Tsunami Blue

by Gayle Ann Williams

  I wrapped the blanket around me the best I could with one hand and glared. Where the hell was Max? As if we had some ESP connection, I heard Max whine on cue.

  “Max?” I called, annoyed that my voice sounded breathy, girly, soft. What the hell was the matter with me? I did not have a breathy, girly, soft voice. I had a soft voice, true, but it was an all-business, kick-ass woman’s voice. “Max,” I called much more firmly. There, that was more like it, kind of.

  The sleeping bag moved, and to my amazement Max wiggled up from the bottom, pawing his way to the top. He stuck his huge head out and licked my…my what? My bunk buddy? On the cheek, no less.

  “Max,” I squeaked. I actually squeaked. Oh God, Blue, get a grip.

  What happened to the dog that could tear a man’s throat out in under a second? The dog that would intimidate, terrify, chomp, maim, chew, and—I swear I was on the verge of hysteria—what happened to Mad Max, the killer?

  Max yawned, licked the man’s cheek again, and was rewarded with a lazy scratch to the head.

  I was so surprised that I lost my concentration. The thin blanket slipped from my fingers and pooled on the floor.

  “Shit.” I dived forward to grab the fabric, only to have it slip between my fingers again. Max, hearing the cuss word, tore out of the bag and danced around my legs, tangling the blanket in the process. “Max, move,” I yelled while still holding my knife. I tugged at the blanket that was now anchored by a hundred-something-pound dog. It wouldn’t give. Heat burned in my cheeks. My long, thick hair was out of my traditional ponytail, but it wasn’t long enough or thick enough to cover…well, to cover everything.

  “Fuck, Max,” I said out of sheer exasperation, “move!” I realized my mistake the second it left my mouth.

  That was all it took.

  Max flew off the blanket and started to chase his tail. Any hope that he would turn into Max, killer dog of the north, disappeared with the dreaded F-bomb.

  I snatched the blanket up, wrapped it around me, stomped over to the cupboard, grabbed a twenty, stuffed it in the pickle jar, threw Max a tiny—and I mean tiny—strip of salmon, stomped back, knelt, and held the knife under the man’s chin.

  “Who are you?” I asked, and not politely.

  He had propped himself up with his free arm using my pillow. He looked stern, as if trying to be scary. But his eyes gave it away. He was trying not to laugh.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  His voice, raspy from the previous night’s ordeal, surprised me. There was a quiet, silken quality to it. Gentle yet…what? Dangerous came to mind. I wondered, Is this what the devil would sound like?

  “There’s nothing good about it,” I snapped.

  His gaze traveled down the length of my body and back again, lingering at my breasts for a brief moment before he met my eyes.

  “I’d beg to differ.” His mouth quirked into a smile, sexy and inviting. “It’s been a very good morning.” He winked.

  My heart rate increased, and my palms started to sweat. Being naked and holding a blanket while balancing a knife will do that to you. Plus, I didn’t think it was possible for this man to be any better-looking, but the smile… Oh Lord.

  Even white teeth, twin dimples, dark eyes rimmed in long, inky lashes… Oh, man, I was in trouble here. I should just kill him now and put us both out of our misery. But I kinda had a rule against cold-blooded murder. And besides, he didn’t look anywhere near miserable.

  He seemed as though he was enjoying himself.

  Still, he looked predatory and dangerous and hot. Hot? Where had that come from? That was it. I was breaking my rule. I was just going to flat-out kill him.

  I pointed the blade tip upward into his chin.

  Let your guard down, Blue, give away your life.

  My uncle’s words hung in the air between us. “Yeah, Seamus,” I whispered, “it’s time to get serious.”

  He raised a brow. “Seamus?”

  Well, now he thought I was crazy. Just as well, because this might hurt.

  I pressed the blade, drawing a single drop of crimson blood. My uncle’s words had jolted me back into the stark reality of my life. A life filled with waves, survival, death. And after all, I had no idea who I was dealing with. He’d survived the night and, yeah, that was all well and good—what I had prayed for, actually. But if he were a Runner, it would be up to me to survive the day.

  “Who are you?” I asked again.

  Silence.

  “If I have to ask a third time, it won’t be a charm.”

  His demeanor changed; he clearly didn’t like the threat.

  He lowered his chin into my blade tip, slowly, deliberately, until a fine line of blood trickled along the long blade, tracing down the hilt. The blood dripped over my fingers and along the back of my hand. The entire time his gaze never left mine.

  He didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink.

  I didn’t flinch. I didn’t blink.

  Blood didn’t bother me. I’d seen too much of it. This show of his wouldn’t work on me.

  “You’re a tough guy,” I said, lowering my voice and the knife. “I get that.”

  I stood, backing well out of his reach, and wiped the blood off my hand onto the blanket. Using the fabric, I cleaned the blade, taking my time. He kept his intense gaze on me as he wiped at the blood under his chin with the back of his hand. I hated that he stared at me with those black eyes, eyes I couldn’t read.

  Fed up, I flipped the knife, throwing it hard into the cedar floor just beyond his reach. The blade sank deep into the wood in front of his face, and I hoped the message was clear. But just in case, I delivered it personally.

  “But I’m a tougher girl, big guy, just in case you thought otherwise. And”—I walked over, yanked the blade up by the hilt, tossing it high in the air, only to catch it right in front of his nose—“I have the knife.” He said nothing, just raised that dark brow.

  Okay, now I was pissed. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, but I did know one thing: I wasn’t going to do it naked.

  I turned to collect my clothes, jeans, a tee, socks; where was my bra? I only owned two, one held together by a knot. Man, it was time to go shopping. I needed lots of things: coats, bras, ammo. But considering it was sixty nautical miles to Seattle, where most of the city was underwater and shopping at the mall entailed a wet suit, scuba gear, and a lookout, well, let’s just say two bras were good for a while longer. But I had to go soon. Salt water is hard on, well, everything.

  “Looking for this?”

  I sighed and my shoulders slumped. I knew what was coming. I’d thrown my clothes off last night and in my hurry I didn’t know or care where they might have landed. That is, until now. I turned around. Well, so much for the tough-girl image.

  He held out my bright pink bra with his long, tan fingers. Good grief, even the guy’s hands were sexy. I shook my head, walked over still gripping the blanket, and held out my hand. He tossed the bra my way and neither one of us smiled.

  The weak morning light and the absence of warmth in the cabin made for a downright depressing atmosphere. We both knew only too well that this situation could—that is, most likely would—end badly for one of us. And I desperately didn’t want it to be me.

  I called for Max, who had been sleeping soundly in the corner. Guess all those doggy kisses had worn him out. Traitor. I gathered my clothes and headed for the door.

  “Gabriel.”

  My hand paused at the doorknob. “Excuse me?” I turned slowly and met his dark gaze.

  “Gabriel. My name.”

  I paused, hearing but unbelieving. Gabriel. The dark angel, the fallen angel. My fantasy angel from the night before. But this man before me, stretched out naked in my old sleeping bag, handcuffed to an ancient stove, this man was no fantasy. He was flesh; he was blood; he was real. Hell, I’d seen him bleed.

  “Gabriel?” I crossed my arms, still holding the knife, and bunched the clothes to my chest.

  “Gabrie
l Black.”

  Oh, come on. Gabriel and Black? Dark angel? What were the chances? Had I been talking in my sleep? Not possible. Was it? Then again, I could talk to the sea. I could predict the waves. Why not guess a name, or at the very least come close? But Gabriel? A name almost as beautiful as the man himself? I didn’t believe it.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He shrugged.

  “Fine,” I said, bitterness lacing through my voice. “What’s a name in today’s world anyway? Come on, Max.” I turned to go.

  “Not much,” he said softly behind me, “unless, of course, it’s Tsunami Blue.”

  My hand froze on the doorknob. So he knew who I was. I turned to face him. “You’re a genius, aren’t you, tough guy? What gave it away? The shortwave equipment?” I motioned to my radio in the corner and was amazed to see it covered with a blue tarp. I guess in my frenzy last night I had thought to try to conceal my identity. So how had he known? As if he’d read my mind, he pointed to the old cupboard, where, pinned on peeling paint, was a yellowed and frail newspaper clipping. The headline could still be clearly read: Angel of the Beach Saves One Hundred Lives.

  “You’re her. You’re the angel.” He said it without emotion, as if asking, Please pass the salt. He shrugged at my glare. “The tat helped, of course.”

  “I’m not,” I said, as I subconsciously rubbed my arm where the elaborate tattoo was exposed. But of course I was. I was that little girl—Kathryn “Blue” O’Malley—on that Thailand beach nineteen years ago who had screamed, “Tsunami!” over and over, alerting, warning, prompting people to run for their lives. On that fateful day, the sea had whispered the word Tsunami over and over and over to me. Scream it, Blue, the sea had said. And run, run for high ground while you’re doing it. Oh, yes, I had saved lives that day—many, I was told. But I wasn’t able to save the three most important to me—my mother, my father, and my older brother—if only by four minutes—Finn. Finnegan Patrick O’Malley had been my heart, my life, my twin.

  Disgusted, I tossed so-called Gabriel his jeans, which he caught easily in midair. I lifted his shorts with my big toe and kicked them within his reach. If I decided to kill him, it’d be easier if he was dressed.

  He reached for his shorts, and the sleeping bag slid dangerously low. I didn’t want to think about that magnificent body, the hard lines and muscled thighs. It might distract me from the kill shot.

  Gabriel picked up the underwear and held them up. “What’s the matter, Blue?” He enunciated my name slowly, softly. “Afraid you might catch something? I think it’s a bit late for that, considering”—he raised a knee, and the sleeping bag slid lower still—“that we spent the night together nude.”

  I narrowed my eyes as I felt the telltale tingle of embarrassment creep into my cheeks. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me blush. Again. I had to leave. My pale skin was easier to read than a neon sign. Not that I’d seen neon in more than a decade.

  “Just get dressed. I’ll be back.” I twirled the knife into a blur, which was a habit. I realized it probably looked hokey, but what the hell; I didn’t get many chances to show off my knife skills, and he was a captive audience. Literally. “Depending on what I hear,” I continued, “if I like your answers, I’ll decide if you live”—twirl—“or die.” Twirl. Man, I’d just impressed myself with this knife act, set a new speed record, even. I was such a badass. “Max, come.”

  Max trotted toward the door, but not before stopping to give this Gabriel a lick on the hand. He was rewarded with a lazy scratch behind the ears by those long, slender fingers. Max clearly did not understand the difference between friend and foe. Or loyal subject and traitor. And Gabriel Black, if that was truly his name, didn’t seem the least bit worried that I was twirling a twelve-inch blade. You would have thought I held a baton, like those bandleaders I had seen once in a parade, and not a weapon that could disembowel him in less than five seconds.

  I shook my head. Max was going to make me call him again, wasn’t he? Like being naked in front of this guy wasn’t humiliating enough, I now had my dog, my monster killer dog, in love with him. What had I done to make my Max turn on me so viciously?

  I grabbed the doorknob once more, took a breath to steady my nerves, and yanked the door open. Any second Max would rush in, push against me, and crowd his way out first. I let two heartbeats go by before I peeked over my shoulder. Max was lying on his back now while Gabriel rubbed his belly.

  “Max!” Oh, no. That was almost a squeak again. I cleared my throat. “Max,” I said in a commanding voice. There, that got his attention. That or the strip of salmon that hung drying by the door that I’d nabbed. “Come.” Max saw the food, dashed to my side, grabbed the fish, and, just like old times, he pushed and jostled me out of the way. He sprang out the door, snagging my blanket in his rear paw. I held on to the material for dear life. I mean really, I’d had enough nudity in the last twelve hours to start my own camp.

  With fish in mouth, Max paused just long enough to see me lose my balance and fall smack on my butt. The knife clattered on cedar planks and my clothes went flying. The blanket, however, stayed anchored. Sort of. A small victory, but a victory no less.

  I scrambled, picking up the knife first, clothes second, and my boots, the only shoes closest to the door, third. All the while I refused to look at Gabriel. I was out of the cabin almost as fast as Max. When the door slammed shut, creating a barrier between me and my bunk buddy from hell, I slumped against it, catching my breath. I willed my heartbeat to slow, my adrenaline to quit pumping, and then I heard it through the door.

  Laughter. Deep male laughter. And didn’t that just piss me off.

  I sat on a grassy dune above the gray-blue waters of Haro Strait. A mean north wind tossed and twisted my long hair, obscuring my view. I smelled sea salt and dried kelp and rotting fish. The gulls, loud and boisterous, cried foul. Foul to the weather, foul to the wind, and foul to my dark mood.

  The ocean, as if sensing the darkness, was restless today, tossing waves angrily on the beach as if to say, He should be dead, he should be dead, he should be dead.

  As I brushed long, thick strands of hair out of my eyes, I had to agree. He damn well should be.

  But Gabriel Black had not only survived the night, he seemed to have no outward residual effects. It was uncanny. I should be spoon-feeding him warm sugar water, helping him walk, nursing him back to full strength. I picked up a rock and threw it. Yeah, right. Like I could ever be a nurse. I could barely take care of myself. And Max.

  With knees drawn up, I watched Max play in the surf. We had kissed and made up. You know, it was that girl-and-her-dog thing.

  I had drawn a sketch of Gabriel in the sand, a very bad sketch. I mean, really, how great could it be with a stick of driftwood and no talent? Still, I had tried to show Max who the bad man was. I didn’t care how great Gabriel Black scratched or rubbed or petted. I had a sudden vision of him lounging in my sleeping bag naked. Okay, maybe I did care how great he scratched and rubbed and petted. In another lifetime. But right now, I told Max, Gabriel was the enemy, and until we knew more about him, Max was to resume the raised-hackles-and-bared-teeth act. Fake a case of rabies, even. Whatever it took, I told him. He was to remember he was on my side and my side alone.

  “Right, Blue,” I said out loud before resting my head on my knees, letting my hair whip around me like an angry dark storm. “Now you think you can communicate with dogs. Gabriel Black is making you nuts.”

  Max’s bark jolted me out of self-pity mode. I lifted my head and squinted, out of habit, at the horizon. My eyes expected to see nothing, but my mind said differently. And it was a full twenty seconds before I put it all together to register the sight in my overloaded brain.

  Runners.

  On my feet, I yelled for Max, studying the horizon, trying to estimate how long. How long before they beached, tracked, hunted, and found us? Thirty minutes? No, I only wished. Twenty? Maybe. Fifteen? Please, God, no. The sea w
as rough today, so beaching would be difficult. Still, not impossible. Not impossible.

  Max barreled up the sand dune, dropping a stick at my feet. He stood next to me, growling and snapping at the gray and black sails dotting the horizon. The lead boat unfurled a spinnaker, and the Runner’s emblem painted on the sail glared harsh against a bleak sky. The 666 with a dagger running through the numbers did just what it was supposed to: It struck terror in my heart and twisted fear in my gut.

  My heartbeat slammed against my chest and my blood pressure mounted. For a moment I could hardly breathe. I doubled over, putting my head between my knees, trying to catch a breath. That was when I saw it. Not a stick. Max had not dropped a stick at all. He’d dropped Gabriel Black’s knife, lost from the night before. Scrimshawed in the bone handle was a design: 666, with a dagger running through it.

  He was one of them.

  I felt angry. Betrayed. But betrayed how? Let’s face it: I’d betrayed myself and everything Seamus had taught me. “We should have let him die, Max,” I whispered. My mind flashed on the memory of his amazing smile, dimples…the wink. Hot tears pricked at my eyes. I willed them away. This was no time for sentiment, for weakness. I didn’t know him. He didn’t know me. Gabriel Black was a Runner. And that was that.

  Runners, the scourge of the sea, the pirates of our new uncharted world, were true devils on and off the water. Psychopaths with no regard for life, human or any other, who robbed and murdered at will. In a few short years their reputation had grown legendary. Almost surpassing mine.

  Some said they worshiped the devil. Others said they were the devil. Urban legends spoke of human sacrifices and cannibalism. But I knew the legends weren’t true. For one thing we didn’t have “urban” anymore. We had Uplanders, survivors who were uninformed and isolated, and started rumors out of fear. And we didn’t have YouTube, or DIRECTV, or the six-o’clock news. We had me, Tsunami Blue. And thanks to Uncle Seamus, I knew what the Runners were all about. The Runners were motivated by reasons as old as time: wealth, greed, power, sex. And in a world where everything was up for grabs, they had quickly established themselves at the top of the food chain. I should know. Seamus, my coldhearted bastard of an uncle, had been one. And I’d lived among his crew for more years than I cared to think about.