This is without a doubt the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, I thought. If they woke and saw me, I was dead for sure. But Hannah had no other hope. And that meant I was doing it.
I gritted my teeth, stretched out my leg, and came down on my toes, right in the crook of the guy’s arm. There was no room to put my heel down and spread the weight. It felt as if I’d put my toes down onto foot-long metal spikes and now I was forcing them—
Up
Into
My
Calf
I froze there for a second, teeth grinding so hard my jaw ached. I wanted to curse and scream but I couldn’t. And now I knew it would get worse. I had to put all my weight on my bad leg and swing the other leg over the sleeping guys and onto the stairwell. I started to lift my back foot and—
I stopped. My brain’s self-defense mechanism had kicked in. It wouldn’t let me do it: not all my weight. Not on my toes, not slowly and silently. It would hurt too goddamn much.
I took a deep, silent breath and gathered myself. I thought of Hannah’s soft golden hair and the way her pale skin gleamed when it was wet. I thought of those blush-pink lips and the way she opened under me, nervous and eager at the same time—
I stepped.
Every individual fiber in my muscles screamed as if they were being plunged into boiling water and then scrubbed with a wire brush. I wanted to be sick. I wanted to cry. That’s how bad the pain was.
In my mind, I put my arms around Hannah, pulled her close, and buried my face in her shoulder. I focused on the feel of her, the smell of her....
My good leg came down on the first step of the stairwell. I took the weight off my bad leg and forced myself not to cry out in joy.
I took a second to take stock. My bad leg was agony, too painful to even put down, and I wondered if I’d permanently damaged something. I had to use my arms to support me as I struggled down the stairs. But it had worked: everyone was still asleep.
Downstairs, I mouthed a silent curse. The treasure was piled all around me in gleaming mountains, like Aladdin’s goddamn cave. It sunk in just how rich Ratcher was going to be, even after he gave his crew their cut. There must be hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth there. I reached into a crate brimming with gold coins. Just one fistful would fill my bank account….
I stopped with my fingers just brushing a doubloon. If I dropped one, or they jingled in my pocket, I was dead.
There was only one item that mattered. I searched the entire hold for the stone and the bottle taped to it: nothing. Ratcher must still have it in his pocket. Unless he’d thrown it away. Don’t even think that, I told myself.
I sought out the locker where they kept the explosives. While I was old-school and stuck to dynamite, Ratcher had all the latest gear. It took me twenty minutes to figure out how it all worked, but eventually I got it done.
I crept up on deck and saw Ratcher near the other end of the boat, sprawled in a chair. His head was thrown back, his snores splitting the air.
I began to move towards him. My plan was simple: I’d confront him and tell him how I’d rigged the hold to blow. All I had to do was press the button on the remote detonator in my pocket and the whole bottom of the boat would be destroyed. The boat would take a while to go down but the treasure would drop straight out and sink to the sea bed. And the water was deep enough, here, that it would be out of anyone’s reach. But all he had to do was give me the cure and I’d walk away and leave him with the treasure.
Ratcher wasn’t dumb. He’d take the deal. And then I could get the cure back to Hannah and—
The muzzle of a gun pressed painfully against my scalp from behind.
Shit.
61
Hannah
I watched through the binoculars as they searched him and took something small from his pocket: the remote detonator for the explosives, I guessed. Then they pushed him over to Ratcher and he staggered: his leg seemed even worse than usual, he didn’t seem to be able to use it at all.
Then Ratcher had two of his men hold Rourke’s arms, so he couldn’t fight back, and he started to hit him with his ham-sized fists.
I lowered the binoculars, unable to watch anymore. I knew calling the police would be useless. By the time they responded and boarded the boat, Rourke’s body would be at the bottom of the ocean. It was over.
Unless…
I looked at the sea and my stomach twisted. After everything I’d been through with Rourke, my fear had subsided a little. But diving with Rourke close to islands was one thing. Swimming out into the vast ocean...that was my worst nightmare. It would be exactly like when I lost my mom.
I looked at the rail Rourke had dived over: that was the fastest way to the water and I needed to be fast, now. They’d kill him, if I didn’t stop them. How the hell am I going to stop them?
Time to think about that later. If I didn’t go right now, he had no hope at all.
I kicked off my shoes, t-shirt, and jeans and then ran towards the rail. I ran because it meant less time to chicken out.
Ten steps away. The ocean below was endless, the Pitbull just a white blob in the distance. I can’t!
I have to.
Seven steps and I started to falter. The drop was much, much further than I’d expected: twenty feet, at least. I gulped and slowed, glancing at the Pitbull.
Without the binoculars, Ratcher’s men were dots, swarming like flies around the larger tan dot that was Rourke. It was twenty to one.
I had to save him.
I let out a wordless, desperate cry and picked up speed again. Three steps from the rail, it became real. I’m actually going to do it. I’m actually—-
And then I jumped over the rail and flew out into space, arms pinwheeling. Oh Christ, what have I done?!
62
Hannah
I plunged into the water and the sea forced its way up my nose and down my throat. I surfaced coughing and choking, just in time for the first wave to hit me in the face. The waves hadn’t looked all that big from up on McKinley’s terrace. Now, they rose far above my head: I couldn’t even see the Pitbull. And I could feel the currents pulling at me, dragging me where they wanted to go.
I gave a strangled gasp. I’d been in the sea plenty, since this all started. But this was the first time I was out here, in the open ocean, all on my own.... And suddenly, the fear was rising up inside me, stealing my breath and numbing my muscles. It felt exactly like it had that night I lost my mom. The sea was so big and I was so small....
I twisted around. The shore was right there, a short swim away. I don’t have to be out there, this time. There’s no current. I can choose to be safe. I took one stroke towards it. A second.
Then I slowed. Stopped. Floated.
My man was out there, on that boat.
This is crazy. You can’t do this! You’re not brave like him!
Or maybe Rourke was right. Maybe bravery wasn’t a lack of fear. Maybe it was being scared—
I sucked in a long, shaky breath and turned around to face the open sea.
Being scared and doing it anyway.
I threw myself forward, smacking into the next wave and then climbing it as it lifted me skyward. I’d barely crested that one when the next one started bearing down on me. It broke in my face and I coughed and choked, blinking salt water from my eyes and frantically trying to climb the next one. The panic started to rise. Oh God, what am I doing?
But then, as I reached the peak of that wave, I caught a glimpse of the Pitbull in the distance. And I saw the tiny smudge of tan I knew was Rourke.
I drew in a deep breath and wrestled the panic down. He was out there and I was going to get to him. One wave at a time.
That’s how I did it. I didn’t let myself think about how huge the ocean was, or how deep the water beneath me was, or how no one knew where I was, if I got into trouble. I just climbed the next wave, and the next wave, and the next wave. Until, shoulders aching and legs burning, I finally reached the Pitbull. W
hen I glanced over my shoulder at the shore, I couldn’t believe how far away it was, or how big the waves were. I swam that?!
I turned back to the Pitbull. I couldn’t see anyone keeping watch on the Pitbull. Shouts and cheers from the far end of the boat told me they were all gathered in a crowd and my stomach twisted as I thought about what that might mean for Rourke. I’m coming for you, I thought.
I had no weapon. No plan. I thought for a second. What would Rourke do? Get aboard the boat. How? Climb up the anchor chain.
I swam around until I found it and then got my arms around it and tried to climb. God, how did Rourke do this? I hadn’t climbed a rope since school gym class and the chain was wet and slippery, with steel links that dug into my palms. I let out a litany of curses as I clambered ungracefully up it. The only thing that stopped me falling was that I knew I’d make a noise if I fell and Ratcher’s men would come running.
I rolled over the rail and landed, dripping and exhausted, on the deck. Everyone seemed to be on the upper deck. I decided to creep up there and see if I could grab a gun, and then try to force them to let Rourke go.
I crept up the stairs, slowly stuck my head around the corner and—
They were all clustered at one side of the upper deck. They’d found a piece of board and three of Ratcher’s men were standing on one end, weighing it down, so that the rest of it could extend out over the water. And standing at the far end, hands tied behind his back, was—
My chest constricted in fear. His face was swollen and bloodied where they’d beaten him. His injured leg seemed to have failed him completely: he was barely able to stand. And now the bastards were making him walk the plank. I thought about drowning like that: your hands tied, unable to swim, seeing the surface rise away from you as you fell down and down...I couldn’t imagine a worse way to go.
Ratcher was leaning out along the plank, prodding Rourke in the back with—God, he was using Rourke’s own sword on him! The fear was joined by a dark, incandescent hatred. I wasn’t going to let him do it. Not to my man.
Ratcher was only six paces away, his back turned to me. In the back pocket of his tan shorts, I could see a square bulge: I had to take a gamble that that was the detonator he’d taken off Rourke. I took a deep breath and sprinted out of the shadows. Heads turned towards me but Ratcher’s men were too surprised at seeing a dripping wet woman in her underwear to react quickly. I reached Ratcher and shoved a hand into his pocket. He twisted away from me as he realized what was happening and for a second my hand was pressed tight against cool, unpleasant flesh. Then I pulled my hand out and snatched the thing to my chest.
I was in such a panic, I almost dropped it. Then I had to figure out how it worked and Ratcher was reaching for me, trying to grab it. His men were surrounding me, blocking my view of Rourke. There was a red button under a transparent cover. I flipped up the cover, put my thumb over the button—
“Stop!” I yelled.
And everyone did. They froze, their eyes locked on the button.
I stood there, heart pounding, staring into Ratcher’s piggy eyes. His hand was an inch from the detonator. He slowly pulled it back. The men who’d been pushing in around me stepped back. I was almost as shocked as they were. Oh God, what am I doing?
“Rourke!” I called in a ragged voice.
The crowd parted and I saw him, still on the plank. He stared at me with a mixture of disbelief and that familiar anger, furious that I’d put myself at risk for him...but then he gave a rueful shake of his head and a big, relieved sigh. “I told you about the explosives down below,” he told Ratcher. “If she presses that, the treasure’s gone forever.”
Ratcher sucked in air through his teeth, his face slowly turning scarlet.
“All we want is that stone you took,” said Rourke. “You give us that, we walk away. You can keep the damn treasure.”
Ratcher glared at him, then at me, as if he was running through all the grisly ways he wanted to kill us. Then he reached into another pocket and pulled out the stone. My lungs slowly filled: until that moment, I’d been worried that he’d tossed it overboard. He must have figured that it had some value, even if he didn’t know what. He stared at the stone...then nodded.
Very slowly, Rourke started to move towards me. Everyone was on edge. The sight of my thumb on the button was holding them back, but I knew things could change in a heartbeat. We didn’t trust them and they probably didn’t trust us….
Rourke held out his bound wrists and one of the crew sliced through the rope with a knife, freeing him. Rourke motioned me to start walking back towards the stairs and I did so, keeping my eyes on him and trusting him to watch for threats behind me.
He drew level with Ratcher and held out his hand for the cure. Ratcher scowled at him and then slapped the stone into his palm. But he didn’t let Rourke’s hand go. He leaned in close, the rolls of fat on his neck bulging, and hissed something in Rourke’s ear….
Just for that second, he blocked Rourke’s view of me. I stepped back—
Two men grabbed my arms from behind. I automatically held the detonator above my head, trying to keep it away from them, but they started pulling my arms down.
Rourke pulled away from Ratcher but now more men grabbed him. No! It was all going wrong!
One of the guys holding me grabbed my wrist in two hands and twisted in opposite directions. I grunted in pain and the detonator danced through my fingers, almost falling. I grabbed it again but now my thumb wasn’t over the button and that gave the men confidence.
“Fucking grab it!” yelled Ratcher.
More hands grabbed my elbows and dragged my hands down. I strained upward, trying to keep the little box out of their reach but more men were running over to me. Three, four pairs of hands were on my arms now. As they muscled my hands down to chest height, I pulled the detonator into my chest, bending and wrapping myself around it like a child protecting their favorite toy—
“Press it!” yelled Rourke.
I looked at him in horror. The explosives were a threat. A bluff. I hadn’t thought we’d ever— I looked down at my feet. They were right there, one deck below me….
“Press it!” yelled Rourke again. “Or they’ll kill us both!”
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes...and pressed the button.
63
Rourke
I remember the deck heaving under my feet. I remember the sensation of flying through the air. Even before the explosion, I wasn’t in a good way: my leg was still in even more pain than normal, Ratcher’s beating had covered me in fresh bruises and my cracked rib felt like it had opened right up. So when I landed on my side on the hard wooden deck, it really, really hurt.
But I struggled to my knees, wincing in pain. Hannah. Where was Hannah?!
I spotted her lying a dozen paces away: alive, thank God. The upper deck seemed intact: everyone had been sent flying when the explosion rocked the boat and there was smoke pouring from below, but no one seemed hurt. The boat was going down, though. Already, the deck was starting to tilt. As Ratcher’s men came to their senses, they started running for the rail and jumping overboard to escape.
The cure. Where’s the cure? I’d had it in my hand when the explosion went off, but Ratcher had had his sweaty paw on it, too. I glanced around frantically. There! Lying on the deck. All I had to do was grab it, get Hannah, jump overboard and—
The stone started to slide away from me as the deck tilted. I threw myself forward and scrambled after it on my hands and knees, but it was picking up speed. If it went over the side, it was gone for good, just like the treasure. I got to my feet and stumbled forward but then the boat shook as more water rushed in below, and I went down hard. My eyes bulged as the stone slid away from me, straight towards the rail—
It hit one of the vertical supports and rebounded like a hockey puck, coming to rest only a few feet away. I let out a long sigh of relief and crawled towards it—
My world exploded into pain as Ratcher’s b
oot hit me in the chest.
64
Hannah
I’d been sprawled on my back since the explosion, my ears ringing. I seemed to be uninjured except for my left leg: there was a sharp pain there. Maybe I’d fractured a bone.
I lifted my head just in time to see Rourke scramble after the cure and Ratcher kick him in the chest. I tried to get to my feet but that made the pain in my leg worse. Weird: it didn’t feel like a fracture.
I struggled to my feet, using the rail to brace myself. No one seemed to be looking at me. Ratcher’s men were mostly abandoning ship. Ratcher was entirely focused on Rourke: he wasn’t giving him a chance to get up, kicking him again and again. Rourke was trying to roll away, a hand on his side to protect his injured rib. Then Ratcher snatched the dive knife from the scabbard on Rourke’s ankle. He’s going to kill him! I have to help him!
Then I saw it: Rourke’s sword, lying underneath a table. Ratcher must have dropped it when the explosion went off. I had to get it to Rourke!
Just as I started towards it, I saw the cure. It was still precariously close to the rail. If the boat tilted again, there was nothing to stop it falling overboard. But the cure and the sword were in two different directions….
I looked at Rourke. He was scrambling backwards, trying to buy time. Ratcher was advancing, brandishing the dive knife. Rourke kept trying to get to his feet but his bad leg just wouldn’t hold him. And he had nothing to defend himself with.
He needs his sword! Now!
Mind made up, I staggered across the deck towards the sword. But after just a few steps, the pain in my leg blossomed and changed.
My leg wasn’t fractured at all.
My leg buckled under me and I fell to my knees in agony. My calf turned to boiling, molten iron, shot through with lightning. I knew what this was. No! God, not now! He needs me!
Captain Rourke Page 28
