Part 5 (2/2)

”Yeah. I even tried using this old thing”-he tapped his brow-”but it's embedded too deep. I could feel it, sweet pea. Burrowed all the way down to your spinal cord. And I think it's still . . . growing.”

She managed to roll over enough to look into his eyes. ”You're f.u.c.king kidding me.”

Maurice's face looked terrible, as though ten minutes had aged him ten years. He didn't have a decade to spare. Jenny tried to sit up, and he helped, still compressing the back of her neck. He guided her hand until she touched a towel.

”Hold that,” he growled, raking her over with his bloodshot gaze. ”I'm gonna get Les to sit with you, then I'm steering us for the nearest port. The office should be able to send a helicopter from Singapore for a medevac.”

Jenny wanted to protest but forced herself to stay quiet and nod. She had never seen anything like this creature. Never mind the poisons it could be pumping into her bloodstream-the fact that trying to remove it had felt rather close to killing her was enough to scare Jenny s.h.i.+tless.

Maurice left at a run, shouting for Les. She didn't hear a response, and the boat wasn't so large that voices wouldn't travel. He kept calling for the other man, until suddenly, abruptly, he went silent. She waited, listening hard. Heard nothing else.

Jenny managed to stand, swaying as her vision briefly blurred. After several steps everything cleared. She could walk.

She left her quarters. The door to Les's room was open, but he wasn't there. Neither was Ismail. She pushed onward, heading for the stairs that led to the bridge. She had to pa.s.s the main deck, at the back of which was the only access point to the interior of the s.h.i.+p. Given their proximity to the Strait of Malacca and other known pirate territory, that door was kept locked at night. Always.

It was standing wide open.

”Maurice?” Jenny called up the stairs, but the old man didn't answer from the bridge. Unease p.r.i.c.kled through her. She walked through the galley and salon, stopping briefly to crouch by one of the love seats. She tossed the b.l.o.o.d.y towel to the floor and fumbled behind the chair until her fingers. .h.i.t a loose panel. She removed it, one-handed. Found a pistol.

Fully loaded, ready to fire. Weapons were hidden all over the s.h.i.+p. It was illegal to carry firearms into the ocean territories of most countries, but random searches from customs agents had never found their caches.

Holding the gun in a solid two-handed grip, Jenny ignored the open door and made her way to the stairs leading up to the bridge. There was another door on that level that could be locked from the inside as a secondary barrier in case of an emergency. She, Maurice, and Les had run through the plan a hundred times, in about as many different variations. Control of the s.h.i.+p and radio had to be maintained at all costs. Even a hint of trouble-that was where they would meet.

Her head hurt like h.e.l.l, but she kept her breathing steady and clicked the safety off the gun. A freighter had been hijacked a week ago, less than one hundred miles from here-crew thrown overboard and cargo stolen. The same had happened to a pleasure cruise near Indonesia, but the couple who had arranged the tour was less fortunate. Held for ransom, she'd heard. Same group of pirates, or different-it didn't matter. Theft, kidnapping, and death had become big business, and the larger the haul, the more powerful the criminal organization behind it.

The Calypso Star was worth millions. And so were Jenny and her crew.

Opportunists, she told herself, edging up the stairs. Nothing more than that. No one knows who you are. If the s.h.i.+p was boarded, then it's by men with guns and a motorboat, thinking you're easy pickings. No conspiracy. No betrayal. Just bad luck.

Bad luck that the outer door was open, and Maurice hadn't answered her call. Bad luck that Les and Ismail weren't in their cabin. Bad luck there was a parasite of unknown species attached to her neck, and a murdered mermaid in the cold locker.

Right. Jenny was f.u.c.ked.

She reached the top of the stairs. All she could hear was the sound of her own breathing. Her palms were sweaty as she tightened her grip on the gun.

Go, she told herself. Go, go, go.

So she did, keeping low as she spun around the top of the stairs, searching for Maurice, Les-anyone.

All she saw was a fist driving toward her face.

Then, darkness.

She was on the beach again. Down by the big house in Maine. She could see it in the distance, a hulking gray shadow on the golden sand, embedded beside the water instead of on the hill. Waves pulsed around the porch, breaking against the eastern wall. The windows were broken and dark, and there was blood on the porch. She could see that even from where she stood, which felt miles away and too close. The blood was wet. She smelled it on the wind. Like poison.

Someone stood beside her. She could not see him, but she had a sense of his size, and he was quite tall. Tall and warm. His hand was huge, gentle, as it scooped up hers in a loose grip. She knew him before he spoke, and began to tremble, weak in the knees with relief.

”Dreams are odd,” he said quietly, in a voice so familiar she wanted to weep. ”I never know what's real. Except for what I feel. I tell myself that can't be a lie.”

”You were always an optimist,” she whispered.

”Only with you.” His lips brushed against the top of her head, and she closed her eyes, sagging against that hard, strong shoulder.

”It's been a long time,” she said, wondering why it mattered. This was just a dream. He was only a dream.

Such a long time since she had dreamed of him.

”Eight years,” he murmured, with a hint of wonderment. ”I went eight years without you in my sleep. And now . . .”

He stopped. She heard a roaring sound and turned to face the ocean. A wave was bearing down on them, so large it threatened to block the sun.

And then it did.

It was too close to escape. No chance in h.e.l.l. But the man grabbed her tight, spinning them around in a stumbling run. His arm was strong around her waist, and he was yelling something she couldn't understand. She felt a breath of cold damp air against her neck, and the man slammed her in front of him, dropping into a crouch over her body. His mouth pressed hard against the back of her neck.

”Breathe,” he whispered, just as the tsunami hit them.

The impact was immense. No pain, just an all-encompa.s.sing, dizzying pressure that was so intense she felt as though she were being squeezed to death inside a giant shaking fist. A scream jerked loose, and her mouth filled with water. She struggled, fighting to salvage what breath was left in her lungs, but the sea poured in and in and in, and there was no end to the hole that her body formed. She could not breathe. She was drowning.

And those arms around her were gone.

She heard shouts in the water. A man, screaming in rage. Not her dream man-the dream boy who had become her dream man-but someone else, whose voice she knew but could not name. Just that it was close.

So close, she woke up.

No delay, no grogginess. Jenny snapped to consciousness riding a rush of adrenaline that left her gasping for air, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. The pressure on her body wasn't gone, though-just displaced. Someone was sitting on her back, tying her hands.

Jenny pushed her forehead into the ground and twisted with all her strength, dragging up her leg to give herself enough leverage to turn over and knock aside the person holding her down. In theory, anyway. She managed to surprise her a.s.sailant enough that he loosened his grip on her hands and slid partially off her. Jenny tried to roll away, but the man grabbed her waist and shoulder, slamming her down so hard the side of her face bounced with bruising force against the deck. The impact stunned her into a moment's stillness-long enough for him to finish tying her hands.

She was outside. It was still night. That was all she could tell. Something covered her eyes. Her sweats.h.i.+rt-she had never taken it off, and at some point the oversized hood had flopped over her head. Sweat trickled, and a solid throbbing ache traveled from the base of her skull down her spine in nauseating waves.

The man tying her did not make a sound. When he finally stepped away, she tried to roll over. This time no one stopped her. She tilted her head, peering from beneath the hood.

Ismail stood over her.

His gla.s.ses were gone, but he was wearing his paper-pusher clothes from earlier: slacks, loose white dress s.h.i.+rt; unb.u.t.toned and untucked, revealing a rock-hard body that looked as though it should belong to a soldier instead of a pseudo-desk jockey. He was barefoot. Blood spattered his clothes and chest. His eyes were . . . so cold. So cold she wanted to look away and scream though she kept her gaze locked on his and bore the fear.

”I knew about the sleeping pills,” he said quietly. ”Maurice was not careful enough.”

Jenny said nothing. Ismail crouched, graceful and silent, and rapped the deck in front of her face with his knuckles. Sharp, loud, staccato. She saw a gun holstered beneath his s.h.i.+rt. She remembered that he had come on board with a duffel bag. Extra clothes, he had said. Money for the fishermen.

Do you know who I work for?” he asked. ”Answer me. I want to hear you say it.”

Go to h.e.l.l, thought Jenny, afraid of what her voice would sound like if she unclenched her jaw.

Ismail's eyes narrowed. He touched her face, brus.h.i.+ng his fingers over her split lip. He smelled like blood. Jenny wrenched her head away, and he grabbed a fistful of her hair, pinning her down with all his weight. He wasn't much larger than her, but he was all muscle-and untied. Her ear felt crushed against the salt-encrusted deck.

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