who is he?”

  Brett shrugged. “Not a Sub. An acquaintance, and he’s gone.”

  She swallowed. “Gone as in dead, or gone as in you nurtured another killer?”

  “Why are you interested in him?” he said harshly.

  Panic rose in the form of bile in her throat. Don’t make him angry. Playing his twisted game was the hardest thing she ever did, but she changed her tone. The one she used to interview people for an article. “Are the women in Victoria your only victims?”

  Brett sighed and sat his ass back on the deck with his legs bent and an arm hooked around his shin. “Beth was the woman I loved for many, many years.”

  Beth? Who the hell was Beth?

  She nodded. “And she died?”

  “She did.”

  “An accident?” Mattie didn’t doubt it was Brett who had killed her.

  He got to his feet and stared down at her. “We all have to move on.”

  Her eyes trailed all the way up his imposing height to his face. “Look at you. An intelligent man. Handsome…polite when you choose to be. Why waste your life killing women when there’s so many who would instantly fall in love with you? Share your life.”

  She knew her questions were ridiculous. He was a psychopath who couldn’t understand love, and by the sounds of it, the loss of Beth had turned him into a killer.

  “That’s all I want too, Mattie, and I’m going to share it with you. If you please me, we’ll have a long, gratifying life together.” He stepped toward the hatch to leave. Probably to take command of the ship and depart Victoria.

  Desperate to keep him with her only because if they set sail, her hope for escape would be gone. “Who the hell are you?”

  Eyes like shards of emeralds turned on her. “I’m a Blackney. My family holds one of the darkest secrets of the nineteenth century. You asked why the historical locations?”

  She swallowed thickly, and nodded.

  “In honor of my descendant. I’m like him. Looking for perfection in a mate.”

  Mattie shook her head. “You think you’re related to Jack the Ripper, don’t you? That’s why you chose Victoria and the historic sites.”

  “I don’t think—I know.”

  “But why here, in Victoria? Why not England?” Not that she’d wish this hell on any country.

  He smiled as if honored to tell the story and stepped away from the hatch.

  “My ancestors were seafarers. My great-great grandfather captained one of the clipper ships for the Black Ball Line.” He hunched down as if telling a bedtime story to a child. “A round trip voyage from New York to Liverpool. His son followed in his footsteps. As did I. When the voyages ended, they settled in England.”

  Oh, my stars. She was on the Coho.

  “Brett, killing is not a DNA trait. How are you so sure your ancestor was Jack the Ripper? Many people have claimed they were.”

  “Journals, Mattie. My descendant was given a ship to captain in 1818 for the Black Ball line. After his years at sea, he became a journalist. Just like you. But one journal in particular was handed down from father to son. They were the adventures of the Blackney mariners. In 1888 the journal was locked away. The original Blackney wrote about his family, and about his grandson, Alexander, who also became ship captains. In 1878 at the age of thirty, he too was given a ship on the Black Ball Line, but hard times closed the line and he only sailed one year with them. A string of bad luck followed Alexander. By this time, Alexander’s father had the journal and continued to write the family tale. He worried about his son who tended to be aggressive in nature. At forty, Alexander still hadn’t married and liked to spend his time in the brothels of Whitechapel instead of settling down.

  “One of the last entries Alexander’s father made in the journal noted how he’d followed his son late one night into the alleys of Whitechapel. In August of 1888, he watched with horror as his son slaughtered one of the women who became known as a Ripper victim.”

  Blackney beamed with pride as if the horrific murders of the poorest women of Whitechapel was a victory. Mattie didn’t know if she believed Brett or not. But there was probably some truth in the tale.

  She raised her gaze to meet his. “Then why don’t you chronicle instead of kill?”

  For a moment he stared, a slight wrinkle on his brow. “There was an entry by Alexander in the journal. It said he’d found a wife. A woman who understood his needs. They moved to America to start anew in the spring of 1899, and settled in Port Angeles, but sadly his wife died in September of the same year.”

  Mattie’s heart ticked as the wheels of fate clicked into place. “Did he come to Victoria?” She licked her dry lips. “Did he murder Agnes Bings?”

  One perfect slash of brow arched. “He was heartbroken, Mattie. Just like I was when I lost Beth. She understood me. She kept the need to kill in my darkest place by giving me her submission and her body.” He stared at the deck with deep creases on his brow. “Her love chained the darkness back into the corner.”

  He stood, staring down at her with his handsome cut jaw, looking absolutely debonair in his uniform. He was the epitome of the most alluring male she’d ever seen next to Greg. “Wait!” She yelled when he turned for the door.

  He shook his head. “A little longer and we’ll have hours to explore.”

  She wasn’t waiting for anything. She’d chew through the rope at her ankles if she had to. “The reprieve. You stopped killing in April and didn’t start again until October. Why?”

  Blackney’s eyes narrowed as if considering he might share with her something he wasn’t certain he wanted to share. He turned and put a hand on the white handle of the hatch then paused. “I know you think I’m psychotic. Most would.” He shook his head. “I’m not. I function in society like everyone else. I pay my taxes. I treat my crew fairly. Football is my favorite sport to watch.” He looked down at his hands. “It’s like an addiction, Mattie. The blood. The pain. I can’t stop without Beth. Although she was my wife and my submissive, she leashed my desires.” His voice was barely a whisper. “She controlled the beast inside me.” He turned a sharp look over his shoulder at her. “After she died, I vented what I could at the Dark Angel. But then I saw Aimee. She reminded me so much of Beth.” His expression caved with honest grief. “I couldn’t stop. I was so angry at Beth for leaving me.” He inhaled deeply and blinked the glaze of tears from his eyes. “I didn’t want to kill her nor the second or third. In April, I turned to the club for release. It worked. For a while.” He shook his head. “I hope you have what I need.”

  The heavy metal door clanged shut behind him, and so did the hope that she would escape alive.

  A headache pulsed through Mattie’s temples. Sitting on her ass and tied to the pipe, her head too heavy to hold up, she stared at the granules of dirt on the dull grey deck. For what seemed hours, she could do nothing but contemplate the worst outcome since he’d locked her in the tiny room. When the ship’s engines trembled to life under her feet, she swore she would not cry. The undeniable motion meant they were leaving the dock.

  The dimly lit, six foot by six foot space contained one shelf of engine parts and various cardboard boxes, all out of reach. She wiggled her fingers and toes, numb from the tight cinch of handcuffs around her wrists and the rope wound around her ankles. He’d secured her to a pipe leading from the ceiling that continued through the floor.
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  Brett would be on the bridge, but no one would hear her scream with the deafening thud and drum of the ship’s massive engines. Desperation cut deep.

  Her next port of call would be death.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  A cap pulled low over his brow and a braided coil of cable slung over his shoulder, Greg shielded his features as he gave a short wave to the deckhands and crossed the vehicle ramp. Over his right chest pocket the name Simpson was stitched on the crew jacket he wore. The third engineer would be waking up soon, but wouldn’t be calling out to anyone with the duct tape over his mouth. It was shithouse luck the crewman was nearly his same height. Greg borrowed his pants, shirt, coat and cap, quickly changed, and made his way toward the ferry.

  The deckhands didn’t give him a second look. By now, Captain Blackney, aka The Victoria Ripper, would be on the bridge preparing to depart. Although the captain always had his own quarters, most likely next to the bridge, he wouldn’t take a chance. One mistake, and Mattie would be screaming to high heaven, and he couldn’t risk the crew finding her.

  Greg scanned the vehicle deck filled to three quarters capacity and with only a couple more cars to load, he had to think like a madman. Wasn’t difficult. His emotions were in chaos. He’d deployed on dangerous missions over the years where the outcome was critical. But none like this one.

  Hang on, Mattie. I’m coming to get you, sweetheart.

  On the ride over, Austen relayed what Kayla had said on the phone. She’d pieced together enough clues to identify Captain Brett Blackney as the Ripper. The ferry crossing from Victoria to Port Angeles took ninety minutes. The sonofabitch sailed to safety every time the ship transited into US waters.

  Greg walked along the portside bulkhead, then cut through the vehicles toward midships, hoping to find access to a lower deck. The only place to hide Mattie would be away from the passengers. She had to be in or near the engine room.

  He checked two hatchways, both padlocked. Passengers meandered between the cars, following the signs to the stairs which lead to the upper decks. While tourists politely waited for their turn to enter the hatchway, Greg turned to see another hatch, the one he wanted. A grate covered the entrance, but the door was open. He smiled, seeing a plastic twist tie secured the grate. Digging in the pocket of his pants, he found a small folded knife. With a swift look over his shoulder, he cut the tie. Relief washed through him. Passengers weren’t allowed to remain in their vehicles during the crossing, and no one paid attention to him, intent on getting upstairs where they could get a bite to eat and find a seat in one of the lounge areas.

  When he’d boarded, the wind tugged at his clothes as a gale moved across the southern tip of Vancouver Island. It would be a bumpy crossing. Most folks would sit tight while they transited the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

  With a quick survey, and no crew taking notice of his movements, Greg pushed the grate open and stepped onto the vibrating deck plates. Quickly, he moved down a tight corridor and descended the metal stairs. The temperature rose several degrees and the turbo-charged engines, exhaust fans and other machinery drowned his insertion with ambient noise.

  The ship had been sailing between Port Angeles and Victoria for over fifty years. Almost unheard of in the ferry industry, but the owners had given her a refit in 2004, removing the old diesels. Taking care not to be seen by the engineers, he darted past the massive engines and through another hatchway at the opposite end of the room. Four doors, two on either side, lined the passageway. He checked each. When he came to the last door on the starboard side, he palmed the chain linked through the handle and secured with a combination lock. Fuck.

  “Mattie.” He called out and hammered on the door, then pressed his ear to the warm steel.

  “Greg! I’m in here. Get me out!”

  The stress keeping him on a slippery slope of dread melted away with her words. “Hang on.” He could really use his team’s Lead Breacher right about now, but a pair of bolt cutters would do just as well.

  He sensed someone behind him in the hallway at the same time the guy shouted, “Hey, what’re you doing?”

  Greg turned to see the Chief Engineer and the confusion on his face as he read the name on Greg’s coat.

  “You’re not Simpson.”

  “I need bolt cutters.”

  “Get the fuck outta my engine room.”

  Greg lunged and grabbed the wiry man in his late fifties by the collar. “A woman is being held captive in that room.”

  The guy’s eyes grew to twice their size. “What woman? I’m calling the bridge.”

  “You’ve got a hostage secured in your engine room. You want to explain that to the cops? Find those cutters.”

  “I didn’t put anyone in there.”

  “No, but your captain did. See for yourself.” He shoved the guy against the door.

  The engineer’s brow crushed together when he palmed the combination lock. “This shouldn’t be chained.” He pulled on the links and then yelled out. “Anyone in there?”

  “Please, let me out,” Mattie screamed at the top of her lungs.

  The engineer jerked back in surprise. “What the fuck is going on here?”

  “Get—the—cutters.”

  The engineer removed his cap, revealing a balding head. Sweat beaded on his brow and he swept it with a forearm. “Who is she?”

  “Her name’s Mattie Bidault. She’s a journalist for the New Times Colonist.”

  “The lady writing that Ripper story?”

  “Your captain is under suspicion for murder.”

  The guy shook his head. “You on fucking drugs? Captain Blackney has worked here for ten years. Best damn captain we’ve got.”

  “Bolt cutters,” Greg demanded, losing his patience.

  “Sir?” Another man appeared in the narrow passageway.

  “Jesus!” The Chief Engineer took a second to decide, then said, “Jefferson, get the bolt cutters.”

  “Sir?”

  “Just get them.”

  Within two minutes, Greg applied the blades of the cutter to the chain and snapped the links. When he opened the door, the engineer jumped into the room before him.

  “Jesus, have mercy. What the hell are you doing here?” the Chief Engineer exclaimed.

  Mattie blinked up at them. Tears streaked her cheeks. Her arms were restrained behind her back and her ankles tied with rope. “Please, take these off. We have to stop the ship and call the police.”

  Just as she said that the engines changed pitch. Greg looked for the other engineer and realized what had happened. “You sent your second to the bridge, didn’t you?”

  The Chief Engineer knelt to one knee and untied the rope around her ankles. “I don’t know you, but it’s the Captain’s ship.”

  Greg used the cutters to break the chain on Mattie’s cuffs. She moaned and shook her arms out, the cuffs separated but still clamped around her wrists.

  “Hurry!” She tossed the rope aside and stumbled to her feet.

  He steadied her with a hand to her waist. “Easy, Mattie.” Fuck, he was so damn glad to see she was unharmed.

  “He’s completely insane, Greg.”

  “I’m taking you upstairs. Kayla’s onboard. Find her, I’ll take care of Blackney.”

  She blinked. “You know he’s the Ripper?”

  “Kayla figured it out. Let’s go.”

  * * * *

  Kayla needed access to the bridge, but couldn’t do it without a good excuse, so she’d approached the purser and asked for a tour. She explained she was employed by the American Navy and her husband was a retired SEAL. Any reason would serve her purpose and she had a lot more BS lined up but when she mentioned her husband, the woman’s eyes went all gooey.

  “Your husband’s a SEAL?” Hero worship glinted in the purser’s eyes like a teenager catching wind of a rock star moving in next door.

  If she knew the truth about life with a SEAL and how hard-assed they could be, the rose-colored glasses would come
off pretty damn fast. “Twenty-some years. He’s the Admiral of the West Coast chain. I was—”

  “Is he as hot and gorgeous as the books I read?” The purser’s cheeks blushed. “I’m sorry! That’s rude, isn’t it?”

  “Books? Oh, um—yeah, totally.” Kayla refrained from rolling her eyes. “Think I could get that quick tour of the bridge?”

  “Of course. I’ll take you up there myself. Follow me.”

  Kayla gripped the railing and took the interior stairs leading to the bridge. The purser’s ample rear-end, covered in a dark blue polyester, led the way two steps in front of her.

  When they reached the top of the stairs, they walked down a hallway ending at a locked door. The purser tapped on the metal hatch.

  Not exactly high security.

  Someone from inside answered with a curt response.

  The purser raised her voice. “Have a passenger who’d like a tour.”

  “Not now,” a male voice responded gruffly.

  The engines slowed and the backward sway and shuddering beneath Kayla’s feet indicated someone had gone from full ahead to all stop.

  No time to waste, Kayla gripped the handle and, praise be to God, it opened.

  The purser yipped. “You can’t—”

  “Just did.” She thrust her shoulder at the door and rammed the hatch open, vaulting inside to see four heads swivel at her invasion.

  The Purser chased after. “You’re not allowed—”

  Kayla scanned the wheelhouse. Darkened for the night crossing, the multi-colored indicator lights didn’t offer much illumination. The navigation officer sat in a raised chair surrounded by the command console. Three other crew stood behind him, but the captain’s chair was empty.

  “Where’s Blackney?”

  Mute, they stared at her.

  “Where is the Captain?” Out the front window, three ships approached, their masthead lights showing a bright white light. Hopefully, one was a US Coast Guard cutter.

  A cold woosh of wind rushed into the bridge through an open door to her left.

  “What the hell is going on?” the Chief Mate barked.

  The VHF radio crackled and a voice said, “MV Coho, this is the United States Coast Guard Cutter Swordfish. Prepare to be boarded. Have your crew open the vehicle hatch immediately.”