With regret, he reached down and unfastened his fins and kicked them off. Fins and ladders? Bad combination.
Even without his gear, Shane struggled to make it up the ladder with the waves tossing the boat like a toy. If he lived through this, he’d have to write an endorsement letter to the company that made the neoprene dive gloves. Without them, he’d have lost his grip and drowned while he looked at his gear bobbing just out of reach.
He finally ascended high enough to peer over the rail and take stock, only then realizing the ladder led right to the pilothouse door. Shit. He went back down a rung, held on tight, and considered his options. Entering the boat from this ladder would put him not only in view from the pilothouse but also from the foredeck where Tex had been standing earlier. But the seas were too rough for him to reach the ladder near the stern. He could go back into the water and hope to struggle back into his dive gear, but he didn’t have enough air to swim to the mainland underwater and the seas were too rough to swim conventionally. In other words, his options sucked.
Shane had flirted with prayer the last month, and he still wasn’t convinced anyone heard. But he sent up a few pleas anyway, just in case. He didn’t want to die. Now that death could be close at hand, he realized all his fucked-up thoughts about suicide had been nothing but the whining self-pity of a selfish man.
He didn’t think he was that man anymore, and even if Tex was waiting in the pilothouse door with a rifle, he was glad.
Amen, and let’s do it.
He eased up the next-to-last step on the steel ladder, took a quick look at the open—and empty—pilothouse doorway, and hoisted himself over the rail. He scuttled across the narrow deck and pressed himself against the wall.
The Breton was a bit longer than The Evangeline, maybe a forty-eight or fifty footer. A bit shabbier, but still a basic workboat. From what Shane could see, the pilothouse was broad and deep, and any access to belowdeck areas likely led from inside it. This boat wasn’t outfitted as a live aboard.
A vibration underfoot told Shane he’d made it just in time: the telltale feel of an electronic windlass pulling up anchor. Either Tex was going to try closing the distance to the Zodiac, or he was giving up and returning to Main-à-Dieu. Probably the latter. Even a local who knew the waters wouldn’t try to locate an inflatable off Ragged Rocks Cove in this fog. But it also meant Tex was in the pilothouse and could have seen Shane slip aboard.
Time to renew his acquaintance with Tex.
Shane moved quickly but quietly, his combat training coming back to him, albeit with a bit of mental rust. Locating the hatch that led to the pilothouse, he reached down and unstrapped his dive knife before taking a cautious look inside the open doorway. Tex sat at the controls, his back making a tempting target. Shane looked around for any sign of Son of Tex, but saw nothing. Was it really going to be this easy?
“Come on in, Mr. Burke. I thought I’d lost you when you stuck your head over the rail and went back.” Tex swiveled in his leather captain’s chair, and only then did Shane see the rifle. The man had been holding the goddamned thing, waiting on his prey to get close. “We need to have a talk.”
He hadn’t seen Shane’s knife—or at least Shane didn’t think so. “I think you’re right. Mind if I sit? I’ve had a long swim.”
Tex kept the rifle in place while he reached out with his left hand and flipped the switch to stop the windlass from drawing up the anchor. He jerked his head toward a doorway in the back. “Through there. I’ll be right behind you. If you think I won’t shoot you before your deadline is up, you’re wrong. Waiting another thirty-six hours is a formality. You were destined to fail from the beginning. After failing at everything else in your life, why would you succeed now?”
Shane had already started down the stairs, slipping his knife into a pouch on the front of his drysuit. But Tex’s words dug into the anger that he’d been pushing aside for most of the past twenty-eight days. He turned, ignoring the rifle barrel less than a foot from his nose. “If you thought we’d fail from the beginning, why the fuck have we even been playing this screwed-up game?”
Tex gave a half-hearted laugh, and Shane realized the man reeked of exhaustion. Bone weary, from the dark circles under his eyes to the wrinkles in his navy nylon jacket that looked as if he’d slept in it. This was Shane’s first close-up of Tex since that day outside Cedar Key when he’d impersonated a sheriff’s deputy. He’d aged ten years. Guess extortion and kidnapping weren’t relaxing occupations.
“You’re right about it being a game, but it isn’t my game, remember?” Tex poked the rifle in Shane’s chest. “Go on down.”
Shane frowned, turned, and continued a half-dozen more steps, finally reaching a long rectangular room that appeared to be a combination galley and dining area. Being in the center of the boat, it probably offered stability in rough seas, but it was grim and windowless. Not like his beautiful boat, which was by now probably halfway to its final resting place.
He sat in a scarred wooden chair, pulling it up to the table for camouflage in case he got a chance to pull his knife and give Tex a little surprise.
Tex sat opposite him, keeping the rifle fixed on his target. If Shane could keep him talking long enough, he’d relax his hold. Even a trained soldier couldn’t hold a weapon in firing position like that indefinitely, and right now Tex looked more like a tired, stressed-out civilian than a soldier.
“You keep calling this a game,” Shane said. “So why’d you change the rules on us? Even if you don’t think we can find the Templars’ cross by the deadline, why try to kill us at this point? All you did was assure we’d fail—and we had a solid lead, by the way, before you blew my boat to hell.”
Tex looked at him with an expression that chilled Shane to the soles of his neoprene boots. Cold hatred. He’d almost made the mistake of humanizing the guy, but the man behind that mask of loathing wouldn’t think twice about killing any of them.
“As if you don’t know.” Tex leaned forward, lowering the gun slightly. “And if you hurt him, you won’t be able to run far enough. You got that? It won’t matter what my boss wants, or when. If that Canadian lunatic touches him, I will kill you all, beginning with your hippie pal and your new fuck-buddy Gillian Campbell.”
Shane felt his own version of cold fury settle over him and welcomed it. Time to turn and confront, in the Burke way. He had no idea what Tex was talking about, except that it had to do with Chevy and…Shane smiled, aware that his own expression was probably as chilling as the one Tex had given him. That old son of a bitch Chevy had somehow gotten his hands on Son of Tex, and Tex didn’t like it.
Shane’s smile widened. “Doesn’t feel too good, does it? Having someone out there who could blow you and your boss right out of the water like you did my boat?” Only Tex hadn’t mentioned what his colleague might say; he’d been concerned about them hurting him. Maybe he was Tex’s son or at least had some personal connection. “Doesn’t feel too good knowing somebody you care about could be having his fingernails ripped out, does it?”
Yeah, okay, Chevy probably wasn’t engaged in torture, but Tex didn’t know that.
“He won’t help you any.” The muscles in the man’s jaw twitched; Shane could practically hear teeth grinding. “You might hurt me and my…friend, but my employer still wants what he wants.”
Shane leaned over the table, slipping his right hand to his waist and grasping the hilt of the knife. “Exactly. So how is your employer going to feel when he finds out you sank our dive boat just after I’d found the wreck of The Marcus Aurelius?”
“You’re bluffing.”
Shane smiled again. “Am I? You’re going to take that risk? I have a photo back on the mainland of a plate I pulled off the wreckage, ready for you to share with your boss.”
The plate was the one he’d pulled from the concretions on that first exploratory dive. Chevy had dated it to a nineteenth-century wreck, but Tex didn’t know that. They’d shot pictures of it, still covered in ma
rine matter, just in case they needed to show Tex and his boss some tangible progress in order to buy more time.
Shane smiled again. “Guess if you kill me, that won’t happen. How will your employer like it that you were the one who cost him the Templars’ cross—all because you couldn’t control your temper?”
He almost asked how Secretary of State Flynn would feel about it, but caught himself. No point in playing that card yet, if it were even true.
Tex recovered quickly, but not so quickly that Shane hadn’t seen the flash of fear in his eyes like a streak of lightning. He was afraid of his boss.
“If I kill you all, he’ll never know the difference.” Tex raised the rifle, a semiautomatic with a pistol grip, and put his finger on the trigger. Shane figured even if Tex were a lousy shot, it would be hard to keep from getting his head blown off at this range. Talking time was done.
He shoved the heavy table toward Tex, and barely registered the surprised expression and the falling rifle before he lunged across the table with the knife, burying its serrated steel blade in Tex’s upper arm. Serrated blades were great for divers because they’d cut through anything. Except, apparently, the stretchy threads of cheap nylon jackets. In the time it took Shane to dislodge his blade, extracting a chunk of bloody flesh and a triangle of ripped blue fabric as well, Tex had regained control of the rifle.
Both of them froze for a few heartbeats. Long enough for both to register that Tex had grabbed the barrel end of the rifle instead of the stock. Then chaos and movement returned. Shane’s vision blurred when a sharp pain lanced across his left temple and he lost his balance. He landed facedown and had a quick view of dirty industrial-green carpet before he grasped his knife from where it had fallen next to him, rolled to his back, and froze again. This time, Tex stood over him with the rifle in firing position.
Without thinking, he reached out and jerked Tex’s right foot from beneath him, rolling to keep the older man from landing on top of him. Tex managed to shoot on his way down, the blast digging into the floor next to Shane’s left ear, before the rifle clattered out of Tex’s hands again. They both looked for the weapon and saw it at the same time.
“You’re one dead son of a bitch.” Tex made a grab for the rifle at the same time as Shane. His long arms—his wingspan, Charlie called it—had shamed Shane as a kid, but they came in handy now. He extended his hand and knocked the rifle out of reach.
Tex was still grasping at it when Shane balled his right fist and plowed into Tex’s jaw with a fierce uppercut, then another, and then a hard punch in the gut for good measure. The last blow sent Tex reeling.
Shane was breathing hard, but Tex no longer tried to fight back. He’d curled around his midsection with his eyes closed. Too bad the son of a bitch wasn’t dead.
Shane reached past him for the rifle and tapped him on the temple with the barrel. “Get up, Tex. This particular part of the game is over.”
Tex didn’t speak, just climbed to his feet slowly, holding his belly, and didn’t make eye contact.
“Up to the deck.” Shane followed him, rifle in a relaxed carry that would be easy to transition to firing position. The higher they climbed from the bowels of The Breton, the more the ship’s pitch and roll threatened their balance. Ahead of him, Shane saw Tex reach out several times to brace his hands on the walls.
Finally, they got to the pilothouse, and Shane had to decide what he was going to do. He’d boarded the boat with the plan to kill Tex, but now he realized he couldn’t do it. If they’d been in a fight where he had to defend himself, sure. If the rifle had gone off while they were scrambling for it, fine. But killing the man while he stood here like a beaten puppy? Shane didn’t have it in him. If he killed Tex now, it made him no better than them.
Fuck. Of all the inconvenient times to develop a conscience.
He reached into a compartment over the pilothouse exit, pulled down an orange life vest, and shoved it at Tex. “Put it on.”
Tex took it, frowning as if he didn’t know what it was. Then understanding dawned and he shook his head. “No, you can’t put me out in this weather. I’ll drown. Just shoot me if you want to.”
“Look, I’m giving you a fighting chance, which is more than you’ve given us. Put it on.” They weren’t far offshore from Scaterie Island. Tex could swim that distance, or let the waves carry him in. Chevy had told them there were unoccupied summer homes on the island so he could find shelter if he looked. “Only first…”
Despite what the movies showed, discharging a rifle one-handed wasn’t an easy task, and Shane hadn’t done it since his Marine days. Hopefully, Tex didn’t know that. Shane shifted the weapon into his right hand with the stock tucked under his arm and used his left hand to pat down Tex’s jacket. In a pocket, he found what he was looking for—a cell phone.
Before he could pull it out, Tex leaned over and charged headfirst into Shane’s ribcage. The air left his lungs with a burning whoosh, and they both hit the floor.
The rifle’s discharge sounded like hell itself had come to The Breton.
CHAPTER 29
The ocean between the Zodiac and The Breton churned and swelled in endless, mindless chaos. Gillian strained to see through the fog, praying for a sign of Shane. But she could barely make out the shrouded silhouette of The Breton, much less identify what bubbles on the surface came from waves and which ones might indicate a diver.
Shane’s only been gone a couple of minutes and he knows what he’s doing, idiot. Take care of Jagger.
She turned back to her navigator, who, to her alarm, struggled to stay upright next to the small orange steering platform. Damn it, he was weaving—and so was the Zodiac.
“Let me take over.” She crawled toward him, reached out, and snagged her compass from his hand. If he dropped it in the water, they’d never find their way to the harbor in this strong current and fog.
To give Jagger credit, as soon as Gillian reached for the wheel, he crawled off the piloting seat and collapsed on the floor of the inflatable boat. He looked awful. Gillian didn’t think she’d ever seen anyone so pale—at least not one that didn’t qualify as an anatomy-class cadaver. The wind whipped his jacket away from his shoulder, revealing a bloody red stain blooming through the fibers of his white sweater. Damn it, he’d reopened the gunshot wound.
“You ever steer one of these?” Jagger asked—or at least that’s what Gillian thought he asked. His voice wasn’t strong, and the wind was.
She shook her head but held up the compass. In her mind, Main-à-Dieu Bay was due west, and then they’d curve north to reach the village and harbor…at some point. She couldn’t even see the shoreline from here, but maybe when they got closer. “We stay hard to the west, correct?”
When Jagger didn’t answer, she glanced back at him. Asleep—or, more likely, unconscious, which might be a blessing because this was not going to be a fun ride. She was on her own.
It took a couple of minutes to get a feel for the Zodiac, but she found it not unlike steering the outboard-powered boats on her parents’ gator farm, only with a steering wheel instead of a shaft. The challenge was gauging how to ride the waves and maintain a westward direction. After each swell, she’d be knocked southward and have to compensate. It made for slow going.
Finally, she spotted an outcropping of rock in the distance. Moque Head, with any luck. Squinting through the fog, she made out a dim twinkle above it. Chevy’s lighthouse.
It took another hour of fighting the current and praying her visual memory of the coastline was accurate, but Gillian finally saw a few lights in the distance to her north—lights that meant civilization and help. Her pulse rate, galloping since they’d watched The Evangeline explode, began to slow. As it did, fatigue rolled over her like one of the big swells threatening to topple the Zodiac on its side, and her brain began a nagging litany.
Why had Tex suddenly gone on the attack? If Shane was able to overtake him, would he kill him? And if Tex died, was there any hope for Holly? F
or Vivian? Harley? Any of them?
Especially if the man for whom Tex worked was, indeed, Weston Flynn.
Flynn’s biggest vulnerability was his career and his public image. Exposure would ruin him, and threat of exposure might be enough to control him. They needed proof, though. They had only a hunch to go on right now. If she went to the media, a good reporter was more likely to write her off as a lunatic than investigate her claims.
Shit! Gillian’s hand had grown slack on the steering wheel, and she didn’t compensate for a large swell that threw the Zodiac back to the position of a half hour earlier. Damn it. She had to keep her mind on getting them to harbor. Figuring out what to do with Weston Flynn had to wait. If she got them lost at sea, crashed on the rocks, or killed—or all of the above—Flynn could start his stupid game again with a new set of puppets. But they’d still be dead.
Gillian gritted her teeth and blinked against the wind beating in her face. She turned the Zodiac north toward the source of the lights, occasionally glancing back at Jagger. Sometimes his eyes were open, sometimes not. She missed his silly songs and innocent, playful sense of humor. It was almost like steering a ghost ship, and she couldn’t help but wonder if part of him had died forever. When she first met him, he’d seemed to always look for the best in people. But some people’s best, they’d learned, was nothing but evil.
Gillian leaned forward, her eyes scanning the gray horizon against the gray water, trying to find the breakwaters that protected Main-à-Dieu harbor. If she cut north too soon, she’d end up on the rocks east of the harbor; too late, and she’d go ashore so far south of the village she’d never find help.
There! She spotted a dark horizontal line directly ahead and steered farther west to make the cut into the harbor. Once she’d cleared the first breakwater, she fought the diverted current and narrowly missed the second. Only when she’d cleared the second breakwater did she take a deep breath. They’d made it.
She looked back at Jagger and he mouthed what she thought was “good job.” She’d take the praise.
Lovely, Dark, and Deep (The Collectors) Page 26
