by Jack Rogan
Metal clanged underfoot as he reached the landing, whipped the door open, and stepped in. The windows looked out on what seemed like acres of brown and gray steel containers. Beyond them lay the wide ocean, bright aqua all the way to the horizon, where it met the powder blue of the sky. The sun shone down on the Caribbean. Most people, seeing that view, would have thought it looked like paradise, but Gabe had seen men die at sea. He’d known people who had drowned because they were too far away from the help they’d needed to survive. He’d been through storms that seemed like the end of the world. He loved the sea, but had no romantic illusions about it. The open ocean was no different from desert badlands—anything could happen out here.
The second mate, Suarez, had the wheel. That was all right. The old Cuban knew more about ships than Gabe would ever learn. Miguel, the Antoinette’s chief mate, was shouting into the radio handset, and the fire and frustration in his eyes set Gabe off immediately.
Ortega’s house is coming down. That had been the message he sent with Dwyer. Nobody else would know what the hell it meant, just part of the secret language of brothers, the lexicon of shared childhood in a small town on the Gulf Coast of Mexico, when they’d walked up the street in the aftermath of a hurricane and watched as a neighbor’s house, still mostly standing, collapsed under the weight of its own ruin. Ortega and his pretty daughter, Miranda, had died in there. Maybe had been dying while the Rio brothers watched their home slide down on top of them.
It meant disaster. Some people would have said Code Red, but this was more than that. Ortega’s house is coming down meant Code Fucked.
“Miguel!” Gabe snapped, striding across the wheelhouse.
His brother spun around, his eyes alight with fire and frustration.
“Shut up!” Miguel shouted into the radio. “Just be quiet and listen to me!”
“—God has turned from me! They are all damned now, but you can save me! Now, before it gets dark again—”
“Fuck,” Miguel growled, then thumbed the toggle on the radio again. “Slow down, idiot. What happened? Are the guns safe?”
The second the word was out of his mouth, Miguel gritted his teeth, cursing himself, knowing what he’d done.
Gabe strode across the wheelhouse and snatched the radio from his brother’s hand. The man on the other end—someone on board the ship they were supposed to rendezvous with—had started screaming about God again. Terror or madness had given him religion; either one was bad news.
“Mickey, this is Donald,” Captain Rio said. “Go to radio silence, right now. Use your tracer signal. Radio silence, goddammit!”
He took his thumb off the toggle and for a second he thought his words had been heeded. But then he heard the breathing, quick sharp breaths, almost whimpering. Through the radio, they heard the man on the other end begin to whisper the Hail Mary in Spanish.
With a click, the signal died, followed by static.
“Jesus,” Miguel said. “What the hell was that?”
Gabe stared out at the ocean.
“Radio silence.”
–6– –
“Another triumph for you, sir,” Tori said, in a fake English accent.
Josh stood in front of the stove in the galley kitchen, stirring a huge pot with a ladle. “Damn well better be. It took me since lunch to make that dinner.”
“I know. A labor of love, you said. Which is why I’m definitely not going to tell you how many of them are already asking what’s for breakfast tomorrow.”
“What’s for—?” He turned to look at her, then rolled his eyes. “My art is lost on these savages.”
“Okay, diva,” Tori said.
Josh laughed, though she knew he was only half-joking about his “art.” This morning he’d woken up before five o’clock, taken a shower, and hit the galley. And other than a few hours after breakfast, he had been there ever since. Lunch had been quick and simple, though as tasty as ever, but today’s dinner had been something he called Louisiana Chicken and Dumplings—a spicy stew that had taken hours to prepare. The crew had come to dinner in two shifts—the second was still out in the mess eating—but nearly everyone had commented on the dish. The only ones who hadn’t mentioned how delicious it tasted were those too busy enjoying it to speak.
“They’ll be having cereal for breakfast if they don’t show a little more appreciation,” Josh said.
Tori knew better. Josh loved his work, and he had told her a dozen times over the past few weeks, since they shipped out from Miami, that the empty plates and bowls that came back from the mess were all the appreciation he needed. His diva-chef performance was meant to amuse her, and it worked.
And yet, easygoing as he seemed, he had a rough-around-the-edges quality and his mischievous eyes sometimes took on a hard glint. A rough man, but not a bad man. Maybe even a good man—though, much as she’d been trying to change her ways, that might be too much to hope for.
Still, whatever might happen with Josh, galley duty had turned out to be much more interesting than she’d thought.
“You know, all joking aside, you really should give yourself a break,” she said. “Isn’t there something you could give them tomorrow morning that would be fast and easy? Tater tots or something? For that matter, what’s wrong with making them eat cereal for once?”
Josh stirred the pot again, then set the ladle aside. Now that everyone else had eaten, it was their turn, and he had put the remainder of the stew back on the burner. Tori had tasted a spoonful earlier and couldn’t wait to eat. Her stomach had been growling for hours, ever since the smells of the stew had started to fill the galley.
“Well,” he said, turning to face her again. “Remember those breakfast burritos I made, when was it, Sunday? I made a double batch that day and froze the rest. I could thaw them out for tomorrow.”
“Great. You deserve it.”
He gave her a small shrug. “Yeah. Though there was this one recipe I’ve been meaning to try.”
Tori laughed. “My God, you’re a cookaholic.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he replied, one corner of his mouth lifted in a lopsided grin, his blue eyes gleaming with their usual mischief. “By the way, that was the worst English accent I’ve ever heard.”
Tori grabbed a dishcloth, twisted it up, and snapped it at him. Josh tried to dodge, backed up, and promptly swore, hissing through his teeth, as he burned his arm on the edge of the stewpot.
“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry,” Tori said, rushing up to him.
Holding up his arm to inspect the burn, Josh gave her a rueful look which broke into a smile. “You’re a dangerous woman.”
She reached for his arm, wanting a better look, and he winced a little but did not pull away. Just the feel of his skin under her fingers sent an electric ripple through her. This close, she could smell the aromas of the kitchen and the spices he’d used today, combined with his shampoo and just a hint of his own, almost earthy scent, and it quickened her pulse. Why some men stank and others smelled so damn good to her, she’d never know, but Tori liked Josh’s scent, as weird as that sounded.
“Do you want me to get some ice for that?” she heard herself say.
He gazed at her with those sky blue eyes, and when he smiled again it was as though snapping himself from a trance. “It wouldn’t hurt my feelings.”
Tori’s throat went dry. She didn’t want to move away from him, but she forced herself to back up a step.
“Don’t let the stew burn,” she said. “We’ve earned it.”
He nodded and turned to stir it again, holding his burnt arm against his body, letting the cotton of his shirt soothe it. She had burned herself twice in the time she had been helping in the galley, so she knew he had a tub of salve somewhere that would take the sting out, but first he would want to ice the bright red scorch mark, to numb the skin.
You could find other ways to distract him from the pain, she thought, and felt herself flush slightly. Maybe it was time for her to get out of
the galley for a while.
When she had first met him, she had been convinced that Josh wasn’t her type. Oh, he pushed her buttons, all right. Quietly confident, mischievous grin, amazing cook, bedroom eyes, scruffy in all the right ways. The man was sex on a stick. But that first day, he had seemed almost too nice, too safe, without the rough edges that she always seemed to find so attractive.
Then they’d started cooking together, and she’d seen his passion for the work, watched his temper flare, and begun this ongoing, breathless flirtation that seemed to exist in every word they spoke to each other, even though it hardly ever became overt.
When he argued with Captain Rio about the supplies he wanted to get when they made port, she loved to watch his eyes flare. They had fallen into a pattern of teasing each other, but for Tori it had built to a point where it had gone past teasing. Now, as he grabbed a couple of bowls and ladled stew for the two of them, she watched him, studied the way his muscles moved under his shirt and the little sheen of sweat on his neck from the steamy kitchen, and desire drained all the strength from her body.
Jesus, shake it off, girl.
She smiled, laughing at herself, as she got a bunch of ice and wrapped it in a dishcloth. It wasn’t the first time she had felt this way. The trip from Miami to Fortaleza, Brazil—with stops along the way—had taken nineteen days. The sexual attraction had been immediate, but at first nothing more than she had felt toward many men before. As the weeks went by, though, and they spent so much time together in the galley, her interest had turned into a desire so strong it sometimes made her feel shaky. Embarrassed by the strength of her reaction to him, she had worked to keep things cool, but the undercurrent remained.
She found it hard to believe Josh didn’t feel it, too, but he hadn’t acted on it, and so she had to wonder. Maybe she was the only one thinking about sex pretty much every time they were together.
“Thanks,” he said as she handed him the ice.
Tori picked up the bowl of stew he’d prepared for her and raised it as though in a toast.
“No, thank you.” She spooned a bite up to her mouth and her eyelids fluttered with pleasure at the flavor. “This is so good.”
But Josh was watching her eat, that familiar mischief in his eyes, and since it didn’t seem likely he would break the tension between them with a kiss, she needed to do something herself.
“You know what? I’m going to get this all over my shirt if I don’t sit down. I’m gonna head out into the mess, grab a table. Are you coming?”
Josh pulled the ice from his arm, glanced at the burn, then pressed it down again. “You go ahead. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Tori left, both relieved and disappointed. It might have been all the cayenne pepper in the stew making her face flush with heat, but she didn’t think so.
–7– –
Angie Tyree had scrubbed her hands with industrial cleanser—the slimy shit that could get off just about anything—then used gritty powdered soap with water. She went through the same process two or three times a day, but could never seem to get all of the grease and oil stains off her skin. As long as they were at sea, her caramel-brown skin would be streaked with black. It would take days away from the engine room, from the pipes and valves she spent every trip maintaining and repairing, before they would fade.
She didn’t really mind. As long as her hands were as clean as she could make them, she viewed the stains like a badge of honor. Angie had grown up poor in Honduras, in a neighborhood where only the men involved in the drug trade had any money. But her father had put food on the table at every meal. Sometimes they didn’t have much to eat, but they never went hungry. He had taught her the value of hard work, and of keeping your head down and knowing when to look the other way.
“I’m tellin’ you, Sal, I don’t know,” Dwyer said, pleasant as anything.
He sat next to Angie, their knees touching under the table. Most of the crew were Neanderthals, so whenever the company added someone new to the crew, Angie scoped them out. This time out, they had five new bodies on board. The cook, Josh, kept himself fit and the man was damn pretty, but Angie didn’t like them too pretty. On top of that, it had been obvious from the second Josh spotted Tori Austin that the two of them would hook up eventually. And aside from Josh, the pickings had been slim—except for the skinny Irish guy. But Dwyer had the benefit of youth and enthusiasm. His techno-geek qualities—apparently he had a magic touch with navigation and communications equipment—had gotten him the job as third mate, but it had been pure luck and a slanted grin that had landed him in Angie’s bed.
Now she playfully brushed his hand away.
Across from them, Sal Pucillo rolled his eyes. Also a new guy, Pucillo had to be in his early fifties, with a weathered face and gray hair, but he kept fit, and his body was lean and powerful. He had something about him that said ex-military, but when Angie had asked, it turned out he’d just been born with a stick up his ass. Once a dock foreman in Baltimore, he’d gotten divorced and decided on a change of scenery. That was all Angie knew about him. Pucillo didn’t care to say any more, and she sure as hell didn’t care enough to ask.
“Come on, Dwyer,” Pucillo said. “You’re on the bridge half the day. The captain and his brother have been acting squirrelly all morning. Something’s wrong, and we’ve got a right to know, don’t we?”
Angie kept her focus on her tray. Josh, the magician of the galley, had come up with a stew that was unlike anything she’d ever eaten, with chicken and Cajun spices and soft dumplings and tons of vegetables. Usually when she shipped out with the Rio brothers, the food was barely edible, so she spent most of her time working. As third assistant engineer, and the ship’s best mechanic, she spent a lot of time sweating in the belly of the Antoinette. But with Josh and Tori cooking, Angie thought she might actually gain weight this trip.
“Why do you think something’s wrong?” Dwyer asked, his Irish accent slipping through.
Pucillo sighed. “Are you even listening?”
Dwyer threw his hands up. He tried for exasperated, but with his red hair and freckles, he couldn’t quite pull it off. Angie thought he looked adorable when he was exasperated, and she knew what she wanted to do right after dinner.
“What are you asking me for, Sal?” Dwyer said. “You think something’s wrong, ask the captain or the chief mate. You don’t want to talk to them, ask Suarez. He never leaves the bloody bridge, does he? I don’t know that he ever takes a piss. But I don’t know shit, all right? Besides, what do you care if the boss gets upset? It doesn’t involve you.”
Pucillo laughed softly, his expression dark. They called him the cargo manager, but really he was still a dock foreman. While at sea, he was just another hand—though damned old to be considered an able-bodied seaman—but in port he oversaw the loading of the metal containers at one end, and the off-loading at the other. He had to have heard that there were some things that went on aboard Viscaya ships that the crew were better off not knowing, but Pucillo had a habit of asking questions he shouldn’t. Obviously he wasn’t comfortable with Viscaya’s secrets, but if he didn’t start minding his own business, he was going to be out of a job by the time they made port back in Miami.
Of course, Dwyer asked his share of questions, too, but Angie understood that. The kid had scored a nice gig, and if he wanted to keep it, he had to educate himself, so that he could make himself useful to the Rios if the time ever came when they needed help.
“If the captain’s got trouble, that could be trouble for all of us,” Pucillo said.
Dwyer started to reply, but Angie beat him to it. She dropped her spoon and looked up at Pucillo. “Sal, we’re trying to eat here. Maybe you should man up and say what you’ve got to say to the person you want to say it to.”
She picked up a piece of bread, tore off a chunk, and popped it in her mouth. Pucillo glared at her, trying to decide how to reply. If he took it seriously, he’d have to tell her off, and the ripples of such a confl
ict would affect the whole crew.
He looked at her hands, at the oil stains there, and she could see the revulsion on his face. Pucillo had a neat-freak thing going on. The guy was meticulous. He’d probably have starved before he would have eaten with dirty hands. Angie wanted to tell Pucillo that nobody had clean hands, that sometimes it just looked that way, but he wouldn’t have understood.
“You can make jokes all you want, but this affects us all,” he said. “And you’re not funny, Angie.”
She grinned through a mouthful of bread.
Pucillo sneered in disgust and got up, stalking away.
Dwyer slid a hand onto her thigh under the table and whispered into her ear, “You’re sexy when you’re a bitch.”
“So I’m sexy all the time.”
“Pretty much.”
They started nuzzling closer, about to kiss, but then Angie glanced past Dwyer and hesitated. She forced a smile.
“Save your energy for later,” she said.
Dwyer didn’t ask; he didn’t have to. On the Antoinette, there were only a handful of things that could’ve made her hold back from kissing her guy. The freighter wasn’t on fire, and there was no sign of a tidal wave about to swamp them. That just left Hank Boggs.
Maybe forty-three, the chief engineer stood six foot four and was built like a pro football player who’d started going to seed—still plenty of muscle but too much beer to go with it. He kept his head shaved down to about a quarter inch of stubble and only took a razor to his face when it grew longer than that. Sal Pucillo annoyed her, but she liked him all right, since he was pretty much harmless. But that wasn’t a word she’d apply to Hank Boggs.
As he walked to the counter where Josh and Tori had set out the stew, bread, salad, and the rest of the evening’s meal, Hank took several furtive glances at Angie. Whenever his gaze strayed toward Dwyer, the big man got a hateful glint in his eyes, a mixture of jealousy and confusion. The son of a bitch just couldn’t figure out why the skinny little Irishman got to share Angie’s bed, when she’d barely give him the time of day.
