White Hot (21 page)

She whirled and looked up at the bridge.
No guard.
Her pulse leapt off the charts. She could get to the radio!

In less than a minute she was standing at the helm, out of breath. And staring down at the smashed remains of the radio transmitter. She wanted to weep. Even if she knew how to fix it, there would be no possibility. It was that ruined.

She should have known.
She really should have. It had been pure folly to hope these ruthless, efficient killers would have left a single thing to chance. A functioning radio? No way.

Even so, bitter disappointment stung through her.

With a sigh, she looked out over the vastness of the sea around her, trying to draw strength from its endless power. The deep water was calm now, but when angered…

She needed to be like the sea. Strong. Tireless. Relentless.

It was so hard to do. Especially alone.

She’d deliberately avoided looking at the fishing trawler. She didn’t want to relive those awful moments, watching Clint be taken down.

But she couldn’t help herself. She missed him so much! Against her will, her gaze was pulled toward
Eliza Jane
.

But it was no longer there. It was—

She sucked in a startled breath. The trawler had moved!

Hell, was
still
moving! Cruising in a half circle, on a course to come alongside
Île de Cœur
.

What was going on?

A cold shiver of fear spilled over her. Were the hijackers about to leave?

Oh, God.
Was she too late?

Was the crew already—

No!
She had just checked on them. She would have heard shots.

She rushed back down to the trolley, crawled on her
stomach under it, and began working feverishly to set up the fireworks distraction.

She could actually hear the trawler’s engine now, getting closer and closer.

This could be a
good
thing, she told herself optimistically. Once she’d freed the crew, they could all storm the trawler and take control of it. There were only two guards. Eight against two. That was a fight they could win!

She started to tie fuses together with a vengeance.

Especially if their lives depended on it.

As long as Tango One stayed on the wheelhouse, Clint knew it would be impossible to get past him and off the trawler.

He forced himself to be patient, and reached for the third green military case. Last one. It had to contain the rockets for the PF98s.

And sure enough, there they were, packed in like pointy, green sardines. He counted six. And two empty slots. He pressed his lips into a thin line, remembering the havoc those two missing shells had wrecked upon
Ostrov
. The smoke and the fire and the panic that had enveloped everyone on board the submarine, and the bone-chilling sensation of icy seawater slowly creeping up one’s ankles. It was not an experience a man would ever forget.

Fuckers.

Unfortunately, there was no way to sabotage the sealed-up waterproof rockets, other than removing the caps to disarm the things. But that would be too obvious, and unlikely to do any damage anyway. Not like rockets in the old days, when one rough juggle could set them off.

Instead, he went back to rifle through the gun-cleaning kit for a screwdriver. He’d just crouched down when the trawler jolted violently. The squeal of metal against metal ripped down the port side. He lost his balance and went flying against the bunk. The two ships must be scraping hulls.

He put out a hand to grab the bunk frame, but missed. His palm landed hard on the deck and slid under it into a low, empty recess that had once held a drawer.

The engine geared down and the vessel stuttered to a jerky stop, bouncing against the larger ship with another crash before rocking away. Clearly, Tango One was not a navy man.

Clint winced and gingerly pulled his hand from under the bunk. Coming out, his fingers brushed against a hard, rectangular object, knocking it farther under.

Curious, he groped for it, but couldn’t quite reach. He bent his head and peered into the black recess, barely making out a boxy black shape. But there was something about it…

His pulse kicked up in disbelief.
No way.

He couldn’t get so lucky…could he?

He narrowed his eyes. That sure as hell
looked
like the distinctive bump of…

He flattened himself on the floor and stretched as far under the bunk as he could reach.

And pulled out a sat phone.

Sam let out a muffled
“Oof!”
as her stomach squashed against the deck.

She muttered a soft expletive at the idiot driving
Eliza Jane
. The trawler might be less than half the size as
Île de Cœur
, but still packed quite a punch.

She wiped the grit from her hands and started to lift back up.

All at once a door slammed open on the quarterdeck far above her, and a spate of foreign curses cut through the sudden silence when the trawler’s engines cut off. Boots clattered on the stairs, rushing down from the poop to the main deck. Many boots.

Sam’s heart raced.
Crap.

She scooted farther back under the trolley car, so they wouldn’t see her. An involuntary tremble went through her
as she watched five black-clad men beeline for the rail. They weren’t tall, but they were solid, muscular, and looked mean as barracuda. Two split off to grab mooring lines and toss them down; the other three stood yelling at the guy on the trawler, who’d come out of the pilothouse steaming mad. Alone, he sprinted to toss the fenders over the side and catch the lines to tie her up before she drifted too far. Where was the other guy? Hadn’t Clint said there were two on
Eliza Jane
?

Sam did a double take at the five men and counted again.

Yep, five.

Not seven.
Not yet, anyway.

Excitement shot through her. The plan could still work! And she didn’t even need the fireworks.

She had to hurry, though. She started to scoot out from under the trolley.

But something caught her eye down on the trawler. A glimpse of something that didn’t belong, a flash of movement.

She crept farther forward and peered down at the other vessel’s stern as it whipped away from
Île de Cœur
’s hull and back again.
Île de Cœur
was small for a cargo ship in this day and age—very small—but
Eliza Jane
was much smaller. Her weather deck lay at about the same height as the ro-ro deck on
Île de Cœur
. It all but disappeared from her view as the lines were pulled taut and the two ships were lashed together amid more loud yelling. She’d have to get to the rail for a better look.

A sudden gust of wind blew up out of nowhere, whipping her hair into her face and knocking the brim of her cap up so quickly she didn’t have time to catch it. She watched in distress as her favorite old hat that had been with her through thick and thin for years was ripped from her head and blown into the sea. She stared after it in despair, nearly bursting into tears. God, was
everything
to be taken from her today?

She shook her bare head, feeling oddly naked and vulnerable, and started to turn away again, but something
made her hesitate. She hung suspended in indecision. She looked down again to where her beloved cap had vanished. Was it trying to tell her something…lead her somewhere? Such as…
Eliza Jane.

Talk about crazy. Crazy to hope. Insane to even
think
, but…

The cap floated toward the trawler.

She bit her lip.

What if, somehow, Clint had survived
?

What if he was hidden somewhere over on
Eliza Jane
, wounded and dying? Desperately needing her help?

Oh, God.

She swallowed a spurt of panic. She had to find out.

But
…

She glanced up at the quarterdeck, torn as never before. She’d lose this golden chance to free the crew.

But she still had the fireworks, she told herself. She could go back to the original plan. Later.

This couldn’t wait.

She crept out from under the trolley and darted behind the nearest railroad container. Using the other giant containers for cover, she made her way as close to the rail as she could.

Six feet of open space lay between her and the gunwale.

The five muscle-bound hijackers stood twenty, maybe thirty feet away. They were all leaning over the rail, and the leader was yelling furiously. The guy on the trawler was making short, angry gestures and shouting back. Everyone’s attention was riveted.

She dropped to her stomach and took a deep breath to still the shakes, then inched forward to the edge of the deck.

Heart slamming, she peered over at the trawler.

Long, dark shadows cast by the waxing midnight sun raked over
Eliza Jane
’s rolling deck, looking like the evil fingers of a malevolent sea god. Sam shivered and watched anxiously for another flash, a movement, for any hint at all that Clint might be there.

Nothing.

She cursed his ghost walker’s gift for disappearing into his surroundings. How could she be certain he wasn’t there if she couldn’t see him?

She ignored the inherent contradiction of that and squeezed her eyes shut in bitter disappointment.
Damn.
She’d known it was a long shot. She’d seen the gun. She’d seen when it fired, and how he’d fallen.

This had been wishful thinking, pure and simple.

Pushing out a breath, she opened her eyes.

Wait.
Had that shadow moved? Just a little? She peered closer.

And blinked. Now her eyes were definitely playing tricks on her. Two spots of light made it seem…almost like the shadow was…

Staring back.

She blinked again, swallowing a soft gasp.

And then the shadow smiled.

Clint couldn’t help himself. He grinned like an idiot.

Yeah, he was smack in the middle of a situation here, death staring him in the face if one of those goons at the rail spotted him. But
damn
.

He was just so fucking glad to see Samantha.

He was crouched in a deeply shadowed corner of the trawler’s afterdeck with a panoramic view of the larger ship’s entire starboard hull, bow to stern and up to the rail. Which was how he’d spotted her.

Her pretty green eyes went wide as saucers when they met his, and her sweet-sexy mouth parted in surprise. Then damn if her face didn’t light up like it was the Fourth of July and he was the best fireworks show in town.

Made a man feel good clear to his toes, and all parts in between. He just
had
to grin.

Then the goons spoiled the moment by stealing her attention away. Which gave him a chance to really notice her precarious position—and almost have a heart attack.

He could only see her face looking down at him, but he knew the layout of that deck, and…
Je
sus, she must be
lying on her stomach right out in the open, with only a cleat the size of a peanut to conceal her from Xing Guan’s whole damn assassination squad!

When she looked back at him, her brilliant smile was gone. Her eyes darted from him to the mooring lines and back again, looking anxious and worried. Like maybe she was wondering how he’d get back aboard
Île de Cœur
at all, let alone in one piece.

He ground his teeth.
She
was worried about
him
?

He wanted to shake her silly!

And hug the daylights out of her. And then—

Before he realized what was happening, she disappeared.

Wait! Where—

No.
On second thought, it was good she’d come to her senses and backed away. He willed her to stay safe. He needed to focus on what was happening with the tangos, so he could seize the first opportunity to get himself off this tub. His hiding spot was far from ideal. When he’d sneaked on deck he’d wanted to go straight to the side and jump off, but he’d barely made it this far. The gang of five had appeared at the rail, and he’d had to freeze where he was, melding into the shadows. Seven seconds of distraction, that’s all he needed to be home free.

But
not
by her. Even though she’d probably want to help.

But she’d just end up distracting
him
and he’d probably—

Aw, hell.

A dozen yards beyond the trawler’s stern, just above eye level, the small door next to the garage bay on
Île de Cœur
’s ro-ro deck cracked open. Two green eyes peeked out at him.

He didn’t have to ask whose.

She opened the door a bit wider. Her face appeared, touched by a pale ray of early morning sun, framed with flyaway strands of golden hair that were blowing free. Where was her ugly cap? God, she was beautiful.

He couldn’t quite decipher her expression…a telling
blend of fear and joy and disbelief and…something else, something warm and powerful, and…yeah, almost reluctant. He knew that look. It was the same one she’d given him earlier when he’d left her behind in the room where they’d made love.