by Sharp, Zoe
“What do you want?”
Castille smiled again. It was not a pleasant smile.
“I can see you are a reasonable man,” he said. “I want simply for you to bring her to me.”
New Jersey hesitated. Clearly he did not need to ask who the other man meant. He knew. So his hesitation was caused by . . . what? I ran through half a dozen different emotions before I came to it.
Dread.
New Jersey was a mercenary. He was prepared to kill if he had to or he would not have survived long in that profession. On occasion he might even have been prepared to act as an executioner—if Sullivan had been telling us the truth, they had come aboard intending to kill Tom O’Day as part of the deal.
But some of the toughest mercs I’ve ever known can suddenly develop a squeamish side when it comes to killing women and children. And by bringing this unknown woman to Castille, I realised, he knew he was condemning her.
He closed his eyes just for a moment as if in brief prayer. Maybe he was just considering his options and coming to the conclusion he didn’t have any. Then he jerked his head. A couple of the men behind him turned and hurried away.
My mind flitted to the hostages. To the only woman they’d separated out from the others—Autumn Sinclair.
I could not for the life of me imagine what connection Castille might have with Tom O’Day’s protégée. We’d hardly spoken, but nothing she’d told me had set any alarm bells ringing. No, said a cynical internal voice, you were too busy being flattered by her attention . . .
For maybe a minute, the men below me stood in silence. Occasionally, as the Miss Francis hit some kind of cross swell, they swayed slightly to keep their balance. Castille looked faintly bored.
We were turning, I realised, feeling the boat cant slightly, the buffeting of the river alter in character. We had reached the extent of our outward journey and were slowly coming about. Somehow, the thought did not reassure me.
I lay quiet on the deck above, my head and the tops of my shoulders exposed beneath the railing to get the best view. If there had been a moon, a clear night sky, I would have been plainly visible. But out beyond me the darkness of the river merged into the fog that surrounded us. The atmosphere closed around me like a clammy fist, comforting and suffocating in equal measure.
I felt the reassuring hand through the back of my belt, not knowing if it was Blake Dyer or Tom O’Day who had a grip on me. I realised it didn’t matter. I trusted them equally.
Eventually, I heard the click of heels on the deck beneath. They approached New Jersey from behind. He did not turn to watch the woman approach.
As the footsteps neared the group they faltered, just for a stride, as she caught sight of who awaited her, then came on with renewed purpose. So, she knew Castille and had decided either that she was not afraid of him or that she would not allow herself to be afraid.
I saw legs first—not in gold but in a silver floor-length dress. I slithered forwards another inch, just as the woman stepped forwards and I saw her face for the first time.
Fifty
Ysabeau van Zant faced Castille with her head arrogantly tilted and a small smile flickering around her narrow mouth. If she had found her ordeal this evening harrowing in any way, it did not show.
Ysabeau van Zant. Parker’s report had hinted that she was behind the hit on the drug dealer, Leon Castille. He had to be the son or brother of the man standing in front of her now.
If it was revenge he was after, why had he waited so long to take it?
“What do you want?” van Zant demanded, her manner haughty.
Castille spread those delicate hands. “As if you have to ask, chérie.”
“Do not forget that it was I who came to you. Of my own free will. To make amends.”
“And you thought that would be all—that your debt to me would be cancelled because you issued a simple invitation?”
“Hardly simple. The boy had to be forced to return.”
“But how could he refuse a command from his patron?” Castille said. “I’m sure you were very . . . persuasive.”
“I was never his patron,” van Zant said, snap to her voice. “The boy had talent. I merely . . . took an interest in his career.”
“You covered up for him because it suited your own purposes, chérie. You did not want Leon’s murderer brought to trial for fear of what else might be uncovered. So you attempted to bury your own sins along with his.”
“And now they have risen,” van Zant said, her tone fatalistic. She shrugged, as if unconcerned. “I played my part.”
Castille shook his head. “You should have been the one to tell me about the helicopter, the change of plan. Instead, I had to find out another way.”
“There wasn’t time. It was a last-minute rearrangement.”
“But clearly there was time, chérie. I made the time.”
“And you failed,” she said, her voice cool. “Perhaps it’s fate, Castille. A sign that you should let this go. Leon is dead. Nothing you can do will bring him back. It was a long time ago.”
“To me it was yesterday.”
“So this is how you remember your brother and forget your sorrow?” she scoffed, encompassing the men surrounding her with a flick of her hand. “By robbery?”
“Who said anything about robbery?” Castille said calmly. He looked around him. “All this—it’s a distraction. I am here for you.”
For the first time the fear showed in Ysabeau van Zant’s face. She took an almost involuntary step backwards, started to bring her hands up. The man from New Jersey shifted slightly behind her. She sensed him and stopped. Castille recognised the man’s move for what it was—capitulation.
He smiled, stepped in close to van Zant. Of the two of them he was the shorter but he still dominated. He reached up, stroked her face with those soft-looking hands. She flinched at his first touch, forced herself to remain impassive at his second. I could almost see her quivering with the effort it took not to break and run.
An echo of remembered panic shivered through my belly.
Do it anyway, I willed her, filled with foreboding. Run. Go over. Even a cold river at night has to offer a better chance than this . . .
Castille’s hand drifted down the side of her long white neck, his eyes on her skin as if enthralled. His men stood and watched. I could almost feel them holding their breath.
It reminded me suddenly of another group of men watching violence about to be done to another woman—to me. Their faces were professionally blank, but even so I expected to see a faint feral excitement come off them like a heat haze in the hot damp air. Instead I caught a hint of shame.
Ysabeau van Zant let Castille caress her, as if she thought humiliation might be her only punishment.
“Such a pity,” he murmured at last.
The realisation jumped in her eyes. She sucked in a breath either to beg or to scream. I never found out which. At last, she started to turn, to run. As she did so, Castille’s hand snaked around her windpipe and tightened into a claw. The illusion that his hands were soft and delicate evaporated in that moment. He brought up his other hand, grasped her as if he wanted nothing better than to squeeze her head off her body. I saw his knuckles tighten, whiten. One of his men shuffled his feet. Castille turned his head slightly and stared. The man stilled.
For a moment I considered levering myself over the edge of the railing and dropping down to the deck below. The thought did not last more than a moment. It would have been a useless, futile effort. There were half a dozen armed men down there. Any one of them could slot me before I got both feet flat on the deck. I cursed again that Sullivan’s weapon went over the side when I tackled him.
But the fact remained that I was unarmed and Ysabeau van Zant was going to die as a result.
There was nothing I could do for her now except be a witness, however much that sickened me.
And that meant staying alive.
Ysabeau van Zant began to choke, her eyes bulging
as her face engorged. She staggered, tried to pull backwards, her fingers clutching at his hands, but could not break his grip. She stretched for his face, but could do no more than grab at the empty air in front of his chin. He didn’t even bother to lean back away from her, knowing he was out of reach.
Stupid. Going for the hands was stupid. The elbows were far more vulnerable. A downward blow would have unlocked his arms, bringing his body within striking distance. If there was too much sheer muscle to overcome, her next option should have been an upward punch to the back of the elbow joint. Break the arm and the hand is useless.
Legs are longer than arms. She should have been kicking out, aiming for the instep, shin, kneecap or groin. Twisting sideways to bring her knees into play, or those spike heels.
I shifted restlessly against the deck, my own hands and feet twitching in automatic response. Silently, I raged against the woman allowing herself to die so easily in front of me, for so little effort. For so little trouble to her attacker. I knew it was unfair, but I couldn’t help it.
Ysabeau van Zant’s breath was a desperate gurgle now, body sagging as her legs gave out. She no longer clawed at Castille’s hands but was almost petting him as her own muscles slackened and her struggles grew weaker.
It takes very little time to be strangled. Back when I taught self-defence, escaping from strangleholds had been one of the most important lessons—and the most basic. By allowing herself to be killed so pointlessly, so easily, all I felt for Ysabeau van Zant was a dark abiding anger. My fists were clenched so tight I was sure I’d drawn my own blood.
Under my breath I murmured, “Damn the pair of you.”
It took a few moments longer before her body ceased to support its own weight and went limp. Castille gave her neck a final shake like a dog with a dead toy. He let go and was already turning to the man from New Jersey even as her body hit the deck.
From behind me I felt a tug on my belt, a low warning: “Charlie.”
Castille stilled, head turning in my direction. I froze. He began to walk in my direction, his Cuban heels making a precise click as he approached. His head was cocked to the side, listening above the tap of his own footsteps.
New Jersey was staring after him as if he’d lost his mind. “What the hell is it?”
Castille held up a peremptory hand, fingers in a careless twist to silence him. I was sharply reminded of what I’d just seen that hand do, of what this man was capable of.
Another tug on my belt, more insistent this time, the whisper more urgent: “Charlie!”
Castille’s head jerked as if in direct response. He moved a little further, a little faster, sliding his feet now to muffle the sound.
I daren’t make a noise. Instead I reached behind me and dug my fingers hard into the hand that held onto me, aiming for two pressure points to release the grip. I couldn’t tell if it was Blake Dyer or Tom O’Day, but I hoped they’d get the message that moving was far more dangerous than staying precisely where I was. For a moment I thought he was going to be stubborn, then the hand released abruptly and pulled back.
Below me, the man called Castille was less than a couple of metres away. He looked around him, eyes narrowed. He even stared up at the row of deck lights that obscured me from view. I held my breath as he squinted directly into the beam, sure he must be able to see me clearly.
“Castille!” New Jersey said sharply. “What the fuck is going on with you?”
Castille didn’t answer right away. He continued to stare at the light for another long few seconds. On the other side of it, I continued to stare back at him. Eventually, he turned away, strolled back to where the men were clustered around Ysabeau van Zant’s body. Castille pulled out a white linen handkerchief, fastidiously wiped his hands on it.
“See that she is weighted down before you put her over the side,” he said.
New Jersey glanced at the crumpled form on the deck. “Is that the end of it?”
Castille paused. “No, but it is a start.”
They moved away. I let my breath out slow and shaky.
A hand latched onto my belt again, yanked me back through the railing and flipped me over. The move was rough, careless. I was expecting to see Blake Dyer or Tom O’Day looming over me, annoyed with my pinch-grip and getting their revenge.
Instead I found myself staring straight up the barrel of an assault rifle.
Fifty-one
“Up!”
The man on the other end of the M16 was dressed like the other hijackers, in black from boots to balaclava. He pressed the muzzle of the gun into the centre of my chest, grating against my sternum, and gave it a jerk.
“Come on, move,” he ordered.
I let my eyes widen, my peripheral vision reaching out. Dyer and O’Day were nowhere to be seen. Good. No point in them hanging around when I refused to listen to their warnings of approaching danger. I was glad to see they possessed a little survival instinct.
Playing for time, I let my face screw up in a show of fear. “OK, OK. Please, don’t hurt me!” At the same time I brought both hands up with my fingers spread as if in surrender.
The man shifted his stance a little, relaxed. He lifted the muzzle out of my chest and didn’t seem to notice that my hands were now within a few inches of the weapon.
Even so, I knew trying anything was going to be incredibly chancy.
Until two things happened. The first was that he reached for his radio mic with his left hand. The action made him alter his grip on the M16 to account for the change in balance.
The second was that the cabin door directly behind him opened and Blake Dyer stepped out, his golf club raised at shoulder height like a samurai sword.
The masked man’s reflexes were excellent. He caught the movement and began to twist instantly, ducking his knees as he did so.
I don’t know where Dyer had intended to strike him—or even if he’d thought it that far through. But as the man turned the total power of the golf club hit him full across the throat. Dyer was at maximum extension, unwinding his best drive.
The club face met the man’s neck with almost perfect precision. Had it landed across the top of his spine it probably would have broken his neck. As it was, I heard his larynx collapse with an audible soft pop.
The man started to collapse forward onto me, gasping. I twisted sideways as the muzzle of the M16 rammed down into the deck, just avoiding being skewered, and levered my feet up into his pelvis as his body flopped. From there it was a straightforward judo manoeuvre. A swift upward jerk of my legs and he was flipped out over the railing. I tried to keep a grip on the M16 as he went but his arm was wrapped up in the strap and it tore from my grasp.
He dropped soundlessly into the water two decks below. By the time he landed there was nobody to hear the splash.
I rolled over and stared down into the dark water that slipped past the hull of the Miss Francis. If the body surfaced I didn’t see it.
I looked up again to find Blake Dyer trying to wrestle a lifebelt free from its rack on the cabin wall.
“Leave it,” I said.
“We can’t just let him drown,” Dyer said, still struggling to untangle the line that was wrapped around the belt.
I opened my mouth to tell him that drowning was the least of the guy’s worries, but Tom O’Day stepped in, put a staying hand on Dyer’s arm. “He’s gone, Blake,” he said quietly. “Let him go.”
For a moment it was like Dyer hadn’t heard, then he slumped against the rack.
“Oh God, I never meant . . .”
“I know, old friend,” O’Day said. “You did what you had to do.”
Dyer glanced at me, his face pale with anguish. “You wouldn’t move,” he muttered. “You told us to warn you, but you wouldn’t move. If you had—”
“Then the guys on the deck below would have shot all of us,” I said. “There was nothing I could do about that.”
Dyer shook his head like he didn’t believe me, or didn’t want to. I got to
my feet. O’Day handed me the Maglite he’d been safeguarding. I picked up the golf club Blake Dyer had abandoned, offered it back to him.
Dyer shook his head again, more vehemently this time. “No,” he said. “I don’t think I can . . . not again. Not after . . .”
“It’s OK, Blake,” Tom O’Day said. “You’ve done enough.”
“I—”
“They just killed Ysabeau van Zant,” I said baldly, hoping to shock him out of it. His eyes jerked to mine, a little wild. The information did not bring him any comfort.
“How . . .? We didn’t hear anything,” Dyer said, his voice faltering. “I mean, are you sure?”
