Deep Devil (The Deep Book 4)

by Nick Sullivan

  “I’m a divemaster.”

  Angler raised an eyebrow before turning away, eyes on the stairs as they ascended one level. “Divemaster? How’d you end up here in those fancy duds?”

  “Walked down the pier. Took the elevator.”

  Angler chuckled. “Smartass, huh? Cool customer, too. If you’re a divemaster, I’m guessing that means you know how to drive a dive boat?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good to know…”

  Stallion appeared at the top of the stairs, Calypso in tow. “Angler, no sign of that other Othonos brother,” he called down. “You still want me up at the bridge?”

  “Yeah, take your hostage and secure it. Don’t want them fixing what Palantir did to their systems before we’re away.” Angler reached the top of the stairs. “The ship’s largely automated and with the big dinner, probably a skeleton crew in there. Shoot to kill only if you have to.”

  “Roger.”

  “Wait. Here.” Angler handed Boone’s phone to Stallion. “Add it to the rest. Ditch them in the bridge when you’re done there. Don’t want anyone using those to trace us.”

  Stallion and Calypso separated from the others and headed down a passage, pausing at a stairwell door. “How come there’s no lock on this one?”

  “Fire safety codes,” Calypso said quietly. “Most of the stairwells don’t have locks.”

  “Well, all right then. In we go.” He turned back to the rest of the team. “See y’all later!” With that, he and Calypso passed through the door.

  The remaining group continued aft until they reached another passthrough.

  Potluck swept her barrel around the corner, then relaxed her stance. “Clear.”

  “Good,” Angler said. “Stairs to the helipad are right over there.”

  Potluck, in the lead, abruptly halted. Cocked her head. “Hey… you hear that?”

  Emily had always been blessed with a keen sense of direction, and soon reached an external gangway that led to the bridge. She yanked on the door handle and the little keypad emitted an annoyed buzz, a little red light staring at her disapprovingly. “Shite!” Em looked at the barrier, deciding brute force wasn’t going to cut it. That looks right sturdy. Probably reinforced to resist piracy, she thought.

  A catwalk extended around the bridge and she ran to the side, looking through the huge, canted windows to the interior, lit by emergency lights. Two white-uniformed figures, a man and woman, were inside; the crewman frantically pushing buttons, the crewwoman absorbed with a ship’s intercom. Emily pounded on the windows, gaining their attention before pointing back toward the door. The crewman shook his head, grabbing a pad of paper and pen from a workstation. He angrily scrawled on the pad and held it up to the window.

  Doors locked. Power is down.

  Emily thought hard. Realizing she still had her mobile, she brought up its Notepad app and typed quickly, then boosted the font size and held the screen against the window. The crewman with the pad moved closer, squinting at what she’d typed.

  Terrorists with guns. Hostages in dining hall.

  The man’s eyes widened, and he yelled something to his mate. Emily could hear the muffled shouts through the glass but couldn’t make out any words. More animated silent discussion. The crewwoman’s face suddenly lit up. She pointed at Emily, then held up both hands, palms facing her.

  Guess she wants me to wait, Em thought.

  The woman went to the back of the bridge, where a vented panel was set into a corner. Flipping several catches, she removed the panel and set it aside. Cables of various colors filled the alcove behind the opening. The crewwoman pushed aside the cables, then turned sideways and slid through them. Emily waited, but an escalating whine followed by a thrumming sound vibrated against her ears. She headed aft toward the noise. The bridge had wings that extended out for better visibility when docking, but here on the outside gangway they actually blocked her view of what was making the sound. But she didn’t need to see it to know what it was. That’s a helicopter starting up!

  Emily took the catwalk around the portside wing and her suspicions were confirmed as the ship’s helicopter rose from the pad below, coming to a hover across from Emily. As it began to rotate, she was able to make out the face of the single pilot within, his features lit by the glow of instrument panels.

  Nicholas Othonos.

  The young man didn’t seem to notice her, standing there in the dim illumination of the emergency lighting. The chopper rotated to starboard, then pitched its nose down and accelerated away.

  A metallic clank from high above her head drew Emily’s attention, followed by a shout. “Hey! You down there?” a woman’s voice called out.

  “Yeah!” Em looked up, spotting the face of the crewwoman looking down at her from the roof of the bridge.

  “Did I hear a helicopter?”

  “Yeah. Just took off.”

  “Listen, I’m new, but I remembered one of the engineers going up onto the roof to work on one of the radars. There’s a ladder at the back of a cable closet that leads up here. I’ll leave the hatch open for you. Come back around the bridge. You should see a set of rungs to let you climb up.”

  “I see them…”

  “Good! The hatch is at the base of the largest radar pillar. Careful coming down, there are a lot of cables in the shaft. But get in here and tell us what’s happening! I think we’ve almost got the power thing worked out, so I need to get back. We have to get the communications back online!”

  Clamping her mobile in her teeth, Emily set her bare feet onto the rungs, noting they were somewhat slippery from the humid, tropical air. She found herself laughing on the way up, as she imagined the sight she made, a barefoot woman in a cocktail dress with a mouthful of green smartphone, scaling the side of the bridge.

  In minutes, she found the hatch and lowered herself into the shaft, where another set of rungs awaited her. Hugging the wall, with cables brushing her back, she started down, sparing a couple fingers to loosely grip her mobile. The chute was quite dark, but light spilled in from an opening below. As she neared the bottom, she could hear the two crew members talking, but then another sound. A staccato series of clinks, like a small metallic object was skittering across the floor below. The crewwoman spoke.

  “What the hell is th—”

  A deafening bang punched Emily’s eardrums, just as blinding white light flashed from the opening to the chute.

  “Move it, people!” Angler shouted, as they raced up the last flight of stairs.

  Potluck reached the door to the helipad level, retrieving one of their special cards and swiping it against the keypad. The keypad squawked at her and the door remained locked. “What the hell?”

  “Let me try,” Tolstoy said, pushing past and lifting his own card from a lanyard.

  Boone had noticed the other two carried their keycards in their vests. Tolstoy, still dressed as a crewmember, kept his around his neck, along with an id card—no doubt a false one.

  “Is no good,” he said when his card failed as well.

  “Told you we might need this,” Angler said, unslinging a stubby Mossberg Compact Cruiser shotgun from his back and extending a short handle near the barrel’s tip. “Stand aside.” Tilting it down at a forty-five-degree angle, he aimed it at the lock plate and pulled the trigger. A dull, thudding boom echoed in the stairwell as the dense, 12-gauge breaching slug blasted the lock mechanism.

  Boone watched as Angler kicked the door open and Potluck swept through the opening, sp5 submachine gun leveled. Tolstoy remained behind, covering the hostages. Boone recognized this door from the morning before, when Callie had led them up here for their whale shark tour. The helipad would be just around the corner. From outside came Potluck’s shout.

  “Boss, we got a problem! The helicopter’s gone!”

  Clinging to the ladder rungs, Emily waite
d for the ringing in her ears to subside. Must’ve been one of those stun grenades law enforcement uses, she thought, thankful she’d been far enough away from the opening to the access shaft when it went off. Still, the effect had been jarring enough that she had dropped her mobile down the chute.

  Footsteps. A voice with a Southern twang. “You… sit down in that chair. Our employer said not to tie you up… guess you’ve got issues. But he ain’t here right now, so don’t give me a reason. Sit still. Need to secure these two before the flashbang wears off.”

  Emily carefully crept down the last few rungs. The cables leading up to the various radars and radio masts were plentiful enough that she should be able to remain out of sight, her black dress giving an assist in that regard, blending with the shadows in the unlit chute. Finding a gap in the cables, she looked out into the bridge. She could see a man dressed in black tactical gear, zip-tying the wrists and ankles of one of the crewmembers. The other one was already immobilized.

  Movement to the left. Emily found another gap to peer through and spotted Calypso, sitting in a swivel chair at a bridge workstation. The mercenary came into view, addressing his hostage.

  “And now we wait. Then you ’n’ me are going on a boat ride. Wait… why did you switch chairs? I told you not to goddamn move!”

  “Please don’t hurt me!” Calypso cried, her voice shaking, appearing on the verge of tears.

  “Calm down, you’ll be…” He trailed off, listening to something. He stiffened. “What do you mean, the helicopter’s gone? Gone where?”

  As he turned away, listening to the reply, Emily watched Callie’s look of fear melt away, replaced by an expressionless mask. The young woman reached beneath the tabletop of the workstation she sat at.

  “No, I didn’t see it leave,” the mercenary shouted. “I came into the bridge by the internal entrance, the way we planned!”

  Callie twisted a bit in her chair, retrieving something.

  “Dammit,” Stallion muttered, then listened. “Okay… understood. Radio back in five.” He turned back to his hostage. “All right, change of plans…”

  “Correct,” Calypso said, raising a pistol and shooting Stallion in the face. The mercenary’s bulbous eyes bulged even more in disbelief before the light went out of them. The shell casing pinged against the floor as the lifeless body of the merc crumpled with a thud.

  Shocked, Emily watched as the youngest Othonos retrieved the mercenary’s submachine gun, then turned toward the bridge crew. Em began to part the cables to go assist the young woman in freeing them, but froze when Calypso raised the weapon and fired a burst into each of the prone crew members.

  A scream threatened to claw its way up Emily’s throat, but she managed to choke it down, remaining silent as she released the cables and retreated into the shadows. Tears flooded her eyes, but through the moisture she watched Calypso toss the merc’s weapon beside his body, then return to the workstation where the gun had been stashed. Moving with cold efficiency, the young woman removed a bulky briefcase—nearly the size of a small carry-on—and laid it on a nearby tabletop, hopping into a swiveling crew chair in front of it. Popping the latches, she opened it, revealing a computer screen set into the lid. In the lower half, Emily could make out a keyboard and numerous switches and exposed circuit boards. Calypso powered everything up, flipped a number of switches, then peered at a readout in the corner of the screen.

  “Dammit. It’s out of range.” Calmly, she retrieved a headset and mic from inside, settling it on her head. She opened her mouth to speak but snapped it shut. “Almost forgot,” she muttered to herself, just loud enough for Emily to hear. “Need to butch it up.” She tapped her keyboard, then cleared her throat and spoke. “Palantir to Angler, do you read?”

  “This is Angler, I read you Palantir,” the mercenary leader replied to the synthesized voice. The distortion seemed a little different than before, perhaps another setting on whatever voice-changer Palantir was using. “We weren’t expecting you so soon, but it’s a good thing, because—”

  “Someone took the helicopter, yes, I know. Listen carefully, because our timetable has changed. First… did you deliver the package to the Castor?”

  “The drone? Yeah, it’s aboard.”

  “Good. We’ll need that, so keep it safe. Now, get down to the tender bay. Board the Castor and I will selectively restore power so you can use the davit to send it out. The Apollo is at a standstill, so you should have no problems with entry.”

  “Understood. Stallion is supposed to use the Castor, too… should we coordinate with him?”

  “Stallion is dead.”

  Angler, Tolstoy, and Potluck all stiffened. “Say again, Palantir?” Angler rumbled.

  “One of the bridge crew was armed. I watched it happen on a video feed. There was nothing I could do. I’m sorry.”

  Angler gave a mop bucket a vicious kick, sending the wheeled object crashing into a workbench in the close confines of the empty hangar bay, where it careened off and skidded out onto the empty helipad. Taking a deep breath, he composed himself. “So we’re down another hostage?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Palantir, do you read?”

  “Still here, Angler. I’m working on it. Get to the boat.”

  The mercenary leader motioned to his team. “You heard the man, we’re getting wet. Potluck, take point. Tolstoy, bring up the rear. And you…” He pointed at Boone. “Think we’ll keep you around a little longer to skipper the boat.”

  “Gonna be hard to steer like this,” the tall divemaster said, shrugging his shoulders, his arms zip-tied behind his back.

  “Nice try. We’ll cut those once we’re aboard. All right people, move out.”

  While scanning the interior of the hangar, noting several items of interest, Boone had only heard one side of the radio communication. Even so, it had been enough to tell him that things were not going as planned. He was fairly sure that this was a kidnapping. Achilles and Lyra would likely be safe, of no value to these people if they perished. Although… why did they send Calypso off separately? That didn’t make much sense to him. But one thing seemed clear. If he boarded the boat with these people, he wouldn’t be coming back. And Emily is still out there!

  The group crossed the helipad and made their way to the door Angler had breached.

  “Bozhe moi, I could use a cigarette,” Tolstoy groaned, as he entered the stairwell. “I smoke all I had.”

  “I can help you with that,” Boone said.

  “Chto?” The Russian halted at the top of the stairs, his pistol pointed at Boone.

  “Cigarettes. Left suit coat pocket. Help yourself.”

  Tolstoy reached inside Boone’s pocket and came out with the black-and-gold box of Black Russians. His face lit up. “I love these!”

  “Me too! Lighter in my right suit pocket,” Boone lied.

  Transferring the box of cigarettes into his gun hand, Tolstoy reached into Boone’s empty pocket.

  And Boone headbutted him. Hard. Slamming the crown of his head into the man’s nose, the young divemaster felt bone and cartilage shift with the impact. Boone had another card to play if the blow resulted in a dropped pistol. It did. As Tolstoy rocked back, gun and cigarettes falling from his fingers, Boone darted his head forward like a striking fer de lance, snagging the man’s lanyard in his teeth. Wrenching it free, he stepped back and delivered a powerful benção, a capoeira kick intended to force separation. In this case, that “separation” sent Tolstoy tumbling down the stairs, colliding with Angler, who was already turning at the sound of Tolstoy’s agonized grunt. The mercenary leader and Achilles were both bowled over and fell into Potluck, sending them all crashing into a heap. Lyra flattened herself against the railing, managing to stay upright, Boone was pleased to see. She looked up at him, hope in her eyes.

  Turning, he rushed back through the ruined door an
d ran around the outer wall of the hangar, ducking into the workshop. Spinning around against the workbench, he managed to snag a pair of wire cutter pliers he’d spotted there earlier. Tolstoy’s lanyard dangling from his teeth and the pliers clutched behind his back in his bound hands, Boone ran out of the workshop, heading around the other side of the hangar on the port side of the ship. Pausing for a moment, he carefully maneuvered the head of the wire cutters back to the zip-tie restraint as he listened for the sounds of pursuit, eyes raising toward the glass windows of the ship’s bridge ahead.

  “Chyort! I will kill him!” Tolstoy shrieked in a nasal voice, his ruined nose gushing blood.

  “Let him go!” Angler shouted as he rose to his feet. “There’s no time! We’ve got to get to the boat!”

  Emily watched as Calypso removed the headset and set it into the case. Tapping the keys inside the container, she brought up a new window on the screen. With a deliberate, clacking keystroke, Emily saw a single red word appear, all caps and large enough for her eyes to make out: armed.

  Calypso sat back. “Well… two out of three will have to do until I find you, Nicky…”

  A beep and a click sounded from out of sight to Emily’s right. The outer door she’d first encountered—someone was unlocking it. Startled, Calypso looked toward the entrance.

  “Callie! Are you all right?”

  Boone! Emily’s eyes locked onto the pistol that lay beside the case. From where Boone stood, the bulky briefcase would block it from his view. Emily tensed, but Calypso made no move to grab it. Instead, she summoned up another expression of fear and hysteria.

  “Oh, thank God!” she cried. “Boone!”

  “Listen, the terrorists may be following me, so we should…” His voice trailed off. “What happened here?” Boone was out of sight of the cable closet opening and it sounded like he was remaining close to the outer bridge exit.