“We’ll find more. We’ll keep going.”
“Maybe. But I’ve got to be honest, the reality of that happening isn’t very good.”
“Then we’ll get as far as we can,” she said, her voice level rising in anger. “We have to get home. I have a son. He needs me.”
Despite his situation, Pax felt his heart clench. The chance that her son was still alive was minimal at best. He could see in her eyes that she knew it, too, but needed to find out for sure.
If his captors had asked him for help instead of forcing him to pilot the ship, he would have told them about the plane that would be landing outside Limón in another hour or two, but holding a gun on him from the start had blown any chance of that—not because of some personal retribution, but because he couldn’t afford to mix them in with the others.
“I’m sorry,” Kat said. “I shouldn’t have gotten angry like that.”
“Ma’am, I believe everyone who has survived to this point couldn’t have done so without building up a lot of anger.”
“Have…have you seen others? I mean, besides the friend you were with?”
“I have.”
“How many?”
He was saved from answering her question by the creak of the staircase announcing Luke’s return.
“All right,” the man said, juggling his bowl and mug with his rifle. “I got him now.”
Kat took a step back and said to Pax, “There’s plenty more coffee if you want some.” She looked at Luke. “Yell down when you’re both done and I’ll come get your dishes.”
The man grunted a reply and set to work on his beans.
From outside, Pax started to hear the whine again, so he nudged the throttle forward once more.
TWENTY-FIVE THOUSAND FEET ABOVE NICARAGUA
“EAGLE ELEVEN CALLING Rich Paxton. Pax, do you read?”
Static.
“Eagle eleven calling Rich Paxton. Come in, please.”
No answer.
The copilot of the passenger jet heading for the airport outside Limón, Costa Rica, looked at his partner. “I don’t like this.”
The pilot was silent for a moment before she said, “They’re moving a lot of people. Could be they haven’t gotten the radio set up yet. Keep trying.”
The copilot settled back in his chair and clicked his mic button. “Eagle eleven calling Rich Paxton.”
OFF THE EASTERN COAST OF COSTA RICA
ROBERT BEGAN CLOSING the distance between the skiff and the ferry as soon as the sky started to darken. Though he knew he could quickly overtake the larger boat, he approached at a much more gradual speed to minimize the chances of the others hearing him.
As he drew closer, he could see that most of the lights that were on were contained to the front portion of the main passenger level. He was still much too far away to discern any people on board, but he caught a few flickers of light near the front end that he guessed were caused by people moving around. There had been no similar flickers along the stern, leading him to hope no one was back there.
He was about four hundred yards away when the ferry seemed to pick up speed. At first he thought maybe he’d been spotted, but the increase wasn’t much, and there seemed to be no change in the activity on the lower level.
A hundred and fifty yards out, it happened again. Reflexively, he eased off the throttle and let the skiff fall back a bit. He scanned the boat, but still picked up no movement indicating he’d been seen.
He increased his speed again, moving past the resort’s speedboat that still trailed the ferry, and then eased back a little on the throttle as he inched his way along the towline. When he was only a few feet from the stern of the larger boat, he matched its speed and locked the motor in place to keep his boat from veering off to the side.
Knowing things could go haywire at any moment, he rushed forward, snatched up the line that was secured to the skiff’s bow, and jumped over several feet of open water onto the ferry, grabbing tight to one of the posts on the low wall that encircled the stern. He stayed there, crouched on the very edge of the boat, sure that someone would come to see what was going on, but all he could hear was the rumble of the Albino Mer’s engine.
Satisfied that he was at least momentarily safe, he pulled the skiff in close, tied it off, and hopped back on board to kill the motor. He then opened the canvas bag. In the hours he’d spent following the ferry, he’d figured out how to load the guns. He stuck one in the waist of his pants in back, and set another on the deck beside him. Next, he pulled out the flare gun, loaded it, and picked up his pistol from the deck before moving back onto the ferry.
The Albino Mer had been designed to comfortably hold a hundred and fifty passengers, and could cram in as many as two hundred in a pinch. The boat had three distinct areas—the main cabin level in the middle, an additional passenger level in the hull below that could be closed off when not needed, and a top deck that went all the way to the pilothouse at the front of the vessel. With the strong breeze helped along by the movement of the ferry, Robert thought it unlikely anyone would be up top.
He carefully scaled the side of the ferry until he could peek onto the upper level. The light leaking out of the side windows of the pilot cabin provided more than enough illumination for him to see he was right. The area was deserted. There were no windows along the back of the cabin, though, so he couldn’t see who was inside, but it wasn’t a stretch to guess that was where Pax was. At least one of the kidnappers would likely be with him.
Robert set the flare gun on the deck, jamming it between the railing and a box that held life preservers, and lowered himself back down to the main level. Starting only a few feet from where he was and extending three quarters of the way to the front were rows of padded benches. Beyond them was the structure that held the boat’s toilets and two sets of stairs—a private one that led up to the pilothouse, and a passenger one that went down to the lower deck. Passengers accessed the top deck via stairways on both sides of the boat.
Painfully aware of every creaking board, Robert moved down the central aisle between the benches until he reached the back wall of the toilets. He took a few deep breaths and brought his gun up to his chest, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it.
Sticking tight to the wall, he moved to the corner and peeked around. The bathrooms section blocked much of his view of the bow, but not enough to prevent him from seeing the back of a man standing at the front rail, looking out at the water.
Robert moved over to the other corner and looked around. He could see no one at the bow from this angle.
Five people had taken Pax. One was now at the bow. At least one other would be in the pilothouse. What about the rest? Were they all in the lower passenger area? That would make things a lot easier. All he would have to do was—
A toilet flushed.
Robert pulled back out of sight just as the door nearest him swung open. He heard someone clear his throat and head toward the bow.
“Where’s that beer?” a man said.
“Haven’t brought it up yet.” A different man.
“Hey!” the first one yelled. “Thought you were going to bring up some Coronas!”
“Can’t find a bottle opener,” a woman answered, her voice coming from the passenger area below.
“Jesus, I got one up here. Come on.”
Clop-clops up the stairs, accompanied by the clinking of bottles being carried together.
“Here,” the woman said.
“What about Kat?”
“I didn’t ask her.”
A snicker and the sound of bottle caps being removed.
“Cheers,” one of the men said.
So much for most of them being below. Plan B, then.
Quietly, Robert slinked back to the stern and climbed to the upper deck, this time pulling himself all the way up. He retrieved the flare gun and crept over to the pilothouse.
Eyes closed, he tried to remember the layout of the room on the other side of the wall. Carlos Guzman,
the Albino Mer’s captain, had always invited Robert up anytime he was making the trip between the island and the mainland. But it had been several months since the last time Robert was on board.
The boat’s controls, he recalled, were located along a counter that ran across the front of the cabin. There was a stool bolted to the floor in front of the wheel, where Carlos would sit. Behind this was an area big enough for three or four people to stand in. To the right side was the door to the top deck.
No. That wasn’t correct.
The door was on the left, while the stairway leading down was on the right. There were some cabinets, a counter, and the boat’s controls, but that was about it, he thought. So if Pax was at the wheel, then whoever was with him would be standing in the area behind him.
Robert stepped over to the left corner, crouched, and moved around it. The window in the top half of the door was open. He started to rise so he could peek inside, but stopped before he reached the lower edge when he realized the front window was reflecting an image of the cabin’s interior.
He repositioned himself until he had a good view of the reflection. Pax was right where Robert expected to find him, and behind him was the third man of the group. The guy was holding a rifle and leaning against the back wall, looking bored. So that meant the final person, the other woman—Kat, perhaps?—was the only one in the lower deck.
Robert moved behind the pilothouse, aimed the flare gun, and pulled the trigger.
A FLASH OF red light filled the cabin.
“Shit!” Luke said, surprised.
The glow quickly dimmed as a flare flew over the bow and out to sea. As Luke took a step toward the window, something thudded on the top deck outside the cabin door. In the reflection, Pax saw Luke change direction toward the noise.
“What was that?”
“Don’t know,” Pax said. “One of your friends playing with flares, I guess.”
The man pulled the door open. “Who the hell’s screwing around out there? You scared the crap out of…” His words faded as his gaze fixed on the deck toward the back of the pilothouse. “What is that?”
He stepped through the doorway. The moment he was out of sight, Pax hurried over to the trap door above the stairs, dropped it shut, and rammed the locking bolt into place, sealing the cabin off from below.
AS SOON AS Robert fired off the flare, he tossed the flare gun down on the deck near the back corner of the pilothouse. He had to wait only a few seconds before he heard the door open.
“…scared the crap out of…What is that?”
Not Pax’s voice.
Robert was a mere two feet from the flare gun, his right hand raised above his head, holding the pistol like a hammer. He heard the man step outside and approach the flare gun without any caution. Robert caught sight of the back of the guy’s head as the guy leaned down to pick up the gun.
With only a slight hesitation, Robert smashed the pistol’s butt into the back of the man’s skull. The guy dropped to the deck and didn’t move. Robert wasn’t sure if he’d killed the man or just knocked him out, but he wasn’t going to waste time checking. He grabbed the guy’s rifle and moved up to the cabin door, ready to fight any others who might come up to see what was going on.
But the door to the stairs was shut, and the only one present was Pax.
“Was wondering if you were just going to follow us all night,” Pax said.
Robert pulled the second gun from his waist. “Here.” He tossed it to Pax. “Are they all armed?”
“Saw four rifles. But I think only the main guy really knows how to use one.”
Noise on the stairs below them, then someone knocking loudly on the trapdoor. “Hey, what’s going on up there?”
“Can you turn this thing around?” Robert asked.
“I got it this far, didn’t I?”
More pounding. “Hey, Luke! Why’d you shoot that flare?”
Another voice yelled, “Open this damn door!”
Pax started turning the wheel.
“What’s going on up there? Stop turning! Stop right now!”
“I’ll be back,” Robert said. “You be okay?”
“I should be asking you that,” Pax said.
Robert knew that at any moment the others would come running up the side stairways. He figured his best position would be to get to the rear of the boat before they showed up.
The pounding on the pilothouse door lasted a few more seconds and then there was silence from below.
Robert reached the stern as one of the guys peeked onto the top deck from the stairway and raised his rifle, aiming it at the pilothouse. Robert let off a shot in the man’s direction. It flew high, but was enough to make the guy duck out of the way.
“Jacob!” The voice was almost directly below Robert. “There’s another boat back here!”
Robert heard someone running below him.
“Son of a bitch!” a second man—must’ve been Jacob—said. “Gotta be his asshole friend.”
“How the hell did he—”
“Shhh.”
Robert leaned down to the very edge of the deck, listening. Whispered voices, too low for him to pick up more than a word or two, were followed by the soft padding of feet and creak of the deck. Had they both walked off, or only one?
No way to know. The only thing he was sure of was that the fate of the one hundred and twenty-eight survivors on Isabella Island were in his hands, so he and Pax would either wind up in control of the boat, or he would die trying to make that happen.
Another set of feet slinking away. One of them had stayed behind, but he was gone now.
Robert quietly lowered himself over the side.
IF NOT FOR the stars, it would have been impossible to see the coast. Even then, Pax needed to consult the compass to make sure he hadn’t overshot the turn and put them on a crash course for the beach. Once he was sure they were headed in the right direction, he straightened the wheel and used the bungee cord system the boat’s former captain had created to hold it in place.
The moment he stepped out onto the top deck, a rifle cracked and a bullet slammed through the pilothouse floor, a few inches from where he’d been standing.
“YOU MUST HAVE missed,” one of the men whispered from the other side of the toilets.
Robert wasn’t sure what they were shooting at. He was only glad it wasn’t him.
Bang-bang! Two shots, one on top of the other.
“Dammit!”
Robert sneaked a look around the right side but could see no one. Taking slow steps to prevent the boards from revealing his presence, he slipped past the bathroom door and approached the front corner. As he neared, the back of a man came into view. Robert eased to a stop and put both hands on his gun. When the rifle fired again, he swung out from his hiding place, his gun in front of him. He could see both men now, the one farthest from him aiming a rifle at the roof.
“Drop ’em!” Robert yelled.
The nearest man whirled around and dropped his rifle to the ground the instant he saw Robert’s pistol. The other one—most likely Jacob—started to aim his rifle at Robert.
Robert pulled his trigger.
He’d been aiming for the man’s shoulder, but the bullet caught the guy under the jaw and exited by the ear. The man grabbed his face as he dropped to the ground, moaning.
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” the other guy said. “You shot him! Why did you shoot him?” He dropped down next to his buddy. “Jacob, hold on. Hold on. You’ll be okay.” He looked at Robert again. “You fucking shot him!”
Robert knew that, knew it to the very core of his soul, but he also knew he would have done it again. “So he wasn’t trying to kill my friend?”
The man turned away. “We’re just trying to get home, man. We’re just trying to get home.” He put his hands on Jacob’s wounds in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but blood continued to gush. “Oh, God.”
Robert took a couple steps closer. “Use your shirt.”
He wasn’t sure if it would help, but at least it would give the hysterical man something to do. The guy pulled his shirt off over his head and pressed it to Jacob’s face.
Robert was about to call up to see if Pax was all right when he heard a loud groan of wood behind him. He turned to see a girl, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, nearing the top of the steps, a rifle pressed against her shoulder.
When he heard the shot, he flinched, expecting to be hit, but her bullet apparently went wide.
No, he realized as his eyes refocused. It hadn’t gone wide because the shot hadn’t come from her rifle at all. She was the one hit, the bullet piercing her chest and sending her tumbling back down the stairs.
Robert looked over his shoulder and saw Pax at the other end of the bow, holding his pistol.
“Don’t shoot!” a voice called from below. “I don’t want any trouble.”
A woman, about twenty years older than the girl, appeared near the bottom of the stairs, her hands raised. She looked at the body, then up at Robert.
“I…I…I’m not part of this,” she stammered. “I never…never wanted them to do this.”
“Come on up, Kat,” Pax said as he walked over to Jacob and the other man.
The woman gingerly stepped over the dead girl and hurried up the steps, her hands still high. When she reached the top, she jerked to a halt at the sight of Jacob, but quickly recovered and said, “His own damn fault.”
Pax put a finger against the uninjured side of Jacob’s neck. After a moment, he looked at the other man. “You can let go now, Aiden. He’s done.”
The adrenaline rushing through Robert’s system finally crashed. That and the knowledge of what he’d done sent him running to the railing just in time to vomit over the side.
PAX AND AIDEN dumped Jacob into the ocean, and then with Robert’s help did the same with Avery, the young woman. Luke they left on the top deck with a nasty bump on the back of his head and his hands and feet tied to the railing. They would deal with him when and if he regained consciousness.
The Project Eden Thrillers Box Set 2 Page 59
