by Chris Howard
“Then?” She looked at him curiously. “You fought these people in charge?”
“I did.”
“So, the damage is done? No reversing things?”
“Not without doing more damage. Now MISTIC—or the Cons as most people call them—work outside any national boundary, and access to their knowledge and services is supposed to be open to all. The UN created a new kind of global security entity just for them.”
She was trying to follow him, or the hints behind his tone. “But they’re not open to all?”
He shrugged. “Sure. Theoretically. There’s some legitimate debate over whose side they’re really on. A select group of countries. Or their own. It’s hard to say.”
Laeina waved all of that away, irritated. “So, did this MISTIC or Con find anything about . . . ” She whispered the name. “Damaris?”
“That’s what’s strange.” He looked toward the video panels, gesturing. “Nothing. Not even a ‘hang on,’ which is still rare, but at least it tells you they’re looking into it.”
He straightened, wondering about the ate-something-spoiled expression on her face. She spoke just above a whisper, her voice resigned. “I think I know how to find him.”
Reyes waved at them from his corner, still talkative. “One more thing. He’s making more of the things.”
Both Laeina and Andreden turned. “Things?”
“Whatever he uses to sink ships.” Reyes grinned. “Makes them vanish.”
With Andreden’s knowledge of ship operations and people in general, Laeina had Captain Reyes chart a course for the last location of his leased boat, Rolinga. The crew of the Katren were clearly uncomfortable with Laeina and Andreden following the captain around, directing him, but they had apparently had another visitor aboard before who behaved in a similar way—Damaris. There wasn’t even a hint of trouble from the bridge crew, a chief mate and an assistant engineer.
The Katren’s chief engineer and a woman in a lab coat—which seemed odd to Andreden—came up to speak to Reyes and were immediately dismissed. What also struck Andreden as strange behavior was the way both of them hurried off as if glad to be out of sight. He exchanged a look with Laeina. That’s not how people on ships behaved. If the chief engineer came up to the bridge, it was about something important.
Things apparently operated differently on Katren.
During the almost four-hour backtrack to meet up with the Rolinga, Andreden and Laeina had Reyes give them a thorough tour of the vessel—every deck, every room, the galley, bunks—looking for clues or anything Martin or Rebekah had left behind. When Reyes opened up the below-decks laboratory, it shocked the hell out of Andreden. For all the surprise Laeina showed, her impression was that all good-sized offshore service vessels had researchers, cleanroom environments, and extensive wet labs.
“What are you guys making down here? Meth?”
Captain Reyes looked confused for a second, staring around the white-walled space with blacktop counters, stainless steel equipment, racks of glassware, and labeled bottles. There were seven or eight men and women in white protective suits, frozen over machines, staring back at them.
Reyes said quietly, “I’m not sure.”
Laeina waved them back through the doors, nothing of interest there. Andreden kept looking back at the closing doors, thinking there was something much scarier going on, but it apparently had nothing to do with Martin and Rebekah, so he dropped it.
An hour later one of the ship’s crew took them over to the Rolinga in the inflatable launch boat at the stern, and they saw the Katren off, waiting until the ship was almost out of sight to start up the engines.
“What will happen to Reyes and the other guy—and the eels?”
She gave the fading form of the Katren a casual wave. “They will loosen their hold on Reyes over the course of the day. Then dissolve out of their systems completely.” She pointed out to the rest of the ocean. “I gave the captain orders to sail south.”
Laeina hadn’t given him directions yet. She sat on the swim deck with her legs in the water, occasionally leaning over to run her fingers through the clear blue Atlantic. She tasted it, shaking her head, but didn’t even look up at him for another hour.
He circled the boat along narrow walkways and climbed to the flybridge to lean out, scanning the waves with his eyes and through the binoculars, looking for any sign of Theo. Nothing but the sleek, darting shadows of fish and an occasional drifting stump of some kind seaweed or shore plant.
Then it was time, and Laeina pointed northeast. “I think it is that way.”
Andreden raced toward the horizon, the cat’s hull skipping and bouncing across the waves. An hour later—with Laeina waving at him—he pulled back on the engines, letting them idle for a bit, before cutting the power. Rolinga drifted, rocking gently. He was scanning the console for the power anchors when Laeina came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Do not worry about the boat. She is not going anywhere. Follow me.” She led him down to the swim platform. “Take my hand.”
“We’re going in the water?”
“Sort of.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
April
Levesgue had a guard on Wilraven the rest of the day, Goatee Boy rotating with No Face for the chance to stand over the Marcene’s captain with a gun. About noon, Angelo came around with a beat-up lawn chair with some of the straps torn and hanging in shreds. The soldiers allowed Wilraven the seat, but kept him in it. They also made sure—on Levesgue’s command—that the noose remained tight around his neck.
The Marcene’s first officer acted as the go-between runner for Wilraven’s salvage and diving direction.
Dewayne and Erich Hallidan on the big cranes brought the Serina to mix-gas dive depth once again—where the ship had been before the storm. Andres and his team spent the afternoon going down to cut over the lines to the hoist beams holding six of the inflated sling bags, which in turn held up an entire ship. It took a few hours of the deafening machine gearing of the high- torque winches on the Marcene to take on the new load. He also worked with Angelo to get the pressure in the bags holding up the Serina to approximately neutral in the water.
Wilraven jumped when the phone chirped on his belt.
He felt a smile pulling at his face in spite of the pain of losing Paulina, every thought in his head raw and angry. He couldn’t hold down the involuntary reaction to the voice coming in over VHF. “Marcene, this is the Carla about eight miles northwest of you.”
Some piece of him had been cut out with Paulina’s death, and the loss came through in his voice, a gray, even tone. “That you, April?”
But it was like a sudden and unexpected calm after a storm, April Capek appearing out of the blue to reassure them that there was a whole world still turning out there—a world without seriously damaged killers in urban camo.
“Here. Got some refrigerables, eight cases of fresh veg, two of assorted fruit, a case of steaks, and two scary-ass guys with big black duffel bags and half a dozen military-looking hardcases. You want ’em?”
Fucking hell. That must be the rotation team. He glanced over as Levesgue strode up, extremely interested. Wilraven tried to sound enthusiastic, tried to match April’s upbeat tone. “We have to have them whether we want them or not.”
Levesgue waved his team off, gesturing for a perimeter check. Then he pulled off the noose and stowed it—for later. “Captain, I’ll be right here. This supply ship ties up, dumps its load, picks up my team and their gear, and leaves. Understood?”
Wilraven just gave him a hard look.
An hour later, April and a couple of ABs from Marcene had the Carla tied up alongside, ready to transfer supplies. Olad and the Shantz brothers jumped on the food supplies, getting them into the cold and dry stores. The two new soldiers were a little older than Goatee and No Face, a little more serious, probably more dangerous. They had a Levesgue air about them, as if they had all been through the same soul-deadenin
g experience, coming out the other side ready to put a bullet through the head of anyone who disagreed with them.
And they came heavily armed: one of them—a towering, deeply tanned, skin-headed soldier with a nose that had been broken several times—jumped to the Marcene’s deck swinging a big shoulder-strapped machine gun. The other one—shorter, leaner, with close-cropped black hair and small blue eyes—had several handguns in holsters on his chest, under one arm, at his waist: the ultimate cowboy. He just needed a big hat and shit-kickers.
Wilraven just stared emotionlessly at them, some automated labeling process in his head surfacing in the turbulence with names for them: Broken Nose and Cowboy. His impression of No Face was that the man was no party, but Goatee seemed to have some hint of human under a smirking, wise-ass mask. The new soldiers were just soulless killers. They stood on the deck of the Irabarren as if they owned it, looking around at the working crew as if deciding which ones to put some metal in first.
The captain, under the watchful eyes of Levesgue, hugged April and whispered in her ear, “Get out of here.”
The last thing he wanted was to bring her into their problems. April leaned back, looked him in the eyes, and then shifted to take in the positions of the new security staff and Wilraven’s crew. Angelo came up to say hello, along with Aro and Inda from ROVs, as well as Tam, Walker, and Jack Minier from the welding team. She stepped away from Wilraven, laughing brightly, “What is this, a funeral? You guys look like condemned prisoners. Show some fucking gratitude. I just brought you several cases of steaks and fresh veggies.”
With a quick look at Wilraven, Angelo stepped into the gap, smiling, nodding. “Yeah, rough going the last couple days. You’re a lifesaver, April. Really.” He waved at the operations on the far side of Irabarren and said, “A lot still to do with the salvage.”
April looked around, frowning because there didn’t seem to be anything to salvage in view.
But she got the hint. Held up her hands. “No problem. I can see you’re up to your eyes in . . . work.”
She turned to Wilraven on the last word.
Levesgue stepped up at that moment. “Get your crane up. We have cargo going back with my boys. Something heavy.”
April glanced at Wilraven, barely able to hold in some biting response. He nodded resignedly. She radioed the Carla and had someone on her crew get on the deck crane. Angelo went off to get Jerald on Marcene’s small crane to bring the load up from the Irabarren.
Twenty feet away, Levesgue was waving and shouting at Miles Shantz to bring up the Irabarren’s forklift.
April’s gaze shifted, pinned to Levesgue, but she leaned toward Wilraven. “What’s he doing? What’s he putting aboard my ship?”
The captain wasn’t certain yet, but it was obvious a minute later when the forklift came into view with a pallet-box piled with slabs of sea-caked silver coins shifting around in a rattling bed of loose change.
Aro Taketa came running from the ROV shed, shouting for them to stop. “That’s our silver.”
More of the crews from the Irabarren and Marcene moved in, and they didn’t look friendly. Levesgue’s team of four stood warily, weapons ready. No fear of an angry mob. Their reaction was more there’s plenty of bullets for everyone.
Aro stopped out of reach of the soldiers, but he made his thoughts known. “It should be evaluated and divided equally among the crews of the Irabarren and Marcene.” He stabbed a finger at them. “That is our find.”
Levesgue, even with a short fuse, looked like he was trying to keep it civil with April watching them. “Listen, people. I explained the rules. You heard them loud and clear. I know you understand the consequences. I don’t want the stuff aboard. It’s a distraction from the real job.” He held up his hands, placating. “Every last piece of it will be returned when we’re done here. Promise.”
April, glancing between Wilraven and Levesgue, appeared to be taking the new events in, trying to understand the new work dynamic, but she remained quiet, casually elbowing Wilraven to get his attention. “You’re captain on this rig. What the fuck’s going on, Jay?
He kept his voice low, shoved the words through his teeth. “Watch your back with these guys.”
Levesgue moved close enough to shut them up while the Marcene’s knuckle crane dropped a lift platform to take the pallet aboard. The big box of treasure rose in the air, most of the crew watching it, lifting over Marcene’s rails and pivoting to the starboard side for Carla’s crane to pick up.
April folded her arms, shaking her head, her voice lifting as if reminiscing over some relevant story. She elbowed Wilraven again. “Remember the Donna down in Venezuela? That was some hairy fucking business.” She laughed when—to Wilraven’s mind—there was nothing funny about being boarded by commandos from a foreign government and having them hold your ship hostage.
He went with it. “Not as shitty as the charter in Fortaleza. Cleaned out everyone, definitely an all-hands deal.”
She gave him a thoughtful curl of her lips, whispering, “Yeah, that was some shit . . . down in Fortaleza.” The Donna had never been to port that far south, but he hoped she took the meaning.
Fortaleza, besides being a good-sized Brazilian port, meant fortress in Portuguese, and he hoped she understood what he meant by “All hands.” They were in some serious trouble here.
“See you soon,” said April and then departed reluctantly with Goatee Boy, No Face, and a box of Spanish silver lifted off the ocean’s floor.
The sun was most of the way across the sky when another ship appeared on the horizon, heading toward them, much bigger than the Carla. She was a cool blue along the hull with a high white structure, and about the size of the Marcene. Maybe a little bigger. It was difficult to tell at that distance.
The captain stood unmoving on Irabarren’s deck, watching the ship approach. His first officer stepped up, shading his eyes from the sun. “Who’s that?”
“Don’t know.”
His phone chirped, and as he unclipped it he felt the small radio Paulina had given him just before Levesgue had killed her.
“Yeah, this is Wilraven?”
It was Corkran, and he sounded right at the edge of sanity, his voice raised in anger from the first word. “Yes or no, Captain Wilraven! Are you going to move the ship tonight as planned?”
Wilraven sighed, glancing again at the distant ship. “Yes. We’ll let the Serina go eleven miles east of our present point.”
The connection went dead.
To Angelo he said, “First, can you find out who’s coming in to see us? Friend or foe?”
Wilraven waited for Angelo to get to the Marcene and then dug into his front pocket, pulling out the little radio Paulina had given him: a simple box, small enough to hide in the palm of his hand, one push button to power it up. He tried it out. Thumbed on the device and held it to his ear.
Levesgue’s demanding voice cut in with a couple of acknowledgements from another he assumed to be Goatee. “No problem, sir.”
“We’ll be dividing the silver. Find a buyer for it when you get in to Lauderdale.”
“Yes sir.”
Wilraven went cold, waiting for more. A minute of nothing but soft static over the air and he slid the device back into his pocket. It wasn’t about the silver and how much it was worth, or Aro’s plan to share the treasure salvage among the crews. It was about getting out alive—with the Serina intact.
He didn’t give a shit about Levesgue taking the silver, stealing it from the finders of the treasure. Levesgue was about to make sure there were no finders left to dispute the ownership of the silver. That made all the difference.
We are not getting out of this alive.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Skeleton Crew
The first officer of the Marcene was performing magic right in front of Levesgue—everyone in salvage operations seemed to be in the dark as well. Back in his lawn chair with the two new soldiers Broken Nose and Cowboy standing over him, Wilraven
swung his gaze on Angelo, shouting directions to a couple of welders—Jack and Walker—putting together what looked like meters of steel bracing.
Two questions floated around in his thoughts. What’s he making? And where is he getting the scrap steel from? The captain had gone over stores and gear with DuFour when the two vessels had met up south of the Keys. There was always surplus structural steel aboard—angles, flats, rounds—but Angelo had two very large sheets of rusty, weather-pitted steel welded and bolted together, and he wasn’t making it out of the surplus.
Then he made them vanish. Both six-meter-long pieces of steel went over the side with the Irabarren’s knuckle crane, which was usually used for the dive bell or one of the ROVs. Dess was gone, the casualty of a planned “mishap,” and Wendolyn—the Irabarren’s large, heavy-lifting ROV—had been damaged, sabotaged by Blockhead. She was sitting in her cradle, pieces of hydraulic components and cut power cables hanging off her.
Levesgue gave his two new killers a signal, and they moved off in a circuit of each vessel, guns slung low, guardedly scanning the work aboard. “We’re clear on the operation?”
Wilraven shook his head, getting out of the chair. “I’m not clear on any of this.” He kept his eyes on the lean old soldier, not looking at what Angelo was up to, because knowing his first, it was something he hadn’t thought of but desperately needed.
Levesgue hit him, a quick palm heel to his face, snapped his fingers open into his throat, another blindingly fast chop to the ribs, and then he kicked out his knee. The captain was face down on the deck, choking, trying to crawl away with one hand, the other clutching at his neck.
“What we are clear on, Captain, is that you will move the Serina Beliz eleven miles east and there will not be a single fucking mistake. I’ll make it even clearer for you. If I hear so much as a sneeze out of your crew, there’s going to be some pressure coming down on you from me. Someone fucks up, then I’m going to hurt you—and may kill them. Do you need it any clearer, Captain Wilraven?” Levesgue moved so that his shadow shifted over the captain.
