Vortex (Cutter Cay) (28 page)

So he waited.

But not with his usual sangfroid.

Moonlight tai chi usually brought his mind and body peace, but tonight the precise, languid movements didn’t bring him what he sought. A Glock lay incongruously beside the towel he’d tossed over the table. Breathing in again, striving to block the negative, he closed his eyes as he identified each separate smell on the still night air.

The scent of ozone, of brine, of the men patrolling the decks around him like shadows, of gun oil. Barbecued bass they’d enjoyed for dinner. But it was the spicy musky fragrance of Daniela clinging to his hair and skin that overrode everything else.

The air was muggy and close, sticky against his bare legs and chest. The ocean looked and sounded as irritable as he felt, the whitecaps’ agitation captured by the lights from the ship.

Sea Wolf
was crawling with security. The men he’d hired, and the T-FLAC operatives who never seemed to rest. Stamps hadn’t made a move for forty-eight hours, but none of them had let their guard down for a minute, and the tension could be felt like a heavy, electrical net over all their activities.

The fast-moving clouds rolled in, blocking the moonlight and the stars, but there was plenty of illumination. Lights on board, interior and exterior, burned 24/7. No shadows. Nowhere to hide.

The ship wasn’t quiet. The usual noises were somewhat obliterated by the sound of booted footfalls on the decks and corridors as security patrolled. There was barely an inch of space on board not occupied by a heavily armed professional. The senator was now campaigning in Colorado. According to Derek Wright, the senator’s hired thugs were holed up in a cheap hotel in Punta de Bombon, a town five hundred miles south of Lima, and a mere seventy miles from where the
Sea Wolf
lay at anchor.

He wasn’t the only one too wired to sleep. His dive team had decided after dinner that they’d move a couple of hundred bins holding small artifacts and coins down to the storeroom in the hold.

It wasn’t necessary, just busywork. But the hope was that it would tire them out, giving them something else to think about.

Logan executed a Chen Four step, then paused as a thump broke the stillness of the night. He nodded in greeting to one of the security guys as he passed by on patrol, then went to the rail to peer down as he yelled, “Guys? Need a hand?”

“We’re good.” The voice was distorted, probably from the weight of the bin being carried.

“Be with you in ten,” he shouted back at the sound of another thump.

Jed had gotten rid of the
Sea Witch
. Logan hadn’t had a chance to talk to him in the general organized chaos that had ensued yesterday. Quadrupling the people on board made it a logistical feat to ensure that everyone had a place to get some shut-eye. Meals had to be served around the clock to accommodate this many people. Hipolito was in his element, and was busy enough to welcome Daniela’s assistance, killing two birds with one stone.

As he moved, Logan observed the lights from some of the distant ships. There was no way to keep everyone away. The second it had been sent out over the radio by one of the observers that
Sea Wolf
had found
La Daniela,
and that they’d already discovered a wealth of jewelry and artifacts, people had come from all over to see. There were perhaps half a dozen boats adhering to the one-mile limit, who just wanted to observe, and get a glimpse of the treasure.

Several of the T-FLAC operatives had taken the tender and gone out to interrogate every one. Most, just day-trippers curious about the process, had hightailed it out of there, not wanting trouble. A couple of boats, potential pirates Logan suspected, lingered. The extra security ensured they stayed away at the legal one-mile limit.

“Logan!”

“Be there in a minute,” he yelled back. The voice had come from the lower deck where the guys were handing up the bins from the dive platform. He heard a muffled groan, and grinned. Those bins weighed upward of fifty pounds, and moving them was a bitch, no matter what the value of their contents. He had a warm willing woman waiting for him in his cabin. But he’d give the guys a hand for an hour.

Sticking the gun in his waistband at the small of his back, he wiped his face with a towel, and jogged to the stairs heading to the next deck, passing two more black-clad operatives as he took the outside stairs three at a time.

“Okay,” he shouted as he hit the lower deck where his guys were. “Serious muscle has arrived. Step aside, my man.”

A sweep of his gaze stopped Logan in his tracks.

A man’s legs protruded from the open slider exiting the common room. “Shit!” Logan ran.

First thought, the worst. Stamps’s men had somehow managed to sneak aboard. But since that was highly unlikely, considering how many good guys patrolled the ship, and how well lit everything was, his next thought was heart attack. Light from inside shone on Galt’s bald head.
Damn.
He started to crouch beside him, then saw the shiny red blood on his friend’s face and head.

“Behind you!” Cooper yelled, tearing around the corner at a dead run, two shadowy figures behind him. Without pausing, he thrust out his hand and vaulted over the rail into the water. The kid hit the water with a loud splash. Smart move.

Logan swung around, narrowly missing being hit in the face as a burly guy in a wet suit swung an air tank two-fisted at his head. He hadn’t seen him, just felt the rush of displaced air.

Putting his head down, Logan rammed into the bad guy’s soft gut, felt the blunt force shimmy down his spine. They both grunted on impact. The heavy dive tank clattered to the deck, then rolled, hitting the rail with a resounding clang that was almost lost in the cacophony surrounding them.

Now
Logan heard the sound of gunshots and the grunts and exclamations of men in hand-to-hand combat.

Gasping, the guy countered, swinging his beefy arm in a tight arc. Light reflected off the short blade of the knife clutched in his fist as the glint jerked up toward Logan’s unprotected belly. He danced back, felt the white-hot streak as the tip skimmed his ribs. Adrenaline wiped out any pain. Slamming his forearm on the man’s wrist, he enjoyed the sound of bone cracking, and the guy’s scream of agony. The knife wheeled out of his grip and clattered as it skittered across the deck.

The man clutched his broken wrist against his belly, fumbling for his weapon. It was clearly his nondominant hand; the gun was awkwardly positioned for a quick draw.

Logan reached for the Glock tucked in the back of his shorts. Nothing. Fuck. The man was joined by a twin in a black wet suit—still dripping water, murder in his eyes.

Jed came out behind the second man, grabbing him with his arm across the man’s throat and grappling with him, while Logan scanned the deck for his gun, dropped in the scuffle.

He saw the Glock at his opponent’s feet. Damn it to hell. He dived across the deck, sliding into base. Grabbed up the Glock and rolled. The bad guy fumbled his gun into his meaty fist, trying to awkwardly adjust for a different angle.

“You snooze, you lose.” Logan rotated up on his shoulder, braced one hand under the other and fired. He wasn’t sure who was more fucking surprised, himself or the guy with a dark wet blotch on the front of his wet suit. The man’s eyes went wide, then he toppled to the deck, already slick with water and blood.

Nausea welled in the back of Logan’s throat. Jesus. He’d done that. Willfully, and without a second’s hesitation, taken a man’s life. How the fuck had he come to this? He’d never killed before. But he didn’t have time to think about it now as he jumped to his feet.

Pirates, or Stamps’s men? Whoever they were, bad guys were pouring over the rail like ants at a picnic. Where had they come from? His people were everywhere, watching, waiting.
Professionals.
How the fuck had they been caught unaware? And where the hell was everyone, on a fucking coffee break?

The clothing was so similar to that worn by the T-FLAC operatives that it was almost impossible to differentiate the good guys from the bad, even in the bright lighting that made the scene surreal.

Worse, the army who’d boarded seemed just as skilled, just as motivated as the men he had on board. And there appeared to be three times as many of them.

All around him was utter chaos and pandemonium. Earsplitting hails of shots were being fired from every direction.

These guys had serious firepower to counteract
Sea Wolf
’s serious firepower. They were clearly well-funded and extremely motivated.

Someone came up behind him, grabbed him around the throat with his forearm. Logan bent, throwing the man over his head. Well, over the
rail.
He cartwheeled over the side with a scream and a splash.

Another man was right behind him. They were like fucking Weebles. Knock one down, and six more popped up. Logan didn’t wait to ask questions, but spun, slamming the Glock at the guy’s nose. Crunch, grunt; the guy hit out blindly and got him with a painful jolt on his arm, which went numb from wrist to shoulder. Logan shot up his knee, hard, hit the man straight in the balls. He winced as the guy doubled over and fell to the deck screaming.

Fuck empathy pain; more were coming without end. He danced back to parry a man with a long-bladed knife, red with someone else’s blood. The man showed yellowed teeth. Close enough for Logan to get a whiff of chain-smoker. Logan’s feet shot out from under him as he slipped in God only knew what on the deck, and flew backward on his ass.

The guy jumped him while he was still sliding, sitting on his chest. Logan grunted as his good arm was pinned beneath both their weights. They were equal in strength, but the man was thirty pounds heavier, better trained, and sitting on him.

These bastards favored knives, and one was raised now, descending as if in slo-mo. Logan grabbed the guy’s wrist in his still numb hand, fought to bend the arm back. The knife got closer to his throat. He wrenched it back a few inches, repelling it with more determination than brute strength as he twisted and bucked.

Fuck it, he had no leverage.

He couldn’t drag in a breath because of the weight crushing his chest. He arched his back, hoping to get the guy off balance, or just—hell—
off.
Instead he ended up with a face full of crotch. That left his legs free. He tilted up, let his heels climb the guy’s back. The man twisted, slashed at his legs, but Logan wrapped his legs around the guy’s head, locking his ankles over his nose. And squeezed. Squeeze. Twist. Twist. Squeeze. The guy was gurgling, flailing. Logan wasn’t done. They twisted and rolled.

Someone fell over them with a curse, someone else stumbled, his boot striking Logan in the kidneys. They rolled like lovers until they came to a jarring halt, Logan’s spine hitting the rail with a
thwack
that jarred every bone in his body.

Grabbing the guy by the hair, he pounded the bastard’s head on the deck until he went slack. Chest heaving, Logan staggered to his feet, gripping the rail until he was sure he was steady enough to move. There were men everywhere. Fighting. Some dead. Some wounded badly enough that they lay where they’d fallen.

He helped up one of Wright’s men, with a quick yank on the hand he held up. “Thanks, man.” Then watched as the same man shot two men point-blank, on the run, without pausing.

Holy fuck.

The faint smell of cordite was joined by the metallic stink of blood and other body fluids. Men yelled, cursed, and grunted as fists and weapons slammed into bare flesh. Wood ripped and splintered. A liquid splash as someone else went overboard. Shit crashed and clanged in surround sound.

Pandemonium was all around him, but all Logan could think was
Daniela.

He picked up his gun and ran, ignoring the crack and splinter of more wood breaking, glass shattering, shouts, and the pop of gunfire.

Galt was gone from the doorway, leaving behind a large bloody pool on the teak floor. Logan ran like his life depended on speed.
Her
life depended on his speed. He raced through the common room in seconds.

A man ran at him and Logan hit him in the face with his elbow, barely slowing down. He shot a second man who was squeezing the trigger on a semiauto. The guy’s face exploded in a spray of red. Logan didn’t hang around to see him drop.

He ignored the upturned furniture and shattered debris, ignored clumps of men at each other’s throats, ignored the wanton destruction all around him.

Daniela. Jesus …

*   *   *

Daniela couldn’t sleep. Even less so after Logan left the cabin. A lamp burned on the bedside table, and she was fully dressed, shorts, T-shirt, running shoes,
bra.
It made sense if Victor’s men came back. “But wearing shoes to bed isn’t exactly conducive to sleeping,” she told Dog, who lay snoring on her feet.

She was curled on her side on Logan’s big bed, her fingers under the pillow, but not gripping the butt of the loaded Glock she’d been sleeping with for the past several nights. Logan had given her a crash course in firing it for a couple of days on the helipad on the top deck. It would be impossible to hit anyone with her eyes squeezed shut. She had a better chance of hitting herself in the foot than shooting an intruder, which she’d tried telling him. He’d made her practice several times a day. She was a terrible shot every time. Thank God she was surrounded by a veritable army of men who looked as though
they’d
have no problem at all remaining steely-eyed as they pulled the trigger.

Standing outside the cabin door were two men in black. A few yards away, on the small balcony, stood the shadowy figure of the man stationed there to protect her. He and his big gun stood motionless in the shadows between her and the vastness of the night sky and the blackness of the ocean.