I will show up for you, Red. Whatever happens.
God, please help him keep that promise. He swam hard for the freighter, heard them blow the horn three times, then watched as a flare blew up the night, bright and turning the violence of the sea into orange fire.
Three hundred yards away but the ship wasn’t moving that fast, yet.
He hunkered down and stroked hard, his shoulders burning, his legs on fire.
Get to the ship.
Another flare shot, and he gauged the distance.
Four hundred yards.
He turned, searching for the skiff, for a light, anything, and the sea caught him up, drove him away from RJ. From Scarlett.
Into the dark night of the frothy, angry sea.
And he could do nothing but try to stay afloat.
12
Scarlett hadn’t traveled halfway across the world to die under a boat.
She hung onto the bench seat, shoving her head up into the air pocket caught under the overturned skiff, riding the swells and troughs.
The sea threw her against the top—or rather, bottom—of the boat, slamming her into the bench seat, trying to rip her hold, but she’d been outside the boat long enough to know she might die topside.
Her head throbbed from where she’d banged it going head over end when the wave thrashed her. It’d taken the entire boat over, filled her nose, her mouth with brine and churned her in a circle, wrestling her to the depths.
She’d ridden it out, let it crest over her, then kicked hard for the surface, not even sure she’d find air in the blackness.
Hard to tell which way was up in pitch dark water.
When she came up, she found the boat floating away in the waves and swam hard for it, catching the side, breathing hard as the next wave crashed over her. She’d hunkered into the side, coughed, stayed upright, and only then did she look for the freighter.
A distant light, so far away she could barely spot it, blinking against the pelting rain.
“Ford!” A useless scream and she ate water, but she couldn’t stop herself.
I’ll show up for you. I will always show up for you.
Not if he was dead. Because she’d seen him clinging to RJ with everything he had after the first wave tried to rip them from the ladder.
Of course he had to get his sister onboard. And Scarlett did know how to swim.
The man was probably frantic—she knew him better than to believe he’d just let her float away.
She was going to scream again, but it would do him no good to scour the darkness, the frothing sea, for her. The current had her—she felt it even as the ocean boiled around her. In minutes she’d be engulfed in darkness.
The next wave had nearly ripped her grip from the boat, and that’s when she ducked under, mostly for protection, and found air.
She hadn’t a clue how long she hung on, fighting for air. Her arms burned, her feet kicking hard to stay up, deep in the air pocket.
Oh why hadn’t she put on that stupid, tattered life jacket?
She leaned her head against the boat’s seat as the storm gathered under her again. Please, Ford, stay alive.
She bit back a cry, trying not to let her mind scurry to the terrible end.
Not after everything, not after—I’m yours if you’ll have me.
Her yes was the one thing she knew for sure. She was tired of living in fear, in the what-ifs, trying to protect herself from hurt.
She was all in too. Which meant she had to stay alive.
The wave picked her up, bobbed her, settled her back into a trough. She grabbed the edge of the boat, took a breath, and ducked under the side, back out into the open water, still clinging to the rim of the boat.
A pale moon had come out, the storm clouds scattered, only a few stars willing to scrabble through the clutter. But the moon shed wan light on the blackened water. Around her, the sea still churned, dragging her into a cauldron of unformed waves. Her arms trembled, her bones liquid. She couldn’t even guess how long she’d been under the skiff, but it seemed night had deepened and might even be waning.
She could be headed for Iran for all she knew.
Get on the boat. The thought banged inside her, and she reached for a hold, anything to pull herself onto the bottom of the craft. But it was smooth and slick, and she fell back.
Her breaths came fast, one over another, and she closed her eyes, trying to find her center.
Dig deep, Red. You can give more than you have, you just don’t realize it.
Ford, his voice, pushing her to swim faster, harder during her training.
She gritted her teeth and searched again for a hold on the hull of the boat.
That’s my girl.
Only this time, not Ford but her mother. She fell back into the water, kicking, leaning her head against the side.
She closed her eyes, willing herself to not let go. “Help.”
She didn’t know where the word came from or to whom she might be talking—the word simply bubbled out of her. And with it, Yanna’s voice. All they have to do is call out to Him, and He’ll be there. Every time. He does not forsake His people.
She clenched her jaw, remembering her outburst to Ford on the train. Admit it, Ford. God abandoned me. Just like my mother. If I think for one minute that He is going to save me, if I start relying on Him to care, to show up, to believe that I matter, then I’m going to be in big trouble.
So maybe she had no business calling out to God—if He was even listening.
Another wave hit, slamming her against the boat, tugging her away. “Help!”
Her arms burned, and she barely held on, but pulled herself back to the boat.
I think hope is also about who you hope in. Maybe you don’t trust the circumstances, but the source.
The source.
Want an animal cracker?
The bizarre question, rising now from her memory, brought a whimper. Her mother, coming to sit beside her in the bleachers between meets the year she’d swum for her junior high team.
She was shivering so hard her teeth clattered—even now the force of them could draw blood, and she tasted it, hot and tinny on her lips.
Don’t sit out here and freeze.
In memory, her mother sat down beside her, wrapping a heavy towel over her shoulders, then her arm as she pulled Scarlett to herself. She was dry and sober and smelled of the cigarette smoke at the Lucky 13 where she waited tables. Probably fresh off a day shift.
Want an animal cracker? She handed Scarlett a box of Barnum’s. Sorry, I already ate all the elephants, but I left the lions for you.
“Mom.”
Scarlett’s breath hiccupped, a fist releasing in her chest. Wow, she missed her. And yes, her mother had been a wreck most of the time.
But she’d wanted to love Scarlett. Even if she didn’t know how. Didn’t know how to give love—didn’t know how to receive love. Didn’t even know how to love herself. Or if she was worth loving.
And she’d passed on that fear to her daughter.
Scarlett kept looking at herself, fearing that she wasn’t enough to make God show up but…what if He had sent Ford? Over and over and…
I don’t need a reason to love you.
The voice shuddered through her, deep, finding her bones. A memory—she knew Ford had said it—but the voice sounded different, infused heat through her.
What if… She lifted her head, found the moon. And threw hope out into the wind. “Help. Please help me.”
Beneath her, another wave gathered, this time dragging her down into a trough so big she knew it would pummel her. She wouldn’t be able to hold on—
Taking a breath, she ducked back under the boat and found the air pocket. She wrapped one hand around the rope that held Ford’s backpack. The other she tucked under the bench seat. Took a breath as the skiff rode up the wave.
I’m sorry, Ford. Because if she went under, she wasn’t sure how she’d find her way to the surface. Or untangle herself
if the boat decided to sink.
The wave rose beneath her, pulled her up the side of it, the power of it crashing down over her.
But the wave wasn’t finished. It kept yanking her up, tugging at the edge, and as she reached the apex, the skiff surrendered.
It tumbled back into the trough as the full force of the wave barreled down.
She landed hard in the belly of the upturned craft, trapped by her grip on the bench, her breath pummeled under the ferocity of the wave. But the sea poured over her, driving her away from the wave out into the tempest of the sea.
She sputtered, sat up, breathing hard, shaking the water from her eyes.
She sat in the skiff, in water up to her waist, but the boat listed, right side up.
What—?
She leaned back on the seat, breathing hard, in disbelief.
Whatever happens, I will show up for you, Red. Always.
The words poured over her, through her, filling the brokenness, the shattered places, and caught her up. Warm. Full.
Enough.
It’s hard to see God when we’re not looking for Him.
She stared at the moon’s puddle of light as it pooled in the dark, swirling tempest of the sea.
She closed her eyes. Thank You.
The sea played with the skiff, but she rode the waves without capsizing, not bothering to bail the boat—the water gave it weight and depth and steadied her on the sea. Drawing her legs up to herself, she fought off a shiver.
I could go for some of those animal crackers now, Mom.
The words, the memory made her smile.
She stared out over the water. Please, Ford, be alive. Be alive.
In her wildest dreams, he kept his word and showed up.
The sea died slowly, the waves gentling, and she curled into the bottom of the boat, her head on the bench, her bones soggy. Don’t sleep. She knew it, but her body was sinking...
A moan over the water brought her head up—something—
It moaned again, and this time she sat up. A light cut through the darkness, scanning the sea, panning across her boat.
“Hey!”
She scrabbled to her feet, her legs nearly buckling, but managed to find footing. Waved her arms in the darkness. “Over here!”
The light found her again, and she held up one hand against the glare, still waving. Another moan and now she recognized it as a ship’s horn.
The light widened but shot off to the side, and she got her first look at her rescuers.
Not the freighter but a…yacht? A white-hulled luxury yacht rising five stories from the sea, big enough to be a freighter, perhaps. And standing at the bow, a cluster of men waving. One of them went into the water, wearing a wet suit, fins, and a mask, dragging a line.
She knelt, gripping the sides of her boat, trying not to weep, watching as the light illuminated his progress. The yacht slowed, some thirty feet away.
Her rescuer swam right up to the edge, and she couldn’t help but hold on to the hope that it might be Ford. He swam like Ford, the combat swim stroke, smooth in the water like—
He came up to the side and grabbed the boat, popping his head up.
She just stared at him. Dark eyes and a smile that loosened the last bit of her self-control. “Master Chief Nez?”
“Hey there, Petty Officer Hathaway. Need a lift home?”
She had nothing.
He went around to the front of the skiff and tied a line to the bow hook. Then he waved to the yacht, and her boat began to move through the water. Nez held on to the side. “You okay?”
She nodded, still trying to wrap her brain around… “How did you, I mean…I don’t…”
“Long story, Hathaway.”
Yeah, her too.
They reached the yacht, and Nez directed the boat to the swim platform in back. He climbed aboard as others came down to pull her in. Trini. Levi.
Ham. He wore a rain jacket, his blond hair wet, beard growth and worry on his face as he extended his hand to her. “Scarlett. Are you okay?” His gaze went to her forehead.
“Yeah.” She touched it, found a bump had lifted. “I took a hit to the side of the boat when I capsized.” Oh, or he might be referring to her shiner.
She’d sort of forgotten about that.
“Scarlett!” The voice turned her.
For a moment, hope swooped in, carried her aloft.
RJ. She came down the stairs carrying a blanket.
“Is Ford here?”
RJ put the blanket over her shoulders, her face turning hollow. “No. We lost him when the wave capsized your boat.”
Because he’d gone after her.
Silence from the group. Clearly no one knew what to say.
Behind RJ, another man came down the stairs. Short brown hair, he wore a rain slicker. “Tate?”
“Hey, Scarlett.”
Behind him came another man, no rain slicker, wearing a thermal shirt, the sleeves pushed up on thick forearms. He wore his hair short, just behind his ears, covered with a baseball cap, and a grizzle of whiskers over the same hard jawline as Tate. He even leaned against the rail like Tate, who had his arms folded over his rain slicker. She took a wild guess, not quite recognizing him without the long hair from his photos, but… “Wyatt?”
He nodded, his face grim.
She had a gut feeling she knew why he was here. Coco.
“Let’s get you warm.” Tate put his arm around her and led her toward the stairs to the main deck.
She followed him, RJ coming up behind her. “When we didn’t meet Ham’s contact in Petropavl, Ham got worried and called Senator White, who called the Marshalls, and that’s how Tate got involved. He tapped Ford’s SEAL team for help, and they flew to Europe.”
“I got a ping on Ford’s phone that placed you in Bautino,” Ham said, climbing up the ladder, a protective eye on her. “I figured that you’d probably jump a ferry or a freighter, and did a search. Not a lot of electronic records, but there were also a handful of freighters leaving port, and I followed a hunch.”
“I’m not entirely sure that I wouldn’t have ended up in some Russian port, sold to the highest bidder,” RJ said. “Lots of Russians on the ship, a few who eyed me like…so let’s just say that I stayed in the pilothouse the entire time.”
They entered the salon, the air conditioning lifting gooseflesh. A map of the Caspian Sea was spread over a teak table. Scarlett shivered under the blanket, not sure she should sit on one of the white leather sofas.
RJ sat on a chair. Trini came into the salon. He’d stripped off his slicker.
Nez closed the door behind them, still wearing his wet suit, the top pulled down to his waist. A towel hung around his neck. “When Ham started contacting ships, I tapped a guy who helped us before in Azerbaijan. It seemed like the best thing to do in order to stay under the radar was to get out here and head for the Kazakh port.”
“We need to backtrack the Navoo’s path, follow the currents.” Tate turned and stared out the window into the darkness.
“I’m on it,” Trini said. “We’ll follow the current, see if we can pinpoint where he might have floated.”
“Or swam,” said Nez. “He’s a strong swimmer.”
Scarlett didn’t want to disagree, but she’d been in that storm. Her throat still burned, raw from the briny water.
“What we could use is a drone,” Ham said.
A man came down the stairs. Dark hair in a tight man bun, black pants, a dress shirt rolled up past his forearms. “I have a drone.” He turned to Scarlett. “Tyrone Stavros. Your friend saved my daughter two weeks ago. We will find him.”
Scarlett stood up, pulling the blanket tight. “You fly the drone. I’ll read the screen, and yes, we will find him.” Whatever happens, I will show up for you, Ford. Always.
Blackness. The current had his legs, tugging, hungry, and Ford kicked hard, thrashing, fighting.
Not. This. Way.
The chill rattled his bones, turned them britt
le, his body stiff as the water turned him. He found air, gulped it in, and went under again.
Muscles burned, cramped, fists in his gut.
More air.
He slammed against rock, clung, fell away. Again. Pain spiked up his shoulder.
Air. He gripped the rock. The waves fought him.
Pried him away.
Heavy.
His air spiraled out, the water closing over him.
Are you done yet?
A voice, hot and bold.
No.
Shivering, sand in his ears, the surf crashing over him. Stinging his eyes.
He broke again to air, floated.
Ice in his core. Pinpricks of light burning through his eyes.
Briny water on his mouth, in his nose, coughing.
Are you done yet? Ring the bell!
No!
Floating. Silence.
Heartbeat in his ears. Fading.
He blinked away the sting in his eyes, the thunder of the surf against the unseen shore a dull hammer in his brain.
He closed his eyes.
I’ll meet you on the beach.
The voice, strumming through him, like fire in his bones.
He stood in the surf, grubby, thin, broken, triumphant, his chest burning. I made it, Dad.
Silence.
Thunder, louder.
I knew you would.
The waves caught him up, carrying him.
Let God be your power, Ford. You can do nothing on your own.
The surf crashed over him, buried him, dragging him down.
Let God be your power.
Sand.
He scrabbled against it, but his feet refused purchase.
Darkness, pulling him down.
Heavy.
His lungs burned.
Are you done yet?
Yes. The word fell through him, almost a gasp.
The current picked him up, yanked him back.
He broke the surface. Gulped.
Riptide. He felt it in the tug of the sea.
He lay back, letting the current carry him, too tired to fight.
Ham’s voice. Stand still. To cool your jets—the Lord would fight for you.
The cave walls turned his body to ice.
Ford Page 25
