HIGH TIDE

by Miller, Maureen A.

  Briana’s mouth clamped shut.

  ***

  Trust Nick?

  Trust the man that held you so tight when the tide lashed out? Trust the man who momentarily kissed away your fears? Trust the man who carried you into the water with determination, but also with a reverence that made your chest ache?

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Their eyes met as the splash of the sea pounded against the hull.

  “Can you—” Briana cleared her throat. “Can you see anything out there?”

  “Very little.”

  She battled with the ropes again, but her wrists fell uselessly to the floor. Blowing a puff of air up at her bangs, she then began to nudge across the floorboards. With rigorous effort she reached Nick’s side, and tried to work her way up onto her knees to catch a glimpse of freedom outside the porthole. Unsteady, she teetered for a moment and gained enough equilibrium to search into the night.

  Black water erupted into a gentle froth directly below. Further out, the moon cast a choppy trail, a hazy path towards an uncertain destination.

  Turning to speak to Nick, she was startled at how close they were. Side by side, they knelt towards the light, his face a shade above hers, his lips just a breath away.

  “Nick,” she started.

  There was urgency in her tone, but she did not know how to voice her plea. Was she looking for a false sense of security? They were in serious trouble. Serious trouble. If there was a possibility that she was going to die tonight… goddamn, if they were going to be shot in this godforsaken hull, she wanted to kiss Nick one last time.

  When his head angled forward, she dipped in to meet it, but instead of kissing her, Nick rested his forehead against her hair. His breath rustled the strands and she closed her eyes to the sensation. If she kept them closed, then that was all there was—that connection, and everything else was abstract.

  Waiting grew interminable. The groan of the ocean against fiberglass played a relentless tune. Ebb and flow, ebb and flow. Briana felt her head rock limply atop her neck, like a bobble-head doll. She was going into a trance, a place where vivid nightmares lurked—a place that rendered her powerless as time regressed and the sound of the ocean swelled into fury.

  “Briana?”

  Jolted from the vision, her eyes flew open as she listened for the raging storm. There was no storm. There was nothing but the placid surf of the present.

  “Yes?” Her voice quivered.

  “We’re not going anywhere for awhile, do you feel like talking about it?”

  The chamber was dark now, with the overhead light from outside switched off and the moon seeming to have fled to a safe horizon half a world away. Solemn and deep, Nick’s voice bore a reassuring quality that eased some of the terror.

  “Talk about what? This mess we’re in? We’ve already discussed it. Our hands are quite literally, tied.”

  Nick shifted.

  “Not that,” he murmured. “What happened to make you afraid of the ocean?”

  “I’m not afraid of the ocean.” The volume of her response made her flinch. “I actually love the ocean, I spend so much time by it—heck I live on an island.”

  “You spend time by the ocean. Not in it. Want to tell me why?”

  “Not really.”

  Briana tipped her head back bleakly. The stillness by her side led her to believe that Nick had dropped the subject.

  “Well, if it means anything to you,” he persisted quietly, “I’m afraid of waterfalls.”

  Dazed by that testimony, she repeated, “Waterfalls?”

  Suddenly, she sucked in a waft of damp air as she recalled the newspaper articles taped to the wall in his den.

  “Were you hurt bad, Nick?”

  “Not fair, Ms. Holt. We were talking about you.”

  Nick’s gentle chiding cloaked a deeper fear that he wasn’t going to be able to get them out of this mess.

  Before the gun had knocked him unconscious, he determined that all three captors were armed. But it wasn’t their weapons that bothered him as much as the look in their eyes. Frenzied. A formula of fear, corruption, and redemption.

  Whatever it was they were hiding on this ship, they considered it to be their salvation. It was obvious in their glances, and in the actions that showed that they would go to any length to protect their investment. He knew that the lives of he and Briana meant nothing to these ambitious men. All he could do was bank on one opportunity.

  “It was Paka.”

  Lost in thought, he almost missed Briana’s quiet declaration. The underlying tone wrenched his head up. Narrowing his eyes, he located the vague shimmer of her hair from a belligerent stroke of moonlight.

  “The hurricane?” he prompted.

  The shadow of her nod confirmed it.

  Calculating the length of time since the harrowing storm struck Oahu, he estimated, “You were what, eleven—twelve years old?”

  “Twelve,” she whispered from the dark.

  “Tell me, Briana.”

  ***

  In the stillness of the cabin, the sound of the engine was a muffled purr that stirred up the ocean around them. Briana listened to Nick’s earnest plea and closed her eyes as if she could lock it out. Instead of talking, she wanted to just lean against him and soak up his heat. But that would indicate weakness, and every day after that wicked storm, she strove to conquer weakness.

  “I lost my parents. There’s nothing much to tell.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  There was sincerity in those words.

  “Tell me,” he encouraged.

  Briana’s head dipped forward. “It’s not so bad during the day. It’s just at night that the water truly terrifies me. When it’s black, and there’s no line between night and the sea— just a gaping void that could suck you in and you’d never be heard from again.”

  She closed her eyes and immediately was transported back to their seaside bungalow on the peninsula near the Marine base. Her father had risen early to hammer plywood against the windows, a precautionary measure even though the reports said the storm would miss them. Inside, Maria Holt distracted her daughter from the increasing wind by putting her in charge of baking cookies, while she nervously wrung her apron through her hands. That keening wind soon rocked the stilts that suspended the bungalow above the water.

  As the sun set, the hurricane arrived with a fury. Aggressive waves charged the defenseless cottage and water invaded their thin barrier so that now the floors were covered with an eddy of froth nearly three inches deep. Thomas Holt struggled with the hand-held radio, trying desperately to contact the Base, as Briana and her Mother huddled in the corner, watching the walls shake with each maddening rush of the surf.

  Briana clenched and unclenched her fists to entice circulation. The pain of her bindings brought her back to the present, but she could still see her father’s face, his jaw set in grim certainty. Sober blue eyes locked on her as he called Mayday, Mayday, over and over into the transmitter.

  A quake rocked through her body when the panel slid open and the cabin was pierced by a flashlight beam. She squinted against the shaft of light which was intended to blind them. The silhouette was vague, but her captor’s respiration was distinguishable. There was a guttural rasp to each intake of breath. A smoker.

  “Having a pleasant journey?” he chided. “It won’t be much longer, we’re about to pull into port so I’ll need to put these on you.”

  He reached around Briana’s head and roughly fastened a cloth between her teeth, cinching it until her jaw ached.

  In a skilled manner, the man shifted towards Nick, but wavered. Nick’s hostile glance conveyed a threat that gave the man pause. He shrugged off the effect and reached forward with the gag.

  Nick’s leg hooked under the hunched figure, his other thigh used to pin the man in a grasp that sent him sprawling onto his back. Clamping down with the vise of his thighs, Nick clutched the writhing form.

  “Briana, get his gun—and a
nything else we can use to get out of these ropes.”

  In a less than skillful move, Briana pivoted so that she could use her hands. Reaching for the 9mm wedged behind the Mexican’s back, she cringed when her knuckles brushed against his sweaty flesh. The threat that he might spring free at any moment made her motions jerky.

  Nick’s hold was unwavering, however. He afforded her the time to twist her wrist and secure the cold metal in the waistband of her jeans.

  Now her eyes were on the pocketknife attached to their captor’s key ring. Whimpering her frustration as she fumbled with the small device, she dropped it three times before her perspired palm grasped the slim frame. With a nervous glance at Nick, she was startled to discover him smiling at her. The strain on his face was minimal, as if only mild force was being exerted to secure the squirming man between his powerful thighs.

  “Take your time,” he urged quietly.

  Despite his calming effect, she jolted when the vile man thrashed in her direction like a trapped crocodile. Nick had only to clamp the vise, and his legs muffled their captor’s protests.

  Briana renewed her battle with the knife and barely acknowledged Nick’s words of encouragement. Finally the blade found a pattern and bit into the course fibers until she sensed a yield in the tension around her wrists. A flush burned her cheeks and perspiration beaded her forehead as she worked feverishly. With a triumphant groan she yanked her wrists apart.

  There was no time for hesitation. She crawled behind Nick and immediately began to saw at his bonds, only to discover that the blade had grown dull. Their captor continued to jerk in an effort to escape as Nick’s control began to wane. One more small incision and she yelped in relief when Nick wrenched his arms apart.

  The liberation was so intense that Nick nearly lost control of the wiry man. Frantic limbs scurried for a handhold, but Nick’s fist connected with the Latin man’s angular jaw as the figure deflated and lolled on his side, unconscious.

  Briana gasped.

  “It had to be done,” Nick said evenly. “You want to get out of here don’t you?”

  Wide-eyed, she shifted her gaze from him to their motionless captor and back again. Yanking her gag off, she uttered hoarsely, “It’s just that you made that seem so easy.” Breathless, she added, “I want to be able to do that.”

  Nick shook his head. “I don’t doubt that for a minute.”

  Standing as erect as the compartment would allow, he reached for the gun. Briana’s hand shook, but she gladly surrendered the weapon and willingly entwined her fingers with his when he offered them.

  “Okay, stay behind me.” His voice dropped. “And stay quiet.”

  “Aye-aye,” she whispered.

  Briana climbed across their captor, fearing that his hand would fasten around her ankle as she did so, but there was no such manacle. He remained unconscious.

  ***

  As they emerged topside from the stairwell, Nick held up a cautionary hand. He scanned the deck, surprised to find it empty. A disembodied voice finally revealed the location of the last crewmember. He was engaged in conversation down on the pier, and was essentially a non-issue.

  Nick searched beyond the black ocean to get his bearings. The lights of Honolulu were in the distance, and in closer range, he located the twelve-story Mandarin Resort, which meant they weren’t far from Kahala. He didn’t recognize the wharf they were docked at, but it was definitely private. One of many that belonged to wealthy Gold Coast homeowners.

  With a jerk of his head, he prompted Briana out of the shadows and then reached for her arm to pull her close where he could whisper against her ear.

  “You’re not going to like this.”

  “What?” she asked. “How many of them did you see?”

  He took one last glance behind him.

  There had to be another way.

  But every avenue could lead to an armed adversary. Every opportunity was hedged with a trap. Making it down to the wharf was simply not an alternative. For him—maybe, but he wasn’t going to put Briana at risk.

  This was the safest option. The only option.

  He met her wary gaze and his stomach clenched. He didn’t want to do this to her.

  “We’re going to have to swim to shore.”

  ***

  A quick intake of breath and a brief bout of vertigo. Desperate, Briana searched Nick’s eyes for a sign of compromise, but they were bleak and earnest. She looked over the rail at the black water, and felt her knees begin to quake.

  Too proud to say no, nonetheless, she was too scared to budge. She knew Nick was right. This was the most practical means of escape. The only means. But the less rational side of her searched in vain for an alternative.

  With no recourse, she looked up to him. So much trepidation there. It filled her with resolve.

  “I know I’m asking a lot,” Nick’s fingers bit into her arms. “You have to trust me, Briana. I won’t let you get hurt. This coast isn’t too deep, it’s relatively gentle, and we’re only about a thirty-yard swim to safety.”

  Briana swallowed and wished she could speak, but her voice had fled along with the blood in her face.

  As if he could rekindle the flow, Nick brushed the tips of his fingers over her cheeks, and said hoarsely, “I’ll go down first. We’ll have to climb over and drop from the railing—less splash that way.” He hesitated. “Briana I’ll be there waiting for you—just reach for me.”

  A sob wrenched from her throat. She wasn’t a fool. She knew this was the only way to escape, and she wasn’t about to threaten Nick’s safety because of her own insecurities. But the water was black.

  So black.

  “Briana,” Nick whispered with hushed urgency as they heard voices in the distance.

  With deliberate care, he laced a finger beneath her chin and tilted her head back. He looked long and hard into her eyes before his mouth slowly dipped to graze her lips. The voices grew closer, but Nick kissed her again—a caress of faith.

  “Follow me.” It was a husky command.

  Panic and the effects of his gentle kiss had her heart pounding so hard, she thought surely it would wake the unconscious man below. White fingers clenched around the balustrade as she watched Nick climb over and snake his way down as far as possible. With his fingers wrapped around the bottom rail, he gave her one last sober look and then let go.

  The splash seemed deafening to her as she snapped to see if the crew of the Merryweather had reconvened and was about to pounce. But, all she heard were Nick’s words of encouragement from below.

  A phantom voice calling from a dark void.

  A seafaring deity lulling her towards doom.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Briana hoisted a leg over the rail and sat straddling it. She pulled back her shoulders and took a moment to drag in a gulp of air. With her eyes trained on the polished wood beneath her hands, she clambered over and inched down to hang by a death grip. All she could manage was a simple prayer to her Mother before she closed her eyes and let go.

  The cold was a shock. Gasping, her mouth filled with brackish liquid. Clawing to the surface, Briana choked and tried to swallow the sound rather than reveal herself to the enemy.

  Kick, Little Orchid.

  A hand gripped under her armpit. She fought against it.

  “Easy, it’s me.”

  The calm voice made her focus in this black vacuum. As she bobbed in the water, there were brief flashes of light in the distance, and the solid white hull of the Merryweather before her. Each time her head dipped beneath the surface, she was tortured by obscurity—a strobe-effect of deadly proportions.

  “Kick, Briana.”

  Convulsing underwater, Briana’s legs twitched and began to pump. Her hands reached for something to latch onto, but flailed uselessly under the surface.

  “Listen to me.” The whisper was nearby when she surfaced. “You’re not going to drown. You’re doing fine. Just keep kicking and use your arms like this.”

  She
turned towards the sound and located Nick’s silhouette slicing through the water, one arm making contact with hers at every arc. It was a stabilizing touch to let her know he was there. Instinctively, she mimicked the motion, drawing on innate lessons taught from childhood, an innocent time before Paka.

  After a few awkward strokes, she discovered that she was barely relying on his touch. She swam on impulse and ignored the gentle swells, careful not to look beyond them for a glimpse of her father’s tawny hair, or listen for her mother’s tender voice.

  “A little further, Bree. We don’t want to come in too close.”

  Blindly she followed, concentrating only on the next stroke, the next kick. Don’t think.

  Eventually, her feet scraped the bottom.

  Nick stood beside her, and from the angle of his head, she could feel him watching her. In her periphery she saw apprehension stiffen his shoulders, which gleamed beneath the moonlight. Ignoring the image, she plowed forward, sensing the glow of the sand only yards away. With a groan she collapsed onto it, and were it not for the stoic source of strength that stood beside her, she would have surrendered to the tears tucked behind her eyes.

  ***

  Nick saw Briana crumble and rushed towards her. At the last second he drew up, realizing by her stance that it was not what she wanted from him.

  On her knees, with her head down and gentle convulsions racking her slim spine, he felt her pain as if it were his own. Witnessing that vulnerability, he yearned to hold her. What he also sensed was an alarming kinship. A wall surrounded Briana Holt—a barricade he was all too familiar with. Neither of them wanted to reveal vulnerability to the outside world. And yet, if there were ever a moment that they would simultaneously yield, the weakness would either prove their demise—or their resurrection.

  “Briana,” he whispered.

  Her head lifted, but the vacant gaze remained on the ghostly silhouette of a palm that twitched a hula in the breeze.