“They can help me haul down the food,” Harrington said. “I feel good today. I can spell them down there. No need for you to do everything, skipper.”
“We have a job to do,” McKenna said, picking up a fuel canister. “I’ll sleep when it’s done.”
Harrington cocked his head. “I swear, I’m not trying to give you back talk this time,” he said. “But how can you keep working? Aren’t you, like, exhausted?”
“I know you’re not, and I am exhausted,” McKenna said. She nodded to the case of energy drinks. “But that’s what those are for.”
75
McKenna took a walk as the ship leveled out beneath her. It was late afternoon, and the pumping operation continued to proceed as planned. Still, she wanted to inspect the ship, now that the deck was flat enough to walk: about twenty degrees of list remained, and steadily decreasing. The ship was upright enough now that she’d been able to hook up a generator to the emergency power. The Lion was still largely dark, but the crew had managed to get a few of the lights back on.
Anyway, there was something bothering her, though she was loathe to admit it. Both Harrington and Ridley had reported a nest in the accommodations house; stranger still, they’d both claimed they’d seen some kind of ghost.
McKenna didn’t believe in ghosts. But a man had died on this ship, a man who’d apparently bailed on his crewmates to return here. She wanted to set her mind at ease, prove to herself that her architect and her engineer were mistaken.
Harrington was somewhere aft, working through some calculations on his laptop. McKenna checked in with Ridley and Jason, told the deckhand to be ready to head back to the Gale Force tonight.
“Spell your dad,” she said. “Sleep in your own bunk. Call your son and sing him something more soothing than Al’s outlaw country.”
Jason nodded, his nose in that romance novel. “I just want to see if she gets the guy in the end.”
“Kid’s a born-again romantic,” Ridley said. “Heart of gold.”
He and McKenna laughed at the blush that spread over the deckhand’s face. Then McKenna climbed back up to the deck—using the ladder and the stairs this time, instead of walking on the walls—and set out to survey the ship.
She walked up and down the starboard deck first, gazed out over the railing at the vast bay that spread out in front of her. The terrain up here was like some kind of painting: no trees on the shore, just rock and low lichen, electric-green. The bay itself was deep blue, almost black, rippled with wind and whitecaps. It was a lonely place, even with the Coast Guard cutter anchored nearby. The land was windswept and barren, the air bracing. The place was a moonscape, a frontier.
People aren’t supposed to be here, she thought. Not places like this. But here we are, anyway.
The thought made her feel uneasy, and the uneasiness made her feel stupid, but there you had it. This was a strange, hostile place, and that was before you factored in Harrington’s “ghost.”
McKenna walked down the starboard deck to the exhaust funnel at the stern, then back up to the bridge. Opened the bridge door and peered inside, at the papers and charts strewn everywhere, the spilled coffee creamers. The electronics were dark, and the room was quiet, filled everywhere with the reminders of the men who’d fled the Lion not so long ago.
McKenna found the passageway down the middle of the ship. Switched on her headlamp and followed the passageway aft, past the captain’s suite, the officers’ staterooms. Found the stateroom where Ridley and Harrington had claimed they’d seen someone, the starboard side, scanned the room and saw nothing amiss.
A few doors down, on the portside of the ship, was where they’d claimed to have found the nest. McKenna tried to muffle her steps as she approached the door. Could feel her heart rate start to increase. When she’d reached the threshold, she counted to three and looked in the doorway. A pile of bedding on the floor, and in the corner, just as the men had reported, a pile of trash beside it.
But the ghost, whoever he was, wasn’t here.
McKenna continued aft. Checked the rest of the staterooms, came to the galley. Held her breath to avoid inhaling the rancid air, and scanned the dark room with her headlamp. Another pile of empty cans, ten, fifteen easy. Thrown away in the corner. McKenna felt ice up her spine, and it might have just been because she was spooked out, a little, but her spidey sense was tingling just a little, too.
They pulled a body from this wreck.
McKenna took a breath, had to, immediately regretted it, the air was so foul. The galley was devoid of life, anyway; no sense hanging around here. She backed away from the door and continued down the passageway aft, checking the crew quarters and finding nothing amiss.
Just past the galley, a stairway down to the cargo holds. And here, more mystery: a pair of climbing ropes, lying discarded on the stairs. McKenna followed the stairs down.
The lines stopped at the first cargo deck. There was a watertight bulkhead door at the landing, and it lay open. On the other side, McKenna could see more signs of human life: energy bar wrappers, a couple of batteries. The crew of the Salvation had stopped here, clearly.
McKenna paused again, to listen. Heard nothing but her heart in her chest. She was getting kind of freaked, she realized.
There’s nobody here. What would they even be doing on this ship? Why wouldn’t they have shown themselves, like, a week ago?
She followed the climbing lines back to the accommodations deck. Continued down the passageway aft, past more crew quarters, the officers’ lounge. An exercise room. All empty. That left only the infirmary. Fine. She was ready to get back out to fresh air.
The door to the infirmary was closed. McKenna turned the handle and pushed, felt resistance. Strange. The door was unlocked, but there was something blocking it from within. She pushed harder, and the door gave a little. She tried again.
Why are you even doing this? she thought. So something shifted during the wreck. What are you trying to prove?
She was trying to prove that there wasn’t a ghost, she decided. She was trying to prove to Court Harrington that he was wrong.
She pushed again. This time, something crashed to the deck behind the door, and the door fell open. And McKenna stumbled into the infirmary, and found herself face-to-face with the barrel of a gun.
76
Okura held the pistol level at the young woman’s forehead, trying to keep his hand from shaking.
“Get back,” he said, his voice ragged from days of silence, trembling from the fear and the sudden adrenaline rush. “No sudden movements.”
He’d been asleep in the sick bay, nothing better to do, when he’d heard footsteps approaching. Held his breath and waited, hoped the cabinet he’d lodged against the door would deter any visitors. Prayed whoever was out there would leave him alone.
But she hadn’t. As soon as Okura heard the door turn, he knew in his heart he was made. He’d muttered a silent curse, and reached for the pistol.
And of course, the woman—the salvage master—had felt the cabinet blocking the door and must have known what it signified. Okura had waited as she’d labored to move the cabinet, fighting his racing pulse and the nervous thrill that came with the knowledge that, yes, now he would have to shoot someone.
The cabinet fell. The door swung open, and the woman was there. And Okura was ready for her, ready, at last, for action.
* * *
• • •
EXCEPT HE’D MADE A MISTAKE, another one. As the young woman backed away from the pistol, Okura looked into her eyes and knew he should have pulled the trigger sooner, shot her as soon as he’d seen her, and finished the deed quickly, instead of letting the woman live long enough to show her face.
She was indeed young. Her face was pale, her eyes wide. She was scared, but there was something else, too, something like resignation—or disgust.
Okura motioned w
ith the pistol, back, out of the infirmary and into the hall, buying himself time. Nearly tripped on the fallen cabinet and lost his balance, almost squeezed the trigger prematurely. The woman’s eyes got wider, like she’d seen it coming. Like she’d expected to be dead already.
Killing Tomio Ishimaru had been easy. The man was yakuza, a criminal, a killer himself—and he’d been half dead, anyway. Killing him had been no harder than killing an ant. A mosquito.
“Please,” the woman said. She held up her hands, backed away from him slowly. “Whatever you’re planning to do, think it over. I’m sure there’s a way we can get ourselves out of this.”
“Silence.” Okura followed her into the corridor. Motioned forward, toward the cargo stairs. He would have to kill her in the hold; the sound of the gun would be too noticeable here. Okura prodded the woman, pushed her toward the stairs.
He would have to kill this woman. Then he would need to escape. With luck, her mates wouldn’t discover her for hours.
“You don’t have to do this,” the woman said. “Whatever you’re doing here, it’s not worth killing me for, I promise. This isn’t the only way out.”
Fifty million dollars, Okura thought.
He held the gun steady. “I’m sorry,” he told the woman. “This is the only way.”
77
McKenna felt the barrel of the stowaway’s gun in the small of her back, her fear fighting with the realization that this ridiculous, improbable set of circumstances was how she was going to die.
Shot to death in the cargo hold of a shipwreck. In the middle of Nowhere, Alaska. Why? Who knows.
She might have laughed, if she hadn’t been so scared.
The stowaway prodded her down the stairs to the cargo holds. He was silent behind her, his breathing heavy. He didn’t want to shoot her, McKenna could tell, but she figured he’d made up his mind.
The worst part was not knowing why.
“Listen, what is it you want?” she asked him, trying to keep her voice light, conversational. “Why are you here? Whatever you need, I can help you.”
The stowaway didn’t answer.
“This is my ship now,” she said. “It’s worth a heck of a lot of money. Is that what you want?” She laughed. “Let’s make a deal.”
The stowaway laughed, too, but there was no humor in it. “You don’t have enough money to negotiate, I’m afraid.”
“Are you serious? My cut on this ship is thirty million dollars. That isn’t enough for you?”
“No,” the stowaway said. She felt his hand on her arm, firm. “Stop here.”
They’d reached deck eight. The stowaway nudged her toward the bulkhead door, and she caught his meaning and turned the wheel to unlock it. Opened the door, and stepped through. Walked a couple of paces into the first row of cars, the hold lit by a few feeble emergency lights and the beam of her headlamp.
She turned around. Slowly, so she didn’t freak the guy out, though she supposed it didn’t matter. If this guy was going to shoot her, she was going to see it coming.
No Rhodes ever died on her knees.
The stowaway winced as he looked at her. “I’m sorry,” he said, and McKenna knew this was it. And then, just as the stowaway steeled himself to finally pull the trigger, just as McKenna closed her eyes and prayed it would be quick—
Court freaking Harrington poked his head out from the stairwell behind them. “Captain Rhodes? You down here?”
And the stowaway spun at the sound of Harrington’s voice, and then he really did pull the trigger.
78
“Court, get down!”
McKenna leaped at the stowaway as the gun roared, the explosion near deafening in the low cargo hold. Had just enough time to see Harrington go down, and then she was tackling the stowaway, football-style, wrapping both arms around the man’s waist and knocking him to the ground, McKenna close behind.
The pistol came out of the stowaway’s hands, jolted free from the impact. It immediately began to slide down the listing deck. The stowaway grabbed for it, missed, bucking McKenna off his back, but both of them were scrambling down, too, toward the distant portside, bilge water and darkness.
It was not a smooth ride. The deck was grooved steel, studded with anchor points. McKenna reached for a handhold, something to arrest her fall, her hands slick with engine oil and grasping at nothing, her body picking up speed as she tumbled down.
The fall took forever. Kicked the shit out of McKenna every inch of the way, tore up her knees, her legs, scraped open her palms and slashed at her arms. And then—SLAM—she collided with the hull on the portside of the ship, a foot and a half of oily water, her headlamp hanging off her head at a crazy angle, leaving her near blind and disoriented, the whole world a graveyard of ruined Nissans and steel.
McKenna struggled to her feet, feeling every fresh bruise. Fixed her headlamp and searched the gloom for the stowaway, found him three cars from the hull, bashed up against a front tire and reaching for the pistol.
The gun had become tangled in a web of tying straps just above the stowaway’s head, and somehow he’d had the presence of mind to stop his fall nearby. Now, as McKenna watched in horror, the man pulled himself to his feet, wiped his hands on his pants, and leaned down and picked up the pistol.
Shit.
McKenna ducked behind the closest Nissan as the stowaway fired again. Heard the bullet strike steel behind her, ricochet; she saw sparks. Another shot, and another, the stowaway coming closer, keeping her pinned as he closed the distance.
Gotta move.
Stealthily as she could, McKenna crept away from her makeshift cover, pulled off her headlamp and held it in her hand, tried to keep her head low and out of sight in the dim light.
Before she’d gone twenty feet, she knew she was made.
“Stop,” the stowaway said, his voice unreasonably calm. “Give me your flashlight, or I’ll shoot you right there.”
McKenna didn’t turn around. Exhaled a long breath. “Hell, you’re going to kill me anyway,” she said. Then she reached back and chucked the headlamp away, threw a strike down the length of the hull, and ducked away quickly, bracing for the shot.
But the shot didn’t come.
Instead, McKenna heard a wheeze, the air punched out of the stowaway’s lungs. Heard the clatter as the pistol fell to the deck, the splash as it slid into the bilge water. Then another splash, bigger, as the stowaway fell himself.
Slowly, McKenna stood. Stayed low, searched the darkness, caught the vague shape of a figure in the glow of the hold’s emergency lights. Court Harrington. He’d lost his own headlamp, she saw, but he’d brought his laptop with him. And he’d used it, she surmised, to neutralize the stowaway pretty damn hard.
“Captain Rhodes?” Harrington called out. “You okay?”
McKenna checked herself. No bullet holes. “You saved my life, Harrington,” she said. “I think at this point, you can call me McKenna again.”
79
“I found him in the infirmary,” the skipper told Harrington as he helped her haul the unconscious stowaway up the cargo deck to the bulkhead. “Guess he moved out of that first nest once you found him, barricaded himself away where he thought we’d never look.”
Harrington grunted, feeling the exertion. The stowaway wasn’t big, but it was no easy task dragging him up to the listing deck, not with his ribs still taped up like he was a mummy. “Sure,” he said. “So who is this guy?”
“No idea. Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
With his free hand, Harrington gripped a Nissan’s mirror and pulled himself forward. Whoever the guy was, Harrington was pretty damn grateful he wasn’t much of a shot. The sneaky bastard had spun and fired wild, missed him by ten feet, but he’d thrown himself to the deck anyway, nearly cracked his laptop. It was a damned painful maneuver, besides, and when he’d stood up again, both the sk
ipper and the shooter were way down at the portside hull, continuing their grudge match.
“Why was he so hell-bent on killing you, anyway?” Harrington asked. “You say something to piss him off?”
The skipper looked at him sideways, smiled just a little. Kept climbing. “That’s what I can’t figure out,” she said. “I guess he was just mad that I found him.”
Harrington glanced over at her. They’d almost reached the bulkhead door, almost time to call the Coast Guard, and hand this joker off.
There was more to this story, he figured. Nobody just stowed away on a shipwreck for weeks without a damn good reason.
And Harrington was a curious guy.
So he helped the skipper lug the unconscious stowaway to the bulkhead door, stood guard over the guy as McKenna ventured topside to call in the Coast Guard. Waited as the Coast Guard took the man into custody, two big, burly rescue swimmer types. They braced the stowaway on each side, and carried him upstairs to the helicopter.
Harrington followed. Joined the crew on the weather deck and regaled them with his story, told them all how he’d had a question for the captain about the pumps, how he’d followed her inside the ship, heard her voice in the cargo stairway, and followed her down. Played himself off as dumb and clueless when it came to the attack, held up his laptop, the screen cracked, and told them they were all lucky the guy’s skull wasn’t thicker.
And then, when the Coast Guard flew away, and the crew dispersed back to their pumps, Harrington ventured inside the ship again, and down the central corridor to the infirmary. He found the cabinet with which the stowaway had blocked the door, the sick bed where he’d slept, the piles of garbage he’d accumulated. And then, hidden in a medicine cabinet beside the stowaway’s sick bed, he found the briefcase.
Gale Force Page 23
