HIGH TIDE

by Miller, Maureen A.

  “They went to the Merryweather,” he confirmed.

  Under the stark glow of the overhead light, his face looked sober.

  “What do we do?”

  “We don’t do anything. You go back to your car, and go home where it’s safe.”

  “Oh no you don’t. If you weren’t here I’d be down on that pier following those guys. I know it’s not the wise thing to do, but…”

  “Exactly. What are you trying to prove? Bree, we know it’s not Manale Palms. You can step back now.” Nick’s hands captured her shoulders, diligent not to aggravate her wound. “Look at me.”

  She obeyed and felt a lump grow in her throat.

  “I am serious when I’m saying that this isn’t a game. I’m getting a real bad vibe, and if I didn’t think they were just about to pull out to sea right now, I would call in a higher authority to handle this, but I don’t want to miss this opportunity to find out what they’re up to.” His voice gentled. “Please Bree, please stay out here and wait for me.”

  Her mouth opened to protest, but expelled a slow breath. “Does it matter that I’m going to worry about you?”

  There was a flash of something akin to pain in his eyes. Slowly, his smile replaced it. “It matters,” he whispered. “It matters a lot.”

  Nick leaned forward and kissed her.

  And then he was gone.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Her foot fell asleep. Briana leaned around the front bumper of the car to watch Nick hurdle the fence. The athletic maneuver fascinated her. To judge lapsed time, she began to count. When she reached two hundred and heard the engine of the Merryweather rev up, fear became her primary motivator. It imposed a call to duty as she darted on numbed toes to the far end of the fence. Cautious, she flanked it and peered through the rungs, but could discern nothing in the darkness.

  A muffled yell penetrated the stillness followed by a hollow thump that spurred her into action. She launched over the gate.

  Plastic-healed sneakers tread quietly down the planks, homed to the yellow glow of the Merryweather’s bridge. Tempted to call out Nick’s name, Briana held her tongue. She advanced as far as the filtered light would allow, and then squinted to better distinguish the forms locked in conflict near the ramp.

  A cloud shifted and moonlight blanketed the pier. Nick stood with his chest heaving and his long legs poised for flight, but the gun to his head rendered him immobile.

  Biting down on her lip to contain her scream, Briana watched in horror as Nick was shoved on board the fiberglass deck. Banking on the fact that the night and this heavy wooden column rendered her invisible, she barely gave a moment’s consideration before darting to the next post for a closer view. Anxiety had her gulping in the rank air. Aside from the action on the Merryweather, nothing else stirred.

  Less cautious and more concerned, Briana jogged closer to the vessel and heard Nick’s condemning oaths. With a sense of satisfaction she identified the solid smack of his fist against a crewmember’s jaw. Any moment now she expected Nick to sprint from the shadows and join her, but another blow from the dark silenced him.

  Frantic, she searched for a way to intervene. A silhouette count calculated that there were at least three of them, two physically restraining Nick and one immobilizing him with the gun. Daring to advance one more pillar she was spurred on by the altered rhythm of the engine. The Merryweather was about to pull out of port, and Nick was still on it.

  As surreal as this chaotic encounter was, Briana was certain of one thing. If that boat went out to sea with Nick aboard, the premonition that he would not return was too menacing to dismiss.

  She needed a distraction.

  Anxious, she scanned the pier. An orange, semi-deflated life preserver was mounted to a post near the closest trawler. She dared a brief interlude of exposure as she rushed into the open to grab it. Safe again in her hideout, she realized that Nick was no longer on deck, presumably ushered down below. As dismal as her plan was, there was no recourse but to execute it.

  With a hearty pitch, Briana sent the preserver arcing through the air to land with a deadened thud on a tourist vessel three slips back from the gate. She sank into the shadows and watched two murky profiles snap to attention. With agile moves, they hurdled the gap between the deck and pier, the metallic glint of weapons evident in their hands.

  Briana slunk around the pole in tandem with their approach, and held her breath. The gangly shadow with a sharp hook to his nose took the lead, while his stocky counterpart paused to inspect the bow of each vessel and finally jogged to catch up. She was afraid the pounding of her heart would expose her, but they passed by as she cautiously back-pedaled.

  This was her chance. Briana cringed at the soft thump of her feet when they connected with the fiberglass deck. Fear over noise was swiftly replaced with panic over the undulation beneath her. As quiet as it was, the soft lap of water against the hull had her stomach in knots. Instinctively, her hands flung out to seek equilibrium.

  Tucking her head down into her chin, she forced herself to breathe.

  What the hell do I do now?

  If she could make enough noise to coax the third crewman from downstairs, then once he alighted, she could bash him over the head. With—what? It was a foolhardy plan, one that was never productive in the movies.

  Propped at an angle against the bridge was a long gaff, a pole with a metal hook affixed to its end. The wooden rod alone was solid and bulky enough to do damage. It would have to suffice.

  Unable to locate the two henchmen, Briana had no choice but to trust that they were still engaged in their hunt. With little more than a swift appeal to Pele, she reached for the staff with her right hand and searched for a method to create a little noise as bait.

  Hip extended, Briana bumped a rubber canister over, and cringed when it made enough of a racket to trigger the island seismographs.

  Reacting on instinct and self-preservation, she swung the rod at anything that moved. The first target was a charging, ruddy-complected man ascending from below. His roar of pain made her shrink back from the stairwell, anticipating that another goon would storm up in his wake.

  The skin at the base of her neck tingled. Someone was behind her.

  With the rod extended, she swung around and aimed at the burly figure that jerked back just in time to avoid the hook slicing past his stomach. His sneer was malevolent—so much so, Briana nearly lost her grip on her weapon. She lashed out again, while at the same time taking a step forward to nudge him into retreat.

  A frenzied thrill that she was gaining ground spurred her on, but intuition buzzed again, warning that her triumph was about to end. She froze, the pole extended, her eyes locked on the dark prey before her.

  The flash of pain at the base of her skull was so brief, she was barely aware of it. In oblivion, though, such fundamentals were often suppressed.

  ***

  The first conscious thought was nausea. The second was pain. Both sucked.

  Pitched onto her side by the rocking motion of the Hatteras, Briana fumbled for stability. Discovering that her wrists were bound made it a futile attempt. With a moan, she shoved off on her sore shoulder and hoisted into a sitting position only to feel her stomach protest against the sway. To distract from the pain, she kept her eyes closed. A hushed call from the shadows prompted them back open.

  “Briana.” A pause. “Briana?”

  “Mmmmm.”

  “Open your eyes.”

  “No.” I want to sleep.

  “Briana, look at me.” The voice commanded. “We’ve got to find a way out of here.”

  Briana’s eyes flew open. The dim light divulged what her ears already determined. Nick. He was similarly bound, his mouth a tense slash in the dark as he struggled to tear free from his bindings.

  “Nick?”

  It took a moment for the cobwebs in her brain to recede. A shaft of moonlight illuminated his struggle in the small compartment. Her eyes acclimated as she began to reconstruct th
e events leading up to this moment.

  “Oh God,” she moaned. “I really blew it, didn’t I?”

  ***

  Nick ceased his efforts. He tipped his head back against the wooden hull and took a deep breath filled with saltwater and the bitter tang of sulfur.

  Thank God she was alright.

  Briana had been unconscious for nearly half an hour. It was a half hour in which he had raged at his incapacity, and a half hour where every effort to coax a response had failed. Powerless, he was left to stare at her ashen complexion and whisper words of encouragement on deaf ears.

  Just a few moments ago, the wooden crates stacked in the corner arrested his attention. With painstaking effort he shifted to that side of the hull and felt the nauseous clench of alarm grip his stomach. The contents were exactly what he had feared. When he would have probed further, Briana blessedly opened her eyes.

  “As much as the idea of throwing you over my knee and spanking you is alluring,” he whispered, “I don’t think it’s something I can manage at the moment.”

  A thin band of moonlight scored Briana’s face.

  “Why, Bree? Why did you do that? You were safe, you could have gotten away.”

  “I—I was afraid of what they would do to you.”

  A wrench in his chest that felt something like heartburn rattled him.

  “You know what, Miss Holt?” Even in the dark, he could see her shoulders stiffen as he spoke. “I think you’re beginning to like me.”

  “Don’t go getting all cocky on me, McCord. If you were to up and disappear, how would I ever be able to prove to you that Manale Palms isn’t responsible for your beach erosion?”

  Nick’s eyelids dropped. “I think we’ve pretty much narrowed down the culprit. I didn’t get a good look at the machinery they have on deck, but—” his gaze swept to the pile of crates. “Those are explosives, Bree. A potent enough explosion underwater could temporarily affect the tide—and it could destroy sea life.”

  Gaping at the boxes, Briana swallowed hard. “Oh my God, what the hell is going on? We’re in way over our heads.”

  Her words echoed hollowly through the cabin.

  “I would have kept you from this, Briana. I wouldn’t have let you get this close.”

  “But I didn’t listen.” She knocked her head back against the wall. “I came after you. I’m responsible for putting myself in this situation, so let’s just end that little debate shall we?”

  There it was, he thought. The power voice. Only that he had personally witnessed her softer side, did this part amuse him.

  Listening to the hull slice through water, and the distant thumps of activity from above, he studied Briana. There was a dimple of effort in her heart-shaped chin as she struggled against the thick-corded rope. His own efforts to shrug free of his bindings had proved futile, and it tortured him that he could not get to her.

  Frustration sounded from across the way. Briana’s head was angled back, looking up at the low ceiling. He traced the arch of her throat, and even in this dismal situation, still remembered the taste of it. That recollection made him more determined than ever to get them out of here. He did not want his time with Briana cut short. Forget his ridiculous indoctrination of the past...he wanted more with this woman.

  If they could survive.

  Briana’s head dropped and their eyes met. Moonlight revealed her fear, but she scooted up from a slouch and searched his body as if her gaze had the power to heal.

  “You must be cold,” she whispered.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I saw you shiver,” she observed. “You have no shirt.”

  Nick took stock of the bloodstain on her tank top. It alarmed him. Forcing his eyes away from that, he observed the goose bumps that dotted her arms.

  “Well, I’m looking at your chest too. You don’t have on much more than I do.”

  Damn, he wished he could see her blush. Because, power voice or not, he was certain she was blushing.

  “I’m alright,” she challenged.

  For a moment he remained quiet, but alert. “Briana, come here.”

  ***

  The moon must have shifted behind a cloud, leaving their chamber in dense shadows again. Nick’s command was haunting and faceless.

  Unsure, Briana remained still until she heard him repeat in a husky whisper, “Come here and keep me warm.”

  Unable to deny him that simple request—thinking that a physical connection was exactly what she craved most right now, Briana wriggled away from the wall. The ache at the juncture of her neck and shoulders made her suffer for the maneuver, but she still managed to skid over to Nick’s side where she felt him assess her with his glance. Rooted in his forehead was a deep frown as he contemplated the scratch on her shoulder. The blood-flow had stopped, but it needed a good cleaning.

  From this new perspective she angled her head and searched the cabin, trying to locate an avenue of escape. “Damn, I just wish there was a way out.”

  “I’ve looked,” Nick offered quietly. “I’m tied to a pipe. If I weren’t, believe me, I would have you off this ship already.”

  The husky declaration toyed with her nausea.

  From the dark, he murmured. “You’re not close enough.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Come closer, Briana.”

  His voice was soft, evocative, and she responded with little hesitation as she nudged forward until her body stretched the length of his. Clumsy with her hands confined, she listed slightly to her side.

  “Sorry,” she whispered as her elbow struck a rib.

  “Did you hear me complain?”

  For a moment she remained rigid, but Nick’s scent and that source of warmth proved too alluring. Instinctively, she burrowed into it, the temptation to relax into his shoulder too overpowering to resist.

  “That’s better,” he whispered into her hair.

  Silent, she brushed her cheek against flesh that smelled of salt. The steady heartbeat beneath her ear lulled her eyes closed. “I wanted to save you, Nick.”

  “You tried.” He kissed her hair. “That means a lot.”

  ***

  Why, despite the evident peril of their situation, did he feel somewhat content?

  I know why.

  As mad as he was at Briana for putting herself in danger—he knew she had done so out of burgeoning care for him. On that pier, in the dark, she put his safety before her own, and that was what now caused the odd quaver in his chest.

  Quietly he proclaimed, “You did good.”

  There was no response, just the soft brush of her breath against his flesh. It nearly made him forget about the pain in his shoulders, or the explosives sitting beside him.

  Nearly.

  Nick’s head snapped at the tread of footsteps from above. Briana reacted to the tension in his body one second before she too heard the rhythmic approach.

  Methodic footfalls carried down the stairs until with a forced wrench, the crawl-space door flung open. Light filtered from the bridge above to outline the figure stooped forward, his chilling leer enough to invoke images of cannibals. It was one of the men who had attacked him, and he now flashed an automatic in his hand...possibly a Glock.

  Beneath the cap of short black hair, a sheen of sweat glistened against sallow skin. At the high hairline, a network of protruding veins plotted a map towards hostile black eyes. Twitching in contemplation, thin lips sneered at Briana.

  Nudging into the alcove with his gun trained on Nick, the man announced, “Well, I have no clue who you two are, but I must say, your presence is most inconvenient.” Those black eyes dropped to Briana’s tank top. “So, for now you get to sit tight down here until we pick up some of my friends.”

  A hollow chuckle filled the narrow chamber. “And then,” he added, “we’ll see you on your way.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Nick spoke.

  A grin scarred the man’s face, a face that was pinched too small for his proportions. His phys
ique was tall, and even in this crouched position, corded sinews of muscle were evident beneath his tight black t-shirt.

  “We don’t like surprises.” The tone was hoarse with disdain.

  Having spent enough time in Mexico on USGS business, Nick identified the origins in the inflection. The Mexican cocked his head to the right and then dipped it to the left, like a jungle predator contemplating the best route of attack.

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to share the brainstorm that placed you on my ship?”

  “I don’t suppose we do.” Nick’s voice was stark.

  “You were trespassing.” The Mexican snarled. “Does it look like I have anything on board that is worth stealing? Or maybe—” he tapped a finger against his chin, and his black eyes narrowed. “Maybe you know.”

  Know what?

  Nick’s face revealed nothing, yet his mind reeled with questions.

  Fingernails continued to scrape against the bristly jaw. “If that’s the case—well, sorry, no more cuts of the action to go around. There’s already too many hands in the pot. So sit tight, you will be getting off soon.”

  The lilt in his voice hinted otherwise. In salute, he dipped his head, and then yanked the panel shut, trapping them in silence.

  Briana scooted across the floor and awkwardly slammed her good shoulder into the wooden partition. Irritation and anxiety had her grappling for a doorknob, but the surface was bare.

  “Easy, Bree. There will be an opportunity to get out of here.”

  “When? How?”

  “Soon.” It was impossible to stand in this cell, but Nick adjusted his body and craned his neck to peer through the small porthole. Except for the moon’s sporadic appearance, and the diffused glow from the overhead deck, the ocean was as black as the River Styx.

  Above, muffled footsteps made him tense for combat, but the restraints around his wrists barred him from any such feats.

  “See anything?”

  He turned around and found Briana crouched in the corner, blonde hair spilling out of its ponytail, and a cleft of determination denting her brow.

  “Look,” he began softly, “this doesn’t look too optimistic right now. Somehow I will find a way for us to get out of here. Just, don’t ask me how yet.” He nodded at her open mouth, cutting her off. “But when the time comes, I’m going to need you to trust me. Do you think you can?”