by Dee Davis
Melissa threw down the pillow, and Nigel took a step toward her, thinking she'd finally surrendered to her anger, but as he drew closer, he realized she was digging between the sofa cushions with both hands.
"Finding anything?" he asked, closing the distance between them.
She looked up with an embarrassed smile. "Men never think about cleaning under cushions, even the most fastidious ones. My sister and I used to find all kinds of things under my daddy's rechner cushions."
Nigel reached down to remove the seat cushion nearest him, the collection of dust and unidentifiable bits of refuse underscoring her thoughts. "I don't see how a rotting Cheeto is going to help us find Khamis."
"It won't," she said, "but this might." She held up her hand, a wadded-up scrap of paper between her thumb and forefinger. Nigel took it from her, carefully grasping it by the corner.
"Is there anything on it?" Payton asked, moving over so that he could see.
"Try to keep your prints off of it as much as possible," Gabe warned.
Nigel nodded, and shook the paper until it unfolded, keeping contact only at the original corner. The page appeared to have been torn from a notepad, half of it missing. But there were two words visible on the sheet. "It says 'stormy petrel.'"
"What the hell does that mean?" Payton spit.
"It's the title of one of my favorite books," Melissa offered, "but I hardly think that would have anything to do with Khamis."
"Isn't a petrel a bird?" Gabe asked, frowning over Nigel's shoulder at the crinkled paper.
"Yes, it is," Nigel said. "The storm petrel to be exact. They're seabirds. I've seen them in the Hebrides. There are around twenty species, I believe, occupying both the northern and southern hemispheres. They're sometimes called Mother Carey's chickens, although I've not got the slightest idea why."
"Ornithology," Payton said, "now that's a side of you I've never seen."
"I'm not sure about the Mother Carey part," Melissa said, her eyebrows drawn together in a frown, "but storm petrels are known as the sailors' friends. Supposedly they warn of approaching storms. It's considered unlucky to kill them, the legend being that each bird contains the soul of a dead seaman."
"Okay." Payton raised his hands in surrender. "You two clearly belong together."
"Well, they might just have something," Gabe said, taking the note from Nigel. "If a storm petrel is considered luck for seamen, then what better name for a ship?"
"Maybe, but why would Khamis have noted another ship?" Nigel asked, trying to work through the idea. "We know the unlisted crate came in on the Argonaut. Unless we've totally missed the boat, excuse the pun, I'm not sure where another ship fits into our scenario."
"What if it's an outgoing ship?" Payton queried, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe Khamis is moving the R-VX somewhere outside of New York?"
"Only one way to find out," Gabe said, turning on his headset. "Harrison, you there?" The headset crackled with life. "Yeah, everything's secure. Listen, we need to find out if there's a ship in the area by the name of Stormy Petrel. And if so, where it's docked, and more importantly—where it's going."
WITH THE PREPONDERANCE of clouds, there'd been no transition from night to day, the gray gloom giving way to the neon glare of the city in what seemed to be a matter of minutes. Across the East River the lights of Manhattan glistened in the moisture-laden air. Directly ahead the lights of the shipyards twinkled like a fairyland.
Except that fairyland had been invaded by the devil. Melissa stared out the window of the harbormaster's office at the wraithlike shapes of the tankers and freighters lined up along the quays. There was big money represented here, each ship's cargo providing an influx of capital to the American economy.
Warehouses lined the shoreline, each of them numbered according to pier. Her thirty-five was dark, however, the water in front of the pier black and empty, the accompanying building a stark counterpoint to its thriving neighbors.
"According to the logs, the Stormy Petrel pulled up anchor about an hour ago. If it weren't for the weather she'd have reached open sea. As it is she's just left the mouth of the river." The harbormaster, a ruddy-faced man with the look of a sailor, pointed to the ship's position on the chart he had spread out before him. "You're sure you don't want me to call in the Coast Guard?" The man's gaze moved between the two women, his expression telegraphing his disapproval.
"Not yet. We need to see what we're dealing with here. Believe me, our combined experience is enough to deal with almost anything. It's better that we handle this our way."
The harbormaster raised his hands in defeat. "I was told to provide whatever you wanted and not ask questions." And the idea obviously didn't sit well at all.
"We'll be fine." Sam reached down to pick up a backpack containing her bomb gear. The harbormaster shot it a surreptitious glance and then looked away.
"Everything's ready." Payton appeared at the door, clad in a wetsuit, a tank of air dangling from one hand as if it weighed nothing at all.
Melissa pulled her jacket tightly around her and stepped out into the cold. It was raining, the fine mist almost a solid curtain, its icy fingers penetrating even the most water-resistant of coats. She and Sam followed Payton onto the dock and over to the wildly roiling boat. Gabe was at the helm, fighting to keep the boat beside the dock. Nigel was standing aft, his hand held out to help her into the vessel.
Once on board, she clambered over to a seat, hugging her coat around her. As Sam and Payton followed her, Nigel loosened the knot on the dock's cleat, throwing the rope to the floor of the boat with a signal for Gabe to go.
Gabe opened the throttle, and the boat, gaining buoyancy, ceased its violent rocking as it headed out into the river. It was amazingly quiet and, with no running lights, practically invisible in the misty night. Nigel settled next to her, his arm tightening around her, and for the moment she allowed herself to relax into his embrace.
It seemed as if aeons had passed since they'd reunited and yet it had only been days. She marveled at the fact that someone she'd known for such a short period of time could possibly mean so much to her. At least she couldn't fault him for being a boring date. She'd survived poisoning, found her handler dead and been shot at twice.
All that was left was to stop a terrorist from unleashing a weapon of mass destruction and find the courage to tell Nigel she loved him, the former definitely being the easier of the two.
The boat lurched as it slowed, and peering into the darkness, Melissa could make out the running lights of the freighter just ahead. She could see the glow of Sandy Hook off to her right, the swells of Raritan Bay bigger than the more protected harbor.
The Atlantic loomed ahead, the freighter steaming forward slowly, thanks to the rain and starless night. The spray was penetrating and Melissa shivered from the cold, her coat and sweater doing little to hold back the chill. Nigel stood up, bracing himself against the movement of the boat, and began to organize equipment, the most principal being a coil of rope attached to an apparatus resembling a crossbow.
Across from her, Payton donned a pair of flippers and a mask, and then carefully cross-checked his gear. The plan was for Payton to secure a line to the freighter, climb aboard and then lower a ladder for the rest of the team. Meanwhile, Gabe would keep the boat out of visual range, which thanks to the dark and the misty rain, shouldn't be all that difficult.
Payton nodded at Gabe to signal that he was ready, reached for the primed grappling hook, kissed Sam, and then flipped over the side of the boat into the churning water. Time seemed to tick by in magnified slow motion. No one spoke or even moved, the only physical sign of their concern being Sam gripping her arms as though she was literally holding herself together.
Finally, when Melissa was certain she couldn't stand a moment more, a tiny pinprick of light flashed three times off the bow of the freighter. Payton's signal.
Gabe started the boat, gliding silently toward the freighter. Nigel moved a cushion and opened a storag
e bin, reaching inside to remove their weapons. Melissa reached for hers, checking the ammo and then sliding it into her holster.
Sam, too, took her gun and, after securing it, reached for her backpack, slinging it over her shoulders. Among other things, Sam was carrying a kit with injectable doses of atro-pine and an oxime called H-I6. While there was no true antidote for R-VX, the injection would slow absorption, allowing time for decontamination after exposure.
The boat slipped up next to the Stormy Petrel, Gabe adjusting the boat's engines to pace with the freighter. Payton was there, hanging off the end of the ladder, reaching out for the anchor rope Nigel tossed his way. Once the boat was secure, Payton climbed aboard, taking Gabe's place at the throttle.
Nigel was first off the boat, climbing the ladder to disappear about halfway up in the mist. Gabe followed next, then Sam and finally Melissa bringing up the rear. She stopped about a fourth of the way up the side of the boat and glanced down to see only empty ocean.
Payton had pulled away from the ship to await the signal to return.
Sucking in a breath, she continued to climb, the cold, slimy hull rough with barnacles. Two more minutes, and she was at the top, Nigel helping her over the railing. The four of them huddled behind a tarp-covered crate, Gabe and Nigel searching the decks using night-vision goggles.
"There's no one out here," Nigel whispered, his voice seeming loud even with the caterwauling of the wind. "Our best bet is to split up. If the nerve agent is here it could either be in the hold or with Khamis somewhere. As to the man, I'm betting on the crew's quarters, although we should probably check the bridge and captain's quarters, as well."
"What do we do about crew we encounter?" Sam asked, her shoulders hunched against the rain.
"Try to skirt them if possible," Gabe said, his goggles trained on the vast stretch of open deck. "If not, incapacitate them."
Sam nodded, and Melissa had no doubt that Payton's wife was totally capable of doing just that.
"All right." Gabe lowered his glasses, turning to face them. "I'll coordinate communication. Each of your transmitters is tuned to my frequency. Keep them on until you're in position, and then turn them off again until it's time to check in. That way we avoid intermittent noise and reduce the possibility that a transmission will be intercepted."
The plan made sense, but Melissa couldn't help wishing she could stay in contact with Nigel. One look told her that he felt the same, and the shared emotion was comfort of a sort.
"It's better that you come with me." Gabe had clearly seen the interchange. "That way there'll be no distractions."
She opened her mouth to argue but closed it before issuing a word. He was right. Protecting Nigel would always be more important to her than any other objective. She wondered for a moment how Sam and Madison managed. Maybe it just took time.
"Sam," Gabe said, the role of leader sitting well on his shoulders. "You head for the hold. Nigel, you take the bridge, and Melissa and I will scope out the crew quarters. If anyone gets into real trouble, don't worry about breaking silence. Just give a heads-up, and we'll come running."
Everyone nodded. Then Sam, on Gabe's go, moved away from the crate toward the portal leading down to the hold. She stopped for a moment behind the windlass, and then gathering her bearings, sprinted the final distance, disappearing into the darkness. Gabe waited for her assurance that all was a go, then motioned for Nigel to head out.
Melissa reached for his hand, trying to find the right words, but he shook his head to silence her, squeezing her hand instead, then moving out toward the bridge. She wished suddenly that she'd told him all she felt, that he knew just how much he meant to her, but there was no time for regrets. Better to get the job done, and then she'd tell him.
Gabe waited until Nigel reported his position and then gave Melissa a thumbs-up. It was a bit unnerving to leave the safety of the crate, the wind and rain reducing visibility. While the conditions worked to their advantage on one level, it was a detriment on another since it limited their ability to see what lay directly ahead.
Using the railing as camouflage, they worked their way midship, and then when they had closed most of the distance between the crate and the hatch leading below to the crew's quarters, Gabe signaled that he was going to move left directly across the deck.
Melissa held on to the rail, waiting for Gabe to successfully reach the open doorway. Two minutes passed, and her earphone crackled to life, Gabe instructing her to follow. Moving quickly and keeping low, she skirted the remaining distance between the rail and the hatch in record time, the dim bulb in the stairwell almost blinding after the driving rain on deck.
She opened her mouth to say something, but Gabe shook his head, motioning toward the stairs, and she picked up the sound of laughter from below. The crew, it seemed, was settled in for the evening. The big question was whether Khamis was among them.
Moving on rubber-soled feet, they started down the stairs, stopping every couple of rungs to make certain that they hadn't been detected. The hallway at the bottom had the musty smell of dried seawater and rust, the lighting here thankfully even dimmer than it had been on the landing.
A swath of light spilled into the passageway about ten feet in front of them, the laughter louder now. Gabe motioned for Melissa to stop, and he moved forward to the edge of the doorway. He waited about three beats, watching the occupants inside, and then moved swiftly to the opposite side of the door, motioning for Melissa to take his place to the right of the door.
She edged along the wall, heart hammering, and then after a fortifying breath, twisted her neck so that she could see into the room. Three men sat at a table playing cards, mugs of beer on the table.
Two of the men were in plain view, and clearly not Khamis, disguised or otherwise. The third man had his back to her, but he was too small to be a likely candidate. She tipped her chin in question, and Gabe nodded his agreement.
On the count of three, she dashed past the opening into the shadows of the corridor on the opposite side. Ahead of them, the passageway dead-ended, splitting to the right and left. Gabe motioned them to the left, but she shook her head, mouthing that it would be better if they spilt up and each dealt with one wing of the passage.
Gabe's frown looked suspiciously like a no, but then with a shrug he acquiesced and Melissa was pleased, as if she'd passed a crucial test. Gabe was acknowledging the fact that he trusted her to act on her own.
Five minutes later, when he'd disappeared around another bend, she wasn't as certain, but determination won the day and she continued to work her way forward. The first two rooms she passed were empty. Storage holds of some sort, one filled with old parts and equipment, the other with staples for the galley.
Ahead to her right another shaft of light lit the corridor, this one coming from the tiny window in a closed door. She could hear someone moving around inside, and drew her gun just to be on the safe side. Edging closer, she waited until the sound moved farther from the door, and then risked a quick peek.
The galley.
The man, a potbellied caricature of everyone's idea of a chef-cum-sailor, was chopping onions with a lethal-looking knife. Realizing that despite the dark and rain it was still early evening, Melissa increased her pace, not wanting to face the crew's dinner rush.
The next room was a dining hall, the tables set, the room thankfully empty. Directly across from the dining hall was a one-bunk closet that she assumed belonged to the cook, based on the culinary contents of his meager bookshelf.
Next to the cook's quarters was a narrow doorway that no doubt led to the lavatory. She paused at the door, but there was no sound. She was almost to the end of the corridor now, and so, moving past the bathroom, she edged along the wall until she could safely peer into the last room.
Inside, instead of the requisite tiered bunks, she saw a single bed strewn with a variety of clothing, as if the person who resided here had started to unpack, only to be interrupted. What was more interesting, howev
er, was the fact that the clothing was not the typical fare of a seaman.
The skin on the back of her neck prickled and she spun around, her brain registering the sound of shoes on the metal rungs of a stairway. Confused, she studied the shadows and realized what she'd dismissed as a lavatory was in fact a stairwell. The door moved as someone on the other side began to pull it open.
Pushing away panic, she moved into the bedroom, frantically searching for somewhere to hide. A metal locker against the far wall seemed her best option. Without giving herself time to overanalyze, she stepped inside and pulled the door shut. Thankfully there were slits in the metal, so that she had a partial view of the room—the lower half.
She held her breath, praying that whoever was on the stairs had gone the other way. But luck, it seemed, was not on her side. The man, wearing polished brown loafers, strode into the room, humming an unrecognizable tune.
He moved over to the bed, and reached down to pick up a suit coat. Oh, God, Melissa prayed, don't let him come over here to hang it up. Someone was obviously listening to her prayer, because he simply looped the jacket over the back of a chair and then sat down on the bed.
The motion brought him into plain sight, and Melissa sucked in a breath of pure terror. The man's face was clearly illuminated—no more than three feet away. She started to turn on her mike, to call for help, but realized that any sound on her part could very well be overheard. And somehow, facing Khamis al-Rashid on her own wasn't her idea of a good time.
The best thing to do was to stay absolutely still and hope that dinner was sooner rather than later.
Minutes stretched, seeming like hours. Khamis simply sat on the bed, as if lost in thought, his head tipped downward so that his eyes were no longer visible. She tightened her hand around the .38, thinking that at least she'd have a righting chance. Still, even with a weapon, she knew it was better to try to wait it out.
She closed her eyes, fighting for a calm she simply didn't feel, finally deciding that she needed to risk letting Gabe know where she was. The microphone switch was on her wrist. She shifted carefully to the right, the angle giving her the room to maneuver her arm. Slowly she moved it upward, and could almost reach it with her other hand when suddenly the locker door jerked open, a hand snaking forward to grab her gun hand.
