Midnight Sun (13 page)

He grunted his agreement and let her take the lead.

“You got the key card to work?” he asked when she slid it into a slot in the door.

“My dad reactivated his once we had control of the bridge.” She opened the door to reveal a room full of galoshes and yellow slickers.

“Maybe dressing in yellow isn’t the best way to avoid notice,” he murmured, slipping past her to select a coat, checking the lining. Also yellow.

“It’s in case we’re washed over the side, easier to spot in the water.”

He snapped his head around to stare at her. She shrugged into a coat of her own and buckled it up.

“There’s no one to rescue us, so don’t fall in.”

The initial danger, as she saw it, was that someone from the pirate’s vessel would spot them before she could show Marcus how to operate the high-pressure hose. He was right about the yellow jackets. But otherwise, they’d freeze in the spray. She looked through the window, saw no one on the opposite deck, and opened the door.

The wind took her breath, blowing cold against her exposed face, and her first thought was to retreat. But if she was this cold, those men in the water—even the ones who’d made it to the life boats—were in worse shape. And she and Marcus were the only ones who could help.

She took his hand and felt him tense as she led him to the water cannon. She unlocked it, aimed it toward the other ship and showed him how to fire it, and how to pivot it on the fulcrum. When he nodded, his gaze riveted to the pirate vessel, she dashed across the deck to the first grappling line.

Marcus gripped the controls of the metal water cannon, ready to spin it either at their own ship or the enemy’s. All he wanted to do was watch Brylie’s progress as he moved from one line to the next. He hadn’t seen how many there were, but he counted off as she moved down the deck, keeping her in his peripheral vision, easy enough to do with that damned yellow coat.

Jesus, it was freezing out here, and though he’d grabbed gloves and boots in the supply room, the wind cut right through. He wanted to get Brylie back inside, huddle up with her on the freezer, hold her tight, keep her safe.

But they couldn’t wait on rescue anymore. They had to be their own rescue. He wondered if she’d be so brave if she’d seen what they did to Jimmy.

He realized then she’d lingered too long in one place. He took his attention from the pirate vessel just long enough to see her hunched down, over a tangled line. Christ. He didn’t have a knife. Had she thought to get one? Every minute she was at the rail, she was vulnerable, and he had no faith in this cannon being able to protect her if someone walked out with a gun.

Finally, she was moving on and just as he breathed a sigh of relief, a door on the other ship opened. He opened his mouth to shout at her but she saw, too, and ducked below the rail. But too late.

The pirate gave a shout of alarm and raised his weapon. Marcus pulled the trigger. The stream of water slammed him back against the side of the ship, knocking his gun free. But instead of running to safety, Brylie ran to the next rope.
Shit
. He couldn’t watch her when the other terrorists could be coming out at any moment, from either side. He could only be ready and pray he could keep her safe.

He sure as hell wasn’t cold any longer as adrenaline poured through him. Shouts echoed behind him.
Christ, Brylie, leave it. Leave it!
But he couldn’t shout, couldn’t distract her, distract himself. His shoulders felt like they were going to snap as she loosened the last rope and tossed it over the side. She pivoted toward him and raced toward him, just as the door at the other end of the Ice Queen opened and two men ran out.

Marcus made the call—he abandoned the water cannon and shoved open the door they’d come out. Brylie raced as gunfire rang out, and dove through the door. Marcus started to follow her, then jerked back as a bullet impacted the door inches from his face. Holy hell.

If he didn’t move now, he’d be stuck, and God knew what they’d do to him. So he crouched low and followed Brylie inside, praying the pirates’ aim would be off as they ran.

He hit the floor at Brylie’s feet and pulled the door closed behind him. “Get me something to jam the door.” The door had been thick enough to stop the bullet at a distance, but up close—he didn’t think so. They needed to get out of this hallway.

She made a complete circle before she disappeared into the supply room and returned with what looked like a harpoon. Whatever. He snatched it from her and wedged it crossways against the door, then grabbed her hand and bolted down the hallway as the first bullets slammed into the door.

“The bridge,” she managed to gasp. “We need to let my father know we can go back!”

Though the action grated against every instinct of self-preservation, he headed toward the bridge. Christ, her hand was cold in his. She’d shed the gloves she’d been wearing, but her fingers were like ice. All he wanted was to take her into his arms and warm her up. Maybe once they were safely on the bridge.

They turned the corner and Marcus’s heart kicked hard against his ribs. Two pirates forced the crew of three—her father, Carl and Mac—onto their knees, their hands folded behind their heads. Behind him, Brylie sucked in a hard breath, then swayed and grasped the wall beside her, her face pale. Marcus was torn between helping her and acting. He had seen that position in movies—the crew was going to be executed.

Marcus shoved her behind him. His muscles trembled as he raised his pistol. The report of the shots echoed off the thin walls. The terrorists lifted their weapons away from the crew and toward Marcus.

Shit
. He took a step back, one arm out, as if that would shield Brylie. He should have left her somewhere else before he started shooting. They had no cover in the middle of the hallway. Before he could reason out what to do, Brylie stepped from behind Marcus, her pistol braced in both hands. She squeezed the trigger until only clicks were her response, and two bodies sprawled in front of her father, motionless.

“Christ, Brylie.” Marcus stared at her as her father and his crew scrambled to retrieve the weapons from the fallen terrorists. She’d killed them, her face absolutely expressionless. Cold. It needed to be done, or they’d be dead, but he didn’t want her to live with knowing she’d taken lives.

He was still staring at her when her father approached.

“I need more ammunition,” Brylie told the captain.

“No. You don’t.” Marcus didn’t want to see her shoot someone else, didn’t want to see that hard look in her eyes. Her hands weren’t even shaking, That would come later, though. And he wanted to be there when it did.

That realization terrified him as much as facing down two pistols.

Her father didn’t seem to notice his daughter’s demeanor, didn’t seem to care that she’d killed two men. She’d saved his life, but…

Brylie followed her father, stiff-shouldered and stiff-gaited, onto the bridge. Marcus had no choice but to follow her. The room was frigid, for God’s sake. No wonder. One of the windows was shattered and wind was blowing in. Marcus flexed the fingers of his good hand against the chill. The captain crossed to a closet near the door and drew out more heavy weather gear for Marcus and Brylie. This time the coats were weather-proofed and warm, lined with fleece, as were the gloves. Marcus felt marginally warmer, though he still fantasized about a hot bath. The captain led them onto the deck and pointed to a location where he needed them to help the injured and frightened men on board.

How the captain maneuvered the cruise ship as deftly as he did, Marcus had no idea. One of the other crew members stood guard with the automatic weapon—Hilario’s remaining men would be on them in no time after hearing the firefight—but they couldn’t hide, couldn’t delay getting these men out of the water.

Many of the S.O.P crew had made it to the life rafts, though from where Marcus stood on the deck, he could see some stretched out on the bottom, either badly injured or badly frozen. They’d need to get Joan to help them, but she was still a hostage.

A terrible thought entered his head. What if Hilario started executing the hostages in retribution for the damage done to his team? That was something else Marcus would have to live with—the choices he’d made on this trip.

He couldn’t think about that now, could only throw the rope ladders over the side and offer his good hand to help the men climb to safety. He’d ignore the bodies floating in the water, and wouldn’t wonder what he could have done differently. Hilario’s actions, not his.

Just his responsibility.

By the time the men were aboard—as many as they could find, dead and alive—one man emerged as the leader, a midshipman, Simon O’Loughlin. He moved across the deck, grim-faced, as he surveyed the survivors, every line in his body tense.

 Marcus’s gut twisted, a combination of sympathy for the crew of the S.O.P., and fear that the terrorists would attack at any minute. Hilario had to know they’d fished the crew out of the water, so where was he? Now would be the time to attack, when they were confused and vulnerable. They were racing time here, and everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. And yet, even as part-owner of the ship, he didn’t have authority, not when the captain and the S.O.P. midshipman knew more about what to do next. Once again, he didn’t have a place.

He glanced at Brylie, who was directing the men into the relative warmth of the bridge, her face flushed with the cold and exertion, though her expression hadn’t changed since she killed those men in the hall. He wanted to take her hand, wanted to help her hold on to her humanity here. God, she’d been so soft and tender when he’d met her. He hated Hilario for changing her.

Once the men were indoors, crowded on the bridge and in the hall, Marcus could wait no longer. He squeezed past equipment and shivering men to reach the midshipman. “We need to get to the hostages. Hilario may use them as retribution for us helping you. He doesn’t have a lot of men left, but they’re all well-armed.”

The man nodded, his lips pressed together, his gaze moving over his men. “The original plan is shot to shit,” he said. “Most of my weapons went in the water. What have you got?”

The man’s brow furrowed as Marcus and the captain laid out their cache on the console.  “Not a lot to work with.”

The comment didn’t inspire a lot of confidence but these guys were trained, right? They went up against poachers, most often, though, not assholes holding people as collateral. Men who’d already killed two. Tension knotted Marcus’s stomach as he watched the midshipman’s face and waited. The need to move burned in every muscle, and this guy was taking his sweet time.

O’Loughlin stepped back. “I need to get an idea of the layout of the ship.”

“You couldn’t have done that on the way out here?” Marcus demanded.

O’Loughlin looked at him, his face unreadable. “I wasn’t in charge of this mission.”

“My daughter Brylie knows the ship,” Captain Winston said. “Brylie. Show Mr. O’Loughlin the layout. I need to get the ship back on course.”

She nodded briefly and crossed the room to pull out a shallow drawer. O’Loughlin followed with one of those military-man strides, and traced his finger over the blueprints of the ship. Was that what they were called? He followed, standing across from Brylie, more out of a sense of possession than the ability to offer more insight.

“How is it you escaped being a hostage?” O’Loughlin asked her.

Her cheeks pinkened. “Marcus thought quickly and got us into hiding. We were able to move about the ship and avoid detection for almost two days.”

Marcus fought to ignore the rumble of jealousy in his gut, especially when the handsome older guy—tall dark and handsome, if you were into that—flashed Brylie a smile, and she returned it. He resisted the urge to reach across and lay a hand on her, stake a claim. He’d never wanted to do that before. But he could read the tension in her shoulders that made him think she’d rip his hand off. When this was over, he would…what? Tell her he loved her and wanted to live happily ever after? That was not his deal.

He cooled his heels and waited until they worked on the plan, their voices melding, a note of surprise in O’Loughlin’s when Brylie offered a counter idea.

“We need to move now,” Marcus broke in. “Hilario has to know most of his men are down. He doesn’t have much to lose, and who knows how he’ll respond to that?”

“Most of my men are down, too, and we have two ships to cover.”

“So you’re waiting for what? Back-up? It took you guys days to get here. We need to go.”

O’Loughlin’s lips pressed together. “Who are you, exactly?”

Marcus was aware of the pride that made him square his shoulders and draw himself to his full height—half a head shorter than this asshole. He was aware, and ashamed. Still, he said, “Marcus Devlin. Owner.”

O’Loughlin’s eyebrows went up, and he glanced from Marcus to Brylie, who blushed again. Then he nodded. He motioned to the men behind him who were fit enough, and he armed them with the weapons from the fallen terrorists.

When Brylie stood, Marcus stepped in front of her. “You stay here.”

Her eyes flashed. “Why? Because I’m a girl?”

“Because you’re a chef, not a counterterrorist agent.”

Her hip shot out and her head went back in defiance. “I’ve shot four of them, Marcus, and came for you.”

“Which is why I want you out of the line of fire.” He couldn’t explain to her now, not here with O’Loughlin listening, why this was important to him. He inclined his head in O’Loughlin’s direction. “Let people who know what they’re doing take care of it.”

“I know this ship better than anyone here, outside of my father and his crew, and they have a job to do. You can feel free to stay behind.”

“The hell I will.” He wondered if this was how his family felt when he insisted on doing something idiotic. Looked like he was going to add to that list, because he sure as hell wasn’t letting her out of his sight until this was over. He checked the ammunition in his own weapon—six bullets—and tucked it away. “Let’s go.”

Brylie was still seething at Marcus’s high-handed attempt to get her to stay behind as they went to free the other hostages. She was damned tired of him trying to protect her when she’d proved herself more than capable of taking care of herself—and him. She hated that his desire to shelter her made her feel weak.