Midnight Sun (7 page)

It was a third of the length of the Ice Queen, but an icebreaker as well, outfitted to go in any direction once they got away. He didn’t see anyone on board, but they might be more conscious of the cold. He should have tried to get to his own cabin for his gear before he came out here. He’d do so on the way back. He’d told Brylie to dress warm but didn’t remember to get her coat. He’d have to find a way to do that, too. No telling what measures they’d have to take to stay ahead of the pirates, and it was best to be prepared for anything.

He couldn't see a damn thing up here, but dared not get closer. He'd really hoped to learn how many men were on that ship, how many men he had to worry about. He cast a glance up at the helicopter pad, with the sightseeing helicopter, wishing he knew how to fly the thing, how to get help. Instead, he had to get back to Brylie.

He was gone too long. Brylie couldn't stand not knowing where he was, couldn't stand waiting. She hooked her walkie onto the waistband of her sweatpants, turned the volume down—no sense in getting caught if Marcus decided to bellow for her—and wished she had paper to leave him a note. She had to go back to the lounge, to see what was going on in there. If he was going off to be brave and foolish, well, at least she should have news for him when she returned. He would be pissed, but, well, he didn't know her if he thought she was just going to stay put because he told her to.

She entered the crawlspace and made her way in the direction of the lounge, moving carefully, worried about her boot hitting the side of the crawlway, or having to sneeze. But mostly worried about the others and what they were dealing with.

She reached the vent overlooking the lounge in time to hear one of the women ask for food. She peered through the vent and saw the older woman who had come here on an anniversary trip with her husband, fear etched clearly on her pale face. The fruit snack Brylie had eaten turned over in her stomach with guilt.

"No food yet, not until we get a response."

"I need to have food, my blood sugar is dropping," the woman pressed.

Brylie winced as a man stepped into view, looming over the woman threateningly. For a moment, Brylie thought he was going to hit her. The woman cowered, apparently fearing the same thing.

"I'm diabetic," the woman went on. "Please. I'm not asking for special favors. I could die."

"You take the insulin?"

"It's in my cabin. But if I eat something, just a little bit of cheese or fruit, I can manage without the insulin for a little bit. Please."

"Which of you is the cook?" He whirled on the group, and for a moment, Brylie thought he could see her through the grate.

Brylie's heart seized. Here it came—they would notice she was not among them and start searching. Where was Marcus? Was he safely back in their hiding place? If the terrorists started looking for them, how much longer could they hide?

"I'm the cook," Monica spoke up, and Brylie shifted to see her rise, her shoulders back, her head high. "Shall I bring in food for everyone? No one has had breakfast. I'm sure everyone could use the strength."

The terrorist hesitated. For a moment, Brylie was sure he'd refuse. "You may bring in only what you can carry. One of my men will accompany you, but he will not assist."

Monica's expression slackened in fear as another man toting a big gun stepped up beside her.

"Do not make a mistake. Jorge is very good at his job. It would be a shame to be without a cook for the rest of the voyage."

Brylie watched until Monica was marched out of the room. Thank God no one had mentioned her. She didn’t want to be pursued through the ship. The idea had fear icing her veins.

She barely covered a shriek of alarm when Marcus tapped her foot, squeezing into the space with her. His expression was thunderous, brows drawn together, mouth tight, eyes dark with temper. At least he couldn't tear into her now. She didn't want to go back into the kitchen yet because that's where Monica and her guard were heading. So she remained, listening, making room for Marcus, hearing his heavy breathing that told her he was ready to have it out. Too bad.

Once Monica and the guard emerged, Brylie slithered forward through the tunnel. Marcus grabbed her ankle and frowned. She motioned to the woman and to the crawlspace, certain he'd understand.

Whether or not he did, he followed her, his mouth grim. When they reached their hiding place, he pinned her to the wall, eyes flashing.

“I should be out there. I should be with them, with the gun held to my head while I bring food to the hostages. Not Monica. Me.”

“Christ, Brylie, you can’t have your guilt drive you to do something stupid.”

She drew back sharply, bumping her head into the wall.

He eased away and shook his head, blowing his temper out on a breath. “Don’t look at me like that, Brylie. You know what I mean. We’re not going to be any help to anyone if we get caught, will we?”

“What’s the point of us being able to move around if we can’t help?” she countered.

“I don’t know,” he snapped. “But we have to think this through. We can’t just rush all over the place. We have to get to the bridge. We have to call for help. I just don’t know how.”

Marcus lay back on the freezer, fingers laced over his chest and closed his eyes.

“Hard for me to think with you vibrating over there,” he muttered, not opening his eyes.

“Sorry I can’t be all Zen for you,” she retorted. “I’m just thinking it’s only a matter of time before they check the manifest and realize we’re not down there. They’ll tear this place apart looking for us, and once they find us—”

“All the more reason to get in to the radio.” He rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand, his elbow on the freezer. “What about the sightseeing helicopter?”

“I don’t know how to fly.”

“I’m thinking the radio.”

She shook her head. “It needs a key to operate, and Carl always has the keys on him.”

“Or the bad guys have them.” He blew out a breath. Back to plan A. “I need a weapon.”

She widened her eyes. “You’re not going to confront them?”

“Can you think of another way? Is there any place your dad might keep a gun on board, other than for the security team? No doubt they’ve been disarmed by now.”

“I’m—” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “My dad might have a handgun in his cabin, but it’s too risky. Even if you can get to the cabin, you can’t go after those men. They’re armed to the teeth and experienced with weapons.”

“And they don’t know we’re here. I have surprise on my side.”

She shook her head. “No. I can’t let you do this.”

He leaned forward and closed his hand over hers. “We don’t have a choice.”

She let out a shuddering breath. “If they figure out we’re here, they’ll come looking for us.”

He drew a sharp breath through his nose, sitting now. “So we’ll need a good place to hide. Any ideas?”

She liked where they were now just fine. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but warm, and the hum of the machinery disguised their conversation. Plus it was easily accessible by the vent, and close to the kitchen. If Monica came back in, Brylie could contact her, if she was careful, and get word to her father that she was safe.

She went through the ship’s layout in her mind, deck by deck and shook her head. “I can’t think of any place more secure.”

He pressed his lips together. “I want to be able to hear them coming, and we can’t with this noise. If they find us up here, we’re trapped. I want a place with another way out. Can you think of someplace like that? Maybe even an outside exit?”

“Dry goods storage, maybe. It’s cold in there, though, and we can’t be sure they won’t be going in there for supplies.”

“Two exits?”

She nodded.

“We’ll go there, then, but first we’ll get our coats. Storage means shelves, I assume. We’ll go up high. Should be plenty of stuff to hide behind this early on in the trip.”

She nodded.

“Right.” He sat on his haunches, hands folded between his knees. “So all we need now is the gun.”

Marcus waited in the room outside the bridge, where he and Brylie had tried to eavesdrop earlier. He changed his grip on the Glock in his hand, trying to find the right balance. He hadn’t been to the range in a few years, and even then, he was only after targets. He didn’t know if he could shoot a man. Time to find out.

It had taken them an hour to creep into the captain’s room, then back to their own cabins for their coats, every minute excruciating. They had to make the call, but also needed to be prepared if everything went to hell.

He peered into the bridge through the vent, but couldn’t see anything, didn’t hear any conversation, though the occasional shuffle and roll of a chair let him know someone was in there. He took a deep breath, slipped into the hall, slid the key card into the bridge lock, and entered the code Brylie had shared. He winced when it beeped, then pushed open the door and pressed forward, gun at the ready.

Two men were in the room, one at the controls and one already moving toward him. Marcus brought up the gun but couldn’t fire. Instead, he used his arm to block his attacker, swinging his other hand in an upper-cut that connected with the soft belly. He pushed the man back to deliver a more direct hit to the jaw, sending him stumbling.

The man at the controls swung his pistol toward Marcus. Marcus fired wildly, then ducked, driving his shoulder into the man’s gut. The pirate fell back into the chair, which skidded across the smooth deck. This time Marcus was off balance. He dropped to his knees a moment before pushing to his feet and shoving the other man’s gun straight up. It fired right beside his ear, and he waited for the penetrating pain. Shaking his head to clear the ringing, he gripped the man’s wrist and twisted until he heard a snap. The gun clattered to the wooden floor. Marcus snatched it up, pivoting and raising it against the second man. This time, he fired before he could think about it. The first man doubled over and staggered back before falling, limp. Marcus turned back and drove the pistol hard against the pirate’s temple. His victim slumped unconscious.

Marcus sagged against the console for a moment, working on catching his breath. He inspected his victims. Both were alive but unconscious, and the gunshot wound was bleeding like a son of a bitch. Guilt ripped at him. He’d just wanted to get to the radio. Killing someone was more than he wanted to accept responsibility for.

The radio. He crossed the room, flipped the controls as Brylie had instructed, then made the distress call.

“We received a distress call a few hours ago,” the dispatcher told him. “The Southern Ocean Patrol is in route.”

Relief shuddered through him. This would be over soon. But relief soon gave way to panic. He’d disabled the men who were piloting the Ice Queen. He may not have liked where they were going, but now— “There’s no one available to steer this ship,” he told the woman. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Let me check the GPS you gave me.”

He glanced toward the door. “Lady, I don’t have all day. Someone’s bound to come in.” No point mentioning the gunfire. “I don’t want to get caught here.”

“Okay, you might be shallow enough that you can lower the anchor. Do you see the control for that?”

He scanned the controls—shit, there were a lot of them. “Yeah, I see it.”

“It’s just the press of a button.”

The terrorists would notice when the ship stopped, but, hell, they would notice when their guys showed up with bullet holes, too. Marcus took a deep breath and pressed the button, heard the grinding beneath that was the chain being lowered. He had to get out of here now.

Scanning the room, he found two satellite phones. He tucked one in his pocket and balanced the other in his hand.

Shit, the gunshot victim was coming around and moaning. Marcus stared. He’d never shot a living thing before. He knelt beside the man and felt blood pooling, wet and sticky on his knees. Quickly, he assessed—where had the bullet struck? Chest? Gut? Leg?

Leg. How had that happened? His brother better never hear about that, since they’d gone to the shooting range for years. But yeah, he could help that wound. He pulled his belt free and looped it beneath the man’s leg, close to his groin. He glanced at the other man, who was still out. He couldn’t afford to spend any longer here. Someone no doubt heard the shots, or the chain, and would be on him in a matter of minutes. Once he tightened the belt, the blood flow slowed. He tied the leather, unwilling to waste more time, and wiped his hands on his jeans. That was the best he could do. He picked up the sat phone he’d set down beside him, then shoved the pirate’s handgun along with the captain’s in the back of his jeans. After a quick scan of the room, he collected the automatic weapon that had fallen under the console during the scuffle. One less weapon for the bad guys.

He needed to get back to Brylie in their new hiding place. He opened the door from the bridge, peered out, then bolted down the hall toward dry goods storage.

Chapter Four

Brylie had just entered dry goods storage where they’d decided to meet when she heard footsteps in the hall. Not taking time to see who it was, she vaulted toward one of the metal shelves, one weighted heavily on the bottom with bottled water. She grasped the post and hauled herself up. Her foot slipped on the shelf and her finger snagged on a piece of metal sticking out of the support. She stifled a cry of pain, holding her finger out as she hauled herself up. She hid behind tall boxes of toilet paper, wrapped her injured finger in the hem of her sweatshirt, and peered between the boxes.

Marcus staggered in, eyes wild, covered with blood.

This time she didn’t muffle her cry, and she half jumped, half slid down the shelving, needing to touch him, to find out where he was hurt. Would she know enough to help him?

She hit the floor, the jolt running up her legs. Heart pounding, she stumbled forward and grasped his sweatshirt, her hands sliding beneath, looking for the wound. Her fingers encountered one of the pistols at the small of his back, and she snatched her hand away, then leaned back to inspect him. He looked so weary, the corners of his eyes drawn down, his brow lined, lips thin.

“Not my blood. I’m not hurt.” He closed his hands around her arms, then released her immediately, but not before marking her sweatshirt with bloody handprints. “We need to get out of the line of sight.” He urged her toward the shelves she’d just climbed down, but when she straightened, his gaze snapped to her own bloody shirt. “What happened?” He grabbed the front of her shirt, pulling it out to inspect it. He lifted his eyebrow in silent question.

“My finger. It’s—it’ll be fine.” It burned like fire and a flap of skin hung loose. She had found a hiding place by the toilet paper—she could use that to wrap it until they could find something better. “You’re not hurt.”

“No. Come on. Can you climb?” He started up, held a hand to her.

She nodded. “I’m fine. Go.”

God, so much blood on his clothes, on his jeans, his sweatshirt. Her heart hadn’t slowed from her first glimpse of him coming through the door. She felt lightheaded and realized she’d been holding her breath, waiting for him to tell her what had happened.

Instead he took two pistols out of his belt and set them on top of one case while she opened another and pulled out a roll. He took the roll from her and pulled her finger into his lap.

“I heard shots,” she said, not able to look at her finger now, not when he was willing to take care of it. “What happened?”

“Two guys were on the bridge, armed.”

“And you shot them?”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “They shot first. I got their guns away. Hid  one. Automatic weapon. Didn’t think we could use it.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “You need stitches, Bry.”

She squeezed her eyes closed. “I know. I’ve had cuts before.”

“I can find something to do the job in a bit. Kinda need to catch my breath.”

She blew out a laugh, relieved when the breath left her lungs, and was replaced by cold air. “I bet.”

He leaned against the wall beside the cardboard box of toilet paper. “The guys on the bridge—they can identify me. We need to keep a low profile for a bit.”

“You made the call?”

“Made it and got these.” He pulled out the two satellite phones and handed them over. “They’re charged. I called the distress code you told me, and she told me someone had sent in a mayday call earlier, and S.O.P. is on the way. Now I want to call my brother and let him know what’s going on. We should be okay soon.”

“Oh!” She dove for his belt. He lifted his arms to accommodate her, his brow furrowed.

“What the hell?”

“The walkie. I need it.” She snatched the radio out of his pocket.

“Where’s yours?” He scanned the nest she’d made. “Did it die?”

“I rigged it so I could hear into the lounge.”

“You did what?” He sat up, staring.

“I taped the button down and left it in the vent so we’ll know what’s going on.”

His forehead smoothed and his lips quirked in admiration. “Good idea. But hell, Brylie, what if I’d tried to get in contact with you?”

“I had it with me until a few minutes ago. It should keep us in the loop until the battery runs out. But I needed to do something.” She turned up the volume of his radio to listen in.

A jumble of sound reverberated in the open room and she adjusted the volume again. As she concentrated, she heard sobbing, and complaining, and finally the strident voices of the captors, the slamming of doors. They were no doubt looking for Marcus, though they didn’t mention him by name, not yet, anyway. She shivered and Marcus rested his hand on her hip, drawing her against him. She moved into his warmth, the security of him, before he pulled his blood-stained hand away.

“Need to get cleaned up,” he muttered, but his attention was on the walkie.

“Nowhere,” an accented voice said.

“Get me the manifest,” ordered another. “I want to see who is missing.”

Brylie’s knuckles tightened on the radio, and Marcus nudged her finger aside before she accidentally pressed the button. She could hardly catch her breath, she was so frightened. Would the others be punished for not revealing their absence?

Marcus rubbed his hand down her back as if that would calm her. Oddly, the simple contact did.

But just that made her feel guilty, for feeling secure while the others were in danger. She shifted to look at him, needing the whole story. “What exactly happened on the bridge?” 

He shook his head, and for a moment, she thought he’d shut down. So the sound of his voice startled her, even though he pitched it low so they could hear the walkie.

“I never shot a man before. Christ, I didn’t know what to do.” He lifted a bloodstained hand to his face, stopping just before he touched it. “I just did what I’d seen in the movies, you know, to slow the bleeding. I didn’t even stick around to see if it worked. And if the bullet’s still in his leg, well, he’s dead anyway, right?”

The pain in his eyes when he lifted his gaze to hers stabbed her in the heart. Despite the blood that flaked from his fingers, dried on his clothes, she nestled against him, folding her arms around him, pulling his head down to hers, her fingers moving over his hair.

“You did what you had to do,” she murmured.

His breath blew against her throat, warm and damp, and then he pulled her closer, against the length of his body. For a moment she thought he wanted to lose himself in sex, but he just held her, smoothing his hand up and down her back, until the beating of his heart eased.

Shouting over the walkie made them both jolt and turn toward the radio. Rapid-fire Spanish poured out of the speaker and Marcus picked up the walkie, as if that would help him understand.

“
Sangre
. Blood,” Brylie said. “
Pistola
. Not dead, though. I didn’t hear the word for dead. They did say something about the anchor, though. They’ve raised it, presumably put their own man at the controls.”

“Throw him overboard,” the other voice said.

Brylie recoiled at the words. Was the man Marcus shot dead after all? She glanced at Marcus, who paled.

“Adolfo, please. We can call a helicopter to come get him,” another, more reasonable voice said.

“And give away our location? No. Throw him overboard. And find the man who did this.”

Goosebumps lifted all over Brylie’s skin and she eased back into Marcus, who was shaking himself. When she looked up at him, she saw fury etched in the lines of his face, burning from his eyes.

“He’s still alive,” he said through lips that appeared frozen. “They’re going to kill him.”

“They. Not you.”

“My fault, though.”

“He would have shot you. You said so yourself.”

“Or captured me and you would have been left alone.”

She felt the tension ease from him, a little more with each passing moment. “You did the only thing you could.”

“Doesn’t really make me feel better.” He bit off whatever else he was going to say when the shouting resumed.

The loud man, the apparent leader, said, “Bring me this man within the hour, or you’re going into the water with Benito.”

Brylie tensed and Marcus’s arm tightened around her.

“They won’t find us, we’re well-hidden,” he assured her. “Even if they get into the vents, they won’t follow them here. We’re safe for now.”

She wished she could believe him, but the sounds coming over the radio contradicted him. She heard grumbles, shouts, and a crack. A moment passed before she realized someone had been slapped.

“You said she didn’t get on in Hobart!” the leader, Adolfo, she knew now, shouted, his accent heavy.

The grumble of her father’s voice responded. “She did not.”

So that’s how he was protecting her, as Monica had done this morning.

“Yet we have video of her last night on the deck with this man. Who is he?”

“It’s too early in the cruise for me to know all the passengers.”

Another crack. Was this man slapping her father? She could imagine her father’s stoic reaction, his steely eyes.

“Who. Is. This. Man? He killed one of my men. Who is he? Who?”

“His name is Marcus Devlin.” It was a man’s voice, high pitched in panic. “You know, the Olympic snowboarder?”

“Devlin? The same Devlins that own this cruise line?”

“Oh, hell,” Marcus muttered beside her. “My friend from the captain’s table the other night. Fucker.”

 “Answer me!” Adolfo’s voice grew louder, out of control.

“I’d heard we might get a visit from one of the members of the corporation,” her father said, his tone resigned. “I didn’t know it would be one of the family. He didn’t introduce himself to me.”

“Contact Devlin,” Adolfo demanded. “Let him know his little brother picked a bad day for a cruise.”

“No kidding,” Marcus agreed.

“Let him know the demand has increased, now that I know a precious family member is on board. I want twenty million dollars for the safe return of the brat, the passengers and the ship.”

“You should call your brother now,” Brylie urged, shoving a phone toward him. “Find out what’s going on with the rescue. They should be here soon, right? We just have to hide until they get here.”

He picked up the phone and did as she asked while she held the radio to her ear, listening, but not hearing anything discernible. The leader’s loud voice terrified her, but at least she knew what was going on.

Marcus did his best to hide his frustration from Brylie as he pressed Jessica, Harris’s secretary, to put him through. Bad enough he had to suffer the delay on the phone as it relayed through the satellite, but he had to butt against Jessica, who didn’t like him on the best of days, which this wasn’t.

Okay, he probably deserved some of the attitude she threw at him, and he never did actually call when he didn’t have a life-or-death sort of problem, only this time it was really life-or-death and she was blocking him.

“He’s got other problems to deal with right now, Marcus,” Jessica was saying.

He pictured her sitting in her office, blonde hair coiled atop her head, blouse buttoned to her chin, at odds with the short skirts she usually wore. Great legs, too. She might like him better if he’d followed through on his flirting and actually gave her a tumble, but he got the feeling Harris was already going there, something his wife Teresa would not like.

“I know all about the cruise ship problem because I’m on it,” he told her.

“You are not. How can you be calling?”

“Long story, Jess, look, just put me through, will you? I need to know what’s going on with the rescue efforts. Are they on their way?”

“He’s on the other line just now, Marcus. I’ll put you through as soon as he’s done.” She ended the call without another word, and he blinked at the phone. Right. On hold. Weird to be hearing instrumental ‘80s music over the phone when he was being hunted by bad guys.

Finally, Harris came on. “Marcus! You’re safe?”

“For now.”

“I was just on the phone with Adolfo. He made me think he had you right there.”

“On a first name basis with terrorists, bro?”

Marcus could see Harris scowl from here. “Of course not. It’s how he introduced himself to me. So you’re not there with him?”

“I’m hidden for the time being, me and the chef. He has other people with him, though, all the passengers and crew. I think he has one of his men operating the ship. Did you get in touch with the authorities? I called them from the radio on the bridge. I don’t know how much longer we can hide.”

“Southern Ocean Maritime Patrol and Response are on their way.”

Marcus swore. “Aren’t they the ones who report poaching or whatever? This is a bit bigger than that.”

“I know, but they’re the closest, as I said. And they’re armed. Do you know how many pirates are on board?”

Marcus shook his head, though he realized his brother couldn’t see. “No. We can’t see into the lounge, and we’ve been trying to keep a low profile. So no telling where they are. I do have the call sign of their ship. Got a pen?” He rattled off the number and letters, and met Brylie’s surprised gaze.

“They’re not going to stop looking until they find you, now that they know who you are,” Harris said.

“I know. So make sure help gets here soon, all right? And remind me to kick your ass for putting me on this ship to begin with.”

He hung up but didn’t look at Brylie. He lifted his hand to pass through his head and stopped when he caught sight of the blood of the man he’d shot. It had dried on his skin and shirt, making it stiff, and Christ, it smelled. He shoved himself toward the edge of the shelf, needing to get away from her, not wanting her to smell the violence on him, not wanting it to touch her.

“I need to wash this off me.” He grasped the post of the shelving unit and swung himself to the ground, remembering only at the last minute he needed to keep quiet.

After scouring the shelves, he found some bottled water and carried it to stand over a drain in the floor. Using his teeth to uncap it, he poured it over his hands, rubbing them together, and watched the red liquid spiral and disappear down the drain.