by Sharp, Zoe
No point in pussyfooting around . . .
“What did you do with the knife?” I demanded.
“No way,” Jimmy said, not even troubling to sound surprised. “No way—it wasn’t me. I didn’t do this.”
I got the feeling it was not me he was trying to convince.
I said nothing, just let go of him and turned away. By the faces of the two men opposite they were not entirely convinced by his performance either, but Tom O’Day put up a token protest. “You can’t suspect Jimmy—not of something like this.”
His son scowled as if to disabuse him, hearing the slur as well as the endorsement.
“Even amateurs can secure a prisoner so he can’t get loose without a hell of a lot more signs of it,” I said. “And these people are not amateurs.”
Tom O’Day shrugged, irritation in his face. “Jimmy’s just a kid,” he said, sending an angry flush across his twenty-something son’s face. “They knew he wasn’t a threat to them. Besides, takes skill to cut a man’s throat.”
“There are hesitation marks,” I said. “Whoever did this, he took a couple of runs at it. So he probably wasn’t a professional.”
Or not one who’d had cause to kill before, up close and very personal.
“Even so—” Tom O’Day began.
I held up a weary hand. “We’ll deal with this later,” I said. “Right now, we have other things to worry about.” I took a last look at Sullivan, bled out in the chair we’d tied him to. The chair I’d tied him to. “Let’s move.”
Fifty-five
We moved back out onto the deck, pulling the door closed behind us. Once again I led the way with Tom O’Day right behind me. The layout of the boat was solidifying in my head now, but it was nice to have a second opinion.
Blake Dyer was bringing up the rear, with Jimmy in front of him. Tom O’Day might not believe his son was capable of murder, but I wanted the lad where at least one other person could keep an eye on him.
I kept telling myself that surely there had to be far easier and less elaborate circumstances around the home where Jimmy could have arranged a suitable “accident” for his father. Going to all this trouble seemed overkill. Unless there was some other game at play. A game I was unaware of.
And until I knew what that might be I was reluctant to risk my hand. Or the rest of us, either.
We reached the exterior staircase that led to the lower deck. Tom O’Day started to guide us down when I heard footsteps below and grabbed his arm. He scurried back up and the four of us crouched near the top, peering down.
Two of the hijackers appeared on the lower deck. Both were carrying nylon bags, the kind you’d use for a weekend trip. But whatever was in them looked heavier than just a change of clothes.
At that moment, the Miss Francis was jostled by a small wave or maybe we crossed over the wake of another vessel. Her bow dipped suddenly.
Jimmy, leaning over the top of the stairs, staggered and almost lost his balance. He reached for the railing in automatic response to prevent himself falling. As he did so the metal strap of his watch clinked audibly against it. A tiny noise, but the pitch was higher than the natural sounds of the river and the boat, making it stand out.
I swore silently, glaring at Jimmy. He flushed.
Below us, one of the men stopped and turned, hand straying to the MP5 on the strap over his shoulder.
“What was that?”
“What?” asked his companion, further ahead. “You getting jumpy, man?”
“I heard something.”
There was a short laugh. “You is getting jumpy,” the second man said. “Case you hadn’t noticed, bro, we’re working to a schedule here.”
The first man hesitated, almost turned away and then stopped again. “You go on ahead. I’ll check it out.”
I shuffled back from the head of the stairs as fast and quiet as I could manage, indicated to the others to do the same. I shot a hard stare in Jimmy’s direction but he was avoiding my gaze.
“Restaurant,” I whispered in Tom O’Day’s ear. “I’ll meet you there.”
He nodded and the three of them scurried away along the side deck.
The man with the bag, meanwhile, had started to climb the staircase, his movements cautious. I edged back behind the nearest bulkhead, gripping the Maglite. If he turned in my direction once he got to the top of the stairs I’d risk tackling him. If not . . . well, I’d play that one by ear.
The man reached the top step, body tense. He paused there a moment, listening, but heard nothing that alarmed him.
Then from further forward there came the faint sound of a door closing. The man spun in that direction, the MP5 already off its shoulder strap and in his hand. I cursed under my breath. I just knew without being told that it was bloody Jimmy, being careless again.
Carefully, the hijacker put down the nylon bag and took a firmer grip on his gun. He started to move along the side deck away from me, focused on the sound that had alerted him. Unwilling to be weighed down in a possible fight, he left the bag where it was.
The temptation of that proved too much.
As soon as he was out of sight I slipped out from concealment, crossed the deck in a few quick strides and squatted by the bag. All the time, I was checking that nobody was creeping up on me, or that the second man wasn’t on his way up the stairs.
If there were spare weapons in the bag, it was a risk worth taking. I slid the zip open quietly, looked inside, and froze.
There were no guns. That would have been better.
Instead, the bag was packed with blocks of off-white material, soft and pliable, the consistency of modelling clay. The blocks were about the size of a house brick but half the thickness. I didn’t need to pick them up to know what they were. I’d handled enough C-4 plastic explosive to recognise it instantly by sight.
And from my experience there was enough in that bag to send the Miss Francis and all aboard her straight to the bottom of the Mississippi without any trouble at all.
Fifty-six
I reached into the bag and searched the dark corners, just in case the hijackers had been foolish enough to carry the detonators in there as well. Sadly, they were not.
Ah well, I can dream.
C-4 is relatively stable as far as explosive goes. You can’t set it off by shooting at it or burning it—in fact I’d actually come across some squaddies who used it for instant campfire fuel. It was pretty effective provided you avoided inhaling the fumes while you cooked your food.
Footsteps sounded along the side deck, coming back in my direction. I grabbed the handles of the bag and rose, turning fast to build up momentum. Then I let go and sent the whole lot winging out into the gloom. I even thought I heard a distant splash as it landed in the river.
Let’s just hope it sinks.
Still, even if they turned around now, the chances of locating a small black bag, floating somewhere in the night, were negligible.
I snatched up the Maglite and ran along the deck in the opposite direction. Almost as soon as I did so, I realised my mistake. This way led towards the stern. There were cabins I might be able to hide in, but nothing that offered an escape route to the rest of the boat. The other man was still on the deck below, so they’d know I hadn’t gone that way.
It would not, I judged, take them long to find me.
Shit.
The footsteps reached the area at the top of the stairs and paused. It would only take him a moment to overcome his disbelief at the disappearance of the bag, another to act.
I glanced at the railing. The only way was over the side but I didn’t fancy my chances in the river, not to mention leaving Blake Dyer and the O’Days to their own devices. Still, there were times when you didn’t have the luxury of choice.
I climbed up onto the railing, almost losing my grip because of the Maglite. I briefly considered stuffing it into my belt, but it had stretched too loose to hold the flashlight secure. I wavered for a second, then threw the Maglite afte
r the bag of explosives.
Sorry, skipper.
With both hands free, I managed to reach the edge of the deck above. I got a firm grip on it and jumped, swinging my legs up and hooking one foot onto the deck as well. All the time I expected to hear a shout from beneath me. Or maybe he’d go straight for a shot.
Neither came—yet.
With a grunt of effort I heaved myself upwards. I got one hand onto the bottom railing, then another. The railings were damp with salt and hard to grip. My hand slipped, scraping my forearm raw on the edge of the deck. I gritted my teeth and stretched again. The assault courses I’d tackled regularly in the army seemed a long time ago.
I made a mental note—if I survived this I’d get back into practice.
Feet scrabbling, I got a toehold and used that to lever myself up further, pulled my body over the railing and almost slumped onto the upper deck, gasping for breath.
Come on, Fox, get up!
Now without any kind of a weapon, I sprinted lightly along the deck, heading forward. There were shouts below me now, raised voices, alarm. I passed the exterior stairwell, expecting pursuit at any moment. From the banging of doors on the lower deck, it seemed they’d assumed I’d taken the option to hide. Good thing I had not.
I dodged into the bar, through the service doors and forced myself to slow down so I could make it down the stairs there without too much noise. The loudest sound was my own breathing.
On the deck below, I paused by the service doors leading into the restaurant area, peering out of the glass panels. It all looked quiet.
Cautiously, I pushed the door open and crept out.
“Charlie!” came a loud whisper off to my right. I spun, caught a glimpse of Blake Dyer’s face just peeping out from behind the small bar in the corner. Behind it, all three of them were crouched down.
It was cosy behind there with the four of us, but for the moment it was the best concealment we could find.
“You OK?” Dyer asked.
“I’ll let you know that in about ten minutes—if they don’t find us,” I said.
Tom O’Day was eyeing me with concern. “You find out what was in the bag?”
In low tones, with one ear listening for intruders, I told them. Tom O’Day and Blake Dyer took the news in solemn silence. It was Jimmy, characteristically, who half rose in shock and had to be pulled back into cover by his father.
“We gotta find Autumn.” Jimmy’s voice was strained to cracking. “They took her away someplace the same time as me. I don’t know where they took her, but if they’re going to sink the ship—please . . .”
For the first time he seemed genuinely scared.
“We don’t know for sure that’s what they’re aiming to do, son,” Tom O’Day said, casting dubious eyes in my direction. “Just because they brought explosives on board doesn’t mean they’re planning to scuttle us.”
But I saw from his face that he couldn’t think of many alternatives, even if he didn’t want to say so.
I sat with my head rested back against the bar. My gaze went naturally upwards to the rows of bottles hanging above us.
“If it’s a drink you’re after, best make it a cola,” Tom O’Day said casually, following my line of sight. “We need all our wits about us.”
I’d already dismissed the idea of using the spirits as Molotov cocktails, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t still make a good distraction.
“On the contrary, I think a bottle of strong drink would be a really good idea.”
I rose, reached up and began to disconnect the nearest bottle from its optic.
“What the heck are you doing?” Tom O’Day demanded.
“You were a navy man,” I told him. “I’m making depth charges.”
His bushy eyebrows rose for a couple of seconds, then he got to his feet and began to dismantle the optic nearest to him.
Blake Dyer took a moment longer to catch on, but he was still looking shaky from tackling the man who’d gone into the water. I realised it was probably better that he had not been forced to look at the body afterwards. This way, he could kid himself that his victim might have survived.
If I could manage it I would not, I decided, put him in a position where he had to do the same again.
Then he pushed to his feet and began to help.
Still listening carefully I moved round to the front of the bar, lining up the spirit bottles as they were taken down—whiskey, brandy, vodka, gin, rum. There were eight in total. Not many but it would have to be enough. All I was looking for was enough of a diversion for me to get hold of a gun.
“What the hell are you planning to do with—?” Jimmy began.
A sudden noise just outside the double doors to the restaurant had me waving him to silence. A coverall gesture that I hoped he would realise meant for him to get out of sight, too. Jimmy froze like a startled deer. His godfather grabbed his collar and yanked him down into cover behind the bar.
There wasn’t time for me to join them. I grabbed one of the bottles, which happened to be vodka, dived under the nearest table and willed myself into total stillness. The average human eye divines movement better than features or change in colour. Out on the deck before—when I’d watched Castille murder Ysabeau van Zant—this theory worked for me. I hoped the newcomers weren’t the exceptions to prove the rule.
The bar doors open slowly and a shaft of light from outside blazed directly onto me. I almost shut my eyes, as if that was going to help.
The man whose bag I had flung overboard advanced carefully into the restaurant area, putting his feet down with almost no sound, sweeping left to right with the gun in his hands. His face was hidden under a balaclava but I didn’t need to see his expression to read the anger in him.
From my hiding place I saw his head moving, saw him start to approach the bar itself. I gripped the neck of the vodka bottle tighter. If he reached the bar and looked over it, Blake Dyer and the O’Days would be trapped in a tiny kill zone. It would be impossible for the gunman to miss.
I knew if I tried to launch an attack, armed only with a bottle, I stood almost no chance of success. I’d been lucky to overpower Sullivan, but this man was too tense, too alert. Nevertheless, I couldn’t just let him slaughter the others without moving a muscle to help. However useless that attempt might be.
He was only a couple of steps away when the outside door shoved open. He whirled, only to find the other hijacker standing in the doorway. The other bag was still in his hand, I noted.
“Hey, bro, you need to come see this,” the newcomer said, his voice betraying a trace of shock and anxiety.
“Can’t it wait?”
“No.”
The single word was urgent enough for his companion not to question it further. With a final glance at the bar he crossed quickly to the doorway and they both went out.
I let my breath out very slowly. The adrenaline was making my hands vibrate with unreleased tension. I crawled out from under the table and went over to the bar. As my head appeared over it, three pairs of eyes swivelled in my direction.
“It’s OK,” I said. “They’ve gone.”
“Didn’t you try to grab one of them?” Jimmy demanded. “We need to know what they’re planning to do with the boat.”
I didn’t bother to argue with him. Another prisoner might have been useful but I didn’t want to become one myself, never mind dead.
A clicking in my earpiece made me pause. It was the one I’d taken from Sullivan—on the hijackers’ own network. I covered my ear to cut out background noise at my end. At the other end was a burst of accelerated static, then a cool male voice:
“We are one man down and one man missing. Repeat, one man down, one man MIA. Stay alert for intruders and switch to the alternate frequency.”
There was a final click. I picked the earpiece out and dropped it into my pocket. They had clearly made a plan in case a comms unit fell into unfriendly hands. Without the back-up frequency there was no point in list
ening any longer.
“I think they just found Sullivan,” I said. “And now they’re going to be looking for us, so—”
This time it was my other earpiece that burst to life.
To preserve the battery life, Sean was not keeping the mic open when there was nothing happening I needed to hear. But he thought I needed to hear this.
