Midnight Sun (11 page)

“You!” One of the pirates, the one Marcus had heard called Israel, jabbed a finger in his direction. “It’s time to feed these people.”

Marcus braced his good hand on the carpet beneath him to rise, but Monica’s grip on his shoulder told him she was the object of Israel’s attention.

“I can help,” he volunteered. He’d be in the kitchen, where Brylie was. He couldn’t even glance at the freezer lest he give himself away, but just being closer to her would make him feel better.

Israel scowled. Marcus figured the kid couldn’t be more than twenty. What was he doing with this bunch?

“You stay here, where we can keep an eye on you,” Israel said, affecting a deep voice. “Those are my orders, so those are your orders.” The young man scanned the crowd and his gaze landed on Trinity. “You. Help.”

Trinity’s mama opened her mouth to protest, but Trinity silenced her with a hand on her cheek. “I can help. Besides, the more help, the sooner we eat.” She forced a smile and pushed to her feet.

Marcus felt an inexplicable sense of pride at Trinity’s resilience. He’d been afraid when he’d first entered the room and found her cowering. He smiled at her when she passed, but she didn’t acknowledge him.

 Half an hour later, they sat on the floor eating sandwiches. Time was passing so slowly. Was the ransom on its way? Would Harris have been able to assemble it in that amount of time? How much time remained? There was no clock in the dining room and since the raid had happened at dawn, Marcus didn’t see anyone other than one of the adventurers, Michael, wearing a watch, and he was across the room. Getting up to go talk to him didn’t seem like such a great idea.

Hilario was in and out of the dining room, but always alone. Marcus watched to see if he gave special attention to any of the passengers, but the only one he seemed interested in was Trinity. Ah, hell. He knew that look. He might have to play hero after all.

The second man wasn’t doing well. From where he sat, Marcus could see the young doctor Joan trembling with fatigue from her efforts. She had an assistant, but wouldn’t allow herself to take a break. Marcus raised his hand to draw Israel’s attention.

The young man jutted his chin at Marcus. “What do you want?”

“I want to help her. She’s running out of gas.” The young man frowned, clearly not understanding the term, so Marcus rephrased. “She’s getting tired.”

“And you have medical training?” Israel demanded.

“No, but I can do what she tells me to do.” It would beat the hell out of sitting here helplessly.

Israel turned to Joan. “You want this man’s help?”

She swiped the back of her hand across her cheek and looked from Israel to Marcus. “I could use a strong hand, and a strong stomach.”

“Gut of iron,” Marcus assured her, pressing his good hand on the carpet to push to his feet. He didn’t want to mention his injury, didn’t want Hilario or his men to know he had a weakness.

“One moment. I need to ask Hilario,” Israel said, holding a hand out.

“What for?” Marcus stood, and realized he was half a head taller than the kid. That didn’t happen often, so he used his size, moving closer and looking down his nose. “I’m just going on the other side of the room. I won’t even hold the scissors if you don’t want me to.” He inclined his head. “Did you shoot him, Israel? Do you want him to die? Do you want that on your conscience?”

“No, I—” The boy stepped back, clearing Marcus’s path to the injured young man.

He knelt across from Joan. “I’m Marcus.”

She gave him a tired smile. “I remember.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jimmy.”

Jimmy. A kid’s name. He looked into Jimmy’s slack, unconscious face and saw a young man of maybe twenty-five, a young man who thought he was invincible. Yeah, Marcus knew that feeling.

“Tell me what you want me to do.” Keeping his voice low, he held out his injured hand. “I did some damage here, so I’m probably not as good to you as I made out to be.”

“I’ll take care of it in a few.”

“No, I don’t want them to know. Work with me, okay?”

She gave him a long look, then nodded and turned her attention back to Jimmy. They worked side by side, Marcus following her instructions. Even untrained, he could feel that Jimmy’s pulse was thready, his breathing too shallow. Joan said something about sepsis and packing the wound, which she let Marcus do, taking wadded up gauze and sticking it into the hole in the kid’s gut. What had they shot him with, a cannon?

“How much time has he got?” he asked quietly.

“Not enough,” Joan said grimly.

Yeah, the, what, three hours now until the ransom got here, then a four-hour flight back? The kid was bleeding out.

Israel approached and looked over Marcus’s shoulder. Marcus twisted his head and eyed the .45 in disgust. “Those things do a hell of a lot of damage. You better hope you’re not on the receiving end one day.”

The young man blanched and moved away. Marcus waited until Israel was out of earshot before he posed the same questions to Joan that he’d asked Monica. Of course Joan had been too busy with her patient to see if the terrorists had any special contact with any of the passengers, but Marcus wanted her to be aware.

“Take a break. There’s nothing else you can do now, is there?”

She didn’t take her gaze from the kid on the floor. “If anything goes wrong—”

“You’ll be right over there. I’ll call you.”

She hesitated.

“I need your eyes. See what you can see.” He shifted his gaze toward Hilario, who had just walked in.

“Marcus Devlin, you are a man of many talents.” Hilario approached and kicked Jimmy’s foot, not even eliciting a groan from the patient.

“Most people say I just have a short attention span. Can’t sit still long.”

“Which makes me wonder what trouble you got into before you walked into this room. And who you got into it with.”

Marcus’s blood chilled. Did they know about Brylie? Had the douche or his accomplice remembered seeing Marcus and Brylie together, and mentioned that to Hilario?

“I get in plenty of trouble all by myself, mate. You can ask Harris if you don’t believe me.”

“Oh, I do believe you. I do. But there’s the case of the missing chef.”

He hoped his face was expressionless as he thought. “I thought Monica was the chef.”

“The redhead. A real beauty from what I understand. And one you gave special attention to.”

Fuck
. Douchebag had spoken. “I never forget a pretty face, but I don’t remember a redhead on this cruise. But I’m partial to brunettes, myself.”

Quick as a snake, Hilario whipped out his gun and pressed the barrel to the top of Marcus’s thigh. Marcus struggled not to swallow, not to show fear as Hilario squeezed the back of his neck at the same time.

“Where is she?”

“You shoot me there, and I’ll be dead as this guy,” Marcus pointed out. “Femoral artery, see? And a dead Devlin ain’t going to win you any favors.”

Hilario shifted the gun to the outside of Marcus’s knee. Shit. He could do a hell of a lot of damage there. “Where is the chef?”

“Right over there.” He pointed to Monica with a bloodstained hand. “She told you so herself. Look, have any of the people here seen a redhead?” He raised his voice to address the group.

They murmured their negative responses, shaking their heads. Marcus turned to look into Hilario’s eyes, not daring to wipe the sweat beading on his upper lip. “You’re mistaken, mate. No redhead here.”

“When I find her,” Hilario said, his voice a growl, “It will not go easy on her.”

“Then it’s a good thing she’s a figment of your imagination. Now if you don’t mind, I’m trying to save a life here.”

Hilario leaned close. “You should be more concerned with your own life. And that of the redhead if I find her.” He moved away before Marcus could respond.

Marcus was grateful his hand had been occupied pressing the gauze to Jimmy’s wound, so Hilario hadn’t been able to see how he was shaking. If Hilario decided to go looking for Brylie, would she be able to get away? Would she be able to fight back? She should be safe as long as she stayed on the freezer.

“Find her,” Hilario told his men, striding from the room.

Chapter Six

Brylie couldn’t stand it a moment longer. Honestly, she was ready to turn herself in. Being a hostage had to beat hiding alone on top of a damn freezer. She had to know what was going on.

Careful to make sure the gun safety was on, she tucked it into her pants the way she’d seen Marcus do. She didn’t think she could use it in any case, but just the weight of it made her feel safer. She would have to carry the sat phone, though, since it was too big for her pockets. That would make crawling through the vent tricky, but she didn’t want to be without it. She was out of touch enough as it was.

She wasn’t entirely sure where she was heading. The dining room didn’t have a raised ceiling the way the lounge did, so she couldn’t spy from the vent. Honestly, the thing she wanted most was to see the S.O.P. ship chugging toward them. She wanted that hope. She wanted this to be over.

After she hoisted herself into the vent, she made her way toward the stern. She didn’t know exactly where the pirates’ vessel was, but imagined it was beside the ship, not in front of it. Her best shot of not being seen was to exit at the bow or stern, and rescue was likely coming from behind. Plus, if she remembered right, there was a closed-in observation deck. If she was very careful, she could make that her nest for the next hour or so.

The vent didn’t lead to the observation deck, so she hoped Hilario’s crew was elsewhere as she climbed down into the hallway and crept along the wall to her goal.

Too late, she remembered the observation deck was accessible by key card and Marcus had told her that her key card no longer worked. Great. Now what was she going to do?

A solution would come to her. It had to. She wasn’t turning back. She could jimmy the lock, except she had no idea how to do that. She could find another nest, which wouldn’t be easy with no key card.

Damn it, she needed to get in there. She drew the gun from the waistband, double-checked the safety, and rapped the butt of the gun against the glass, close to the handle. The vibration sent terror through her—how far could someone feel that? She looked over her shoulder and struck it again, as hard as she could. One more time, and the glass cracked. A fourth time—careful not to be too rhythmic in her blows—and it broke. Cautiously she pushed the glass away and reached through to open the door. On the off chance the pirates would see the broken glass, she picked up the bigger pieces and tossed them in a nearby receptacle, then rubbed at the smaller pieces with her shoe, working them into the carpet. Then she closed the door behind her and found a chair that, if angled just right, would hide her from the doorway and allow her a view of the ship’s wake.

She tucked the pistol and phone against her hip and curled up in the chair, letting the churning water below soothe her pounding pulse. She wished Marcus was here with her, or at least that she could be sure he was safe.

***

The boy Jimmy died. Marcus felt his life fade away under his hands, and never had he been so helpless in his life. Joan had scrambled over and worked heroically, but the kid had lost too much blood. He wouldn’t have survived the trip to the mainland in any case, but that didn’t make Marcus feel better. He stripped off the rubber gloves coated with the kid’s blood, slumped against the wall and buried his face in his hands, doing his best to block out the sniffles and sobs from the other passengers.

What could he have done to prevent this? If he and Brylie hadn’t hidden, would Jimmy be alive? Maybe, but maybe not. Marcus knew all about feeling invincible, and these guys had that in spades. They might have still attacked, Israel might still have panicked. Too bad the young terrorist was such a good shot.

He lifted his head and met Israel’s gaze. “Let’s get him out of here, all right?”

“I need to ask—”

“Screw that.” Marcus got to his feet in one movement. “We need him out of here before everyone gets more worked up. You can help me, or she can.” He pointed to Joan, who wouldn’t look at him as she repacked her medical supplies. Her movements were shaky with weariness. He hated the thought that she could rest now that Jimmy was dead. He turned back to Israel. “You take his feet, I’ll take his shoulders. We’ll put him in the next room with his friend.”

Israel hesitated and Marcus crossed to him, though his pulse skipped when Israel raised his gun in his direction.

“Are you going to shoot me, too?” He lowered his voice. “No one wants to be in here with a body. Just give them that much peace.”

Israel’s mouth twisted, but he nodded, motioning for Marcus to take Jimmy’s shoulders. Marcus nodded and bent, maneuvering to hook one wrist under one armpit, gripping the other. Jimmy was muscular—no wonder he thought he was invincible. Marcus couldn’t look at the others, at Jimmy’s friends, as he lifted the boy. Joan scrambled to her feet and hurried to open the door. She cast Marcus a grateful glance as he passed by her, doing his damnedest not to think about his burden, about the pain shooting up his arm from his injured hand. He backed into the room and approached the other body, covered with a blanket, and placed Jimmy carefully beside him, watching Israel do the same.

The terrorist’s gun hung at an angle from his hip. Marcus couldn’t let himself think about the consequences. He needed to do this. Sweeping his injured arm up, he shoved the young pirate across the bodies, using his forearm as he grabbed for the gun with his good hand. He yanked it free from Israel’s belt, slid off the safety in one fluid movement and pointed it at the kid’s chest. Fear flashed in the boy’s eyes, but Marcus couldn’t let himself think about that.

“I want to know how many of you there are, and who from this ship is working with you.”

Israel didn’t speak, only raised his hands in surrender. Marcus backed toward the door to ensure no other pirates were coming through, and saw Joan standing guard. Tough lady. How she’d known what he was going to do when even he hadn’t known…still, he was grateful for her foresight.

He crossed back to Israel, motioning with the pistol. “Tell me.”

“You won’t shoot me,” Israel said, pulling himself to a sitting position, off of the bodies. “They’ll hear you and come.”

“No?” Marcus angled his head, hating that the boy was right. “But I can do this.” He swung the barrel of the gun as hard as he could against Israel’s knee.

The boy howled, but stopped the sound when Marcus brought the barrel up to point at his throat, careful to keep it out of Israel’s reach.

“There are other sensitive places I can damage. Tell me what I want to know. How many, and who is working with you? And where are the other hostages?”

“Fifteen, including the crew on our ship. And I don’t know the names of the people helping. One is a big, angry man with dark thinning hair.”

The douche.

“The other is short, young,
fuerte
.”

Marcus had enough Spanish to know that meant “strong.”

“Is he in there now?” He motioned to the dining room.

Israel shook his head. “He’s on the other ship.”

“Your ship. The ship you came on? With the other hostages?”

Israel nodded frantically. Marcus backed away, lowering the pistol to his side. He saw the shift of Israel’s eyes too late, and the blow to the back of his head dropped him like a rock.

Brylie leaned forward in her chair. Was that—it was hard to see at this distance, but it looked like a ship on the horizon. She held her breath—as if that could help her see better—and wished she had binoculars.

Please be them, oh, please let this be over
.

As she strained to see, the spot grew larger, but still she worried it was part of her imagination. She didn’t allow herself to believe until the ship was a few hundred yards out, and then she used all her self-control not to jump up and down and squeal with glee. She picked up the sat phone and dialed Harris’s direct line. When she’d first spoken to him after Marcus surrendered, his voice had sounded so like Marcus’s that she trusted him immediately. He’d cursed his brother’s impulse to put himself in danger, though hadn’t been surprised by it.

“Harris, they’re here—the Southern Ocean Patrol is approaching. It’s going to be over soon.”

No longer concerned about being seen, not with rescue so close at hand, she rose to watch the approach.

“There she is!”

She heard the shout behind her, turned to see two men running down the hallway toward her. Panic slammed through her, chasing hope. She was trapped, no escape, and the other ship was still hundreds of yards away. She turned to look at it, as if she could will it to move closer, to rescue her.

A whistling sound from the port side of the Ice Queen grabbed her attention and she saw something spiraling through the air. She realized what it was the moment before it struck the S.O.P. vessel, sending a fireball through the middle of it, splitting it in two. The men on board dove for the lifeboats, knowing they’d never survive in the frigid water.

“Oh, my God, oh, my God.”

She was vaguely aware of Harris shouting at her through the phone, demanding to know what was going on, but she dropped it to the chair beside the gun. Horror raced through her at what she’d just seen, anger chasing it, an anger stronger than she’d ever felt. She picked up the pistol, flicked off the safety and turned to face her pursuers.

Marcus woke in a dark room with a throbbing headache. He lifted his hand to the knot on the back of his head and felt the crustiness of dried blood. Probing further, he encountered the gash just above the base of his neck. Yeah, that was going to leave a mark.

He squinted against the darkness but he couldn’t see anything. So it wasn’t a matter of adjusting to the light—he was in a black-as-pitch room. He was alone. He could sense that much. How long? What time was it now?

He reached out with a foot to find the floor, sat up and gripped the edge of the bunk. Okay, so a cabin. But his head throbbed and spun, and he squeezed his eyes shut even though he couldn’t see anything. Weird how it seemed to help. He wanted to lie back down on the bunk until the dizziness passed. But Brylie was  out there. Was she safe?

He pushed to his feet, bracing his hands on the edge of the bed for a moment before he lurched toward the door. Locked, of course, which made him wonder what kind of room this was that they could lock from the outside. Maybe just jammed. He tugged on the handle, then realizing he didn’t really need to be quiet, he jostled it harder, pounding on the door. Let them think he was panicking, he didn’t care.

He felt along the wall for a switch, trying to remember where the one in his room had been located. When he finally found the knob and flicked it, nothing happened. They’d disconnected the light somehow when he’d been out.

The thin door rattled under his fist, and the handle seemed to be looser. He wished he could see, maybe find a tool. He felt his way back to the wall, a hand out in search of a curtain drawn over a window, but he only encountered solid wall.

An interior room—a crew member’s room, probably, since the cruise advertised that every room had a view. The crew member that he suspected? He ran his hands over the bunk to the drawers underneath. But even if he found something there, he couldn’t see it. He straightened and braced his good hand on the bed in front of him. What now? Was he a prisoner until the ransom arrived? And was Brylie safe?

The first shot went wild as the gun bucked in her hand. Brylie braced her right hand under her left and fired again, three more times. The first man fell on her second shot, the second man took two. She kept the gun trained in front of her as she approached the men on the hallway floor, where they groaned and clutched their wounded legs. She just hadn’t been able to bring herself to shoot them in the chest, shoot to kill.

One of their guns had fallen in her direction and she crouched to retrieve it. She wanted the other gun, too, and at least one radio, but was wary of getting too close. Even now she risked too much—the man whose gun was still tucked away, the man with two bullets in him, could draw it and shoot her.

Her attention on them, she tucked the stolen gun in her pants and backed away. She snatched the phone from the chair and ran. No doubt Hilario had heard the shots and would send more men after her. She didn’t know where she was going to go, but she couldn’t stay here. She started to tuck her gun away, but the barrel was hot from being fired—why didn’t they ever tell you that on the cop shows? So she carried it in one hand, the phone—with Harris squawking—in the other, and refusing to look at the carnage on the sea, headed back down to the second level. She needed to find Marcus.