White Hot (27 page)

Maybe the cutter’s captain had also studied the
Art of War
.

In which case, the Coast Guard was not going on their
merry way, oblivious to the situation. They were probably falling back to regroup, strategize, and—

Above Clint’s head, the scuttle suddenly whooshed up. Bright sunlight almost blinded him. Before he registered what was happening, Samantha jumped up and disappeared through the opening. Her dark silhouette scrambled across the open weather deck and crouch-ran toward the quartet of railroad containers lashed between the midstructure and the bow.

What the fuck?
He caught the scuttle just before it slammed down on his head. Even so, he was seeing spots.

Adrenaline shot through his veins. God
damn
it! He should have known she’d go off half-cocked. That woman would be the death of him yet!

He started to vault out after her, but as if alerted, one of the guards up on the quarterdeck jerked his head around and scanned down at the weather deck. And looked right at him. Clint froze like a pillar of salt. Biting back a string of curses, he held absolutely still. For an endless minute the man studied the weather deck with a scowl. Had he seen the scuttle move? Worse, had he seen Samantha? Or heard her running?

From up on the bridge Xing Guan snapped out an order. Reluctantly, the suspicious guard returned his attention to the crew, as Guan prodded Lars Bolun down the ladder to join the others being herded back to their confinement inside the wardroom.

While the guards were occupied, Clint quickly slithered out through the scuttle and took off after Samantha.

He tried not to let his annoyance with her get the better of him. But seriously, what was
wrong
with the woman? She should at least have told him what she was doing, preferably
before
she did it. The problem was, she’d hardly even looked at him for the past half hour. She’d been acting weird ever since—

Yeah.

Okay. Maybe not so weird, all things considered. Truthfully, he’d barely kept his own head together.

A father
. Him?

Jesus.
The mere thought was overwhelming. Hard enough for him; he couldn’t imagine what Samantha must be going through.

But he would not allow his mind—or his heart—to linger in that place of joy…and uncertainty. Not until every last one of the crew was safely aboard that Coast Guard cutter. Which
would
be returning for them. Any second now it would be coming about, the Coasties armed and prepared to board
Île de Cœur
, forcibly if necessary, and take down the bastards holding the ship and crew hostage.

No time for distractions. However mind-blowing. However terrifyingly tempting. Right now all he could think about was how best to help the rescue go smoothly. Unfortunately, he had the sinking feeling that whatever Samantha was planning would
not
help at all.

He had to find her.
Before it was too late
.

Clint spotted movement beneath the old trolley car by the railroad containers and veered off in that direction. Sure enough, Samantha was lying on her back under it, fiddling with something on the trolley’s undercarriage that he couldn’t see.

He did a homerun slide onto the deck and rolled in next to her. “Are you insane?” he asked between clenched teeth as he bumped to a stop against her. “What the
hell
did you think you were—”

“Crap!” she squeaked, nearly dropping whatever it was she held. She rolled around to him, eyes wide. “You! Get out of here! Now!”

That’s when he noticed a smoking match in her hand. Clutched in her other hand was the end of a long, makeshift fuse that looked like it had been cobbled together from a bunch of smaller ones. The end was already lit.

Aw, hell.

Thankfully, the burn was slow.
Very
slow. It would take its sweet time igniting whatever it was attached to—two, maybe three minutes at least. He reached out to snatch the fuse away from her.

“Hey!” She batted at his hand, then shoved his shoulder hard enough that he rolled back out from under the trolley. She tucked the fuse carefully up into the undercarriage, then rolled out right behind him.

He sat up, patting his jacket pocket to make sure the sat phone he’d tucked there earlier hadn’t fallen out. Its reassuring bulk still rested against his chest.

She shoved at him again, more urgently. “Go! Go! Go!”

He didn’t think so. Not until he had answers. “Where does that lead?” he asked, pointing at the dangling fuse. “What the hell are you up to?”

“You’re about to find out,” she muttered, “and it won’t be pretty.” She leapt up, grabbed his hand, and forcibly pulled him to his feet. She dragged him behind one of the railroad containers. “Actually, it
will
be pretty spectacular,” she amended almost gleefully, peeking around the corner and up to where the tangos were herding the last of the crew through the doors to the mess hall. Her voice flattened. “But not if those scumbags catch us here. We need to get below and hide.”

Which told him exactly nothing.

He wanted to strangle her. “Not so fast. Answer my question,” he demanded, though he was pretty damned sure he didn’t want to know the answer.

She tugged at him impatiently. “Fireworks.”

Excuse me?

She started past him toward the cargo chute, but he pulled her back like a yo-yo. “
Fire
works?”

“Gotta work with what you have,” she said, vainly attempting to peel off his grip. “Seriously, Clint, we need to make tracks.”

He gritted his teeth.
So much for staying undetected.
When those suckers went off, the tangos would swarm this deck like flies on vomit. Unless, of course, they lit up whatever those detonators were rigged to and they all went up in a blaze of glory.

He darted a quick glance at the receding Coast Guard vessel. Before going below, he needed to make contact so they’d know what was up.

The disabled deck crane stood at the edge of his line of vision, the jawlike claw and steel net swaying in the brisk breeze. He shifted his focus onto the crane’s cab.
Yep.
That worked. He tightened his grip on Samantha and took off at a jog.

“Hey! Where are you going? We have to—”

“You promised you’d follow my orders,” he reminded her tersely. “Up,” he ordered when they reached the king post. She put her fingers on the first handhold. “Quickly.”

They scurried up to the crane’s glass and steel cabin. As quietly as humanly possible, he eased open the door and boosted them both into the cab. Then he urged her down into the hidden well in front of the operator’s seat, under the control panel, as far back as she would fit. If the hijackers found him, he wanted Samantha completely out of sight.

He silently pulled the door closed, latched it, and slid onto the floor next to her. His heart pounded like a bitch. He hoped to God he’d made the right choice. The ventilation chute would probably have been safer.

Squished into the cramped space under the console, she blinked out at him as if he were sprouting horns. “What the hell, Walker?” she asked, echoing his own earlier incredulity.

Instead of answering, he produced the sat phone.

Instant comprehension filled her face. He liked that about her. She might be a bit impetuous—okay, a lot—but she was also a damn quick study. Under normal circumstances that could be a very intriguing combination. He hoped he lived long enough to test the possibilities.

He punched the phone’s “on” button just as the first volley of fireworks blasted out from under the trolley. He looked up to the cab’s windows as he heard the rockets whistle out across the water.
Bang!
A spangle of red and blue lit up the air beyond the glass, then drifted downward in a glittering firefall of patriotic colors.

Muffled shouts started, then got abruptly louder as the quarterdeck mess doors smacked open.

“Damn. I wish I could see their reaction,” Samantha murmured.

“No, you really don’t,” he returned, pressing the phone to his ear and listening for the connection. “Come on, come on.” Out at sea, it could take endless minutes to find a signal. They did
not
need the delay.

Another high-pitched whistle sounded, and an explosion of gold burst through the sky. The accompanying metallic clang of gunstocks and boots against ladder rungs told him the tangos were rushing down to the weather deck.

The frustrating
click-click-click
of the sat phone searching for a signal continued in his ear.
Come on, come on.

“Whatever happens, stay exactly where you are. Under cover,” he said, turning to look at her. He wanted his expression to tell her how fucking serious he was about the order. “I mean it, Samantha.
Whatever
happens.”

His severity must have penetrated. Her eyes met his and she went a little pale. She nodded. “Okay.”

“Swear?”

“Swear,” she whispered.

The clump of boots thundered across the deck straight toward them, gaining speed and volume as they got closer and closer. The crane was right behind the trolley.

She swallowed. He could tell she was terrified of what could happen next, but was determined not to show it. His heart melted completely.
Damn.

He leaned over and tenderly kissed her, touching her jaw with the very tips of his fingers as he lifted. “You know I’m falling in love with you, don’t you?” he murmured.

He didn’t know who was more shocked by the unexpected admission, her, or himself. Her lips parted, and her green eyes filled with an emotion he couldn’t begin to decipher.

Just above the crane, another volley of fireworks lit up the sky. Scarlet, like blood. On deck, the bootfalls skidded to a halt. Angry Chinese exclamations split the air as glittering gems of liquid red rained down the windows of the cab, painting streaks of crimson onto the shadows inside. It was poignantly beautiful.

As was the woman staring at him, speechless.

He softly cleared his throat.
Okay, then.
“Awkward,” he sang under his breath, his voice too gritty to be heard above the bursts of fireworks and the shouts of the men who had splintered off in every direction, searching in earnest for whomever had set off the display.

Holy hell.
Falling in love with her? What had possessed him to say such a thing? And
now
, of all the ridiculously inappropriate times!

A dial tone interrupted his mortification, giving him a much-needed task to drag his attention from his idiocy. “About fucking time.” His fingers flew over the keys, punching in the number he’d memorized for the Coast Guard station in Kodiak.

“This is Coas—”

He interrupted the dispatcher’s greeting before it was out of her mouth. Keeping his voice low and his words distinct, he said, “Kodiak Station, this is Lieutenant Commander Walker again, from commercial vessel
Île de Cœur
. Please advise your cutter
WMEC-39
they are not, repeat
not
, under attack. The explosions coming from
Île de Cœur
are harmless fireworks, repeat fireworks. Please contact them immediately with this information.”

Another rocket went off as she replied crisply, “Roger that, Lieutenant Commander Walker. Stand by for a patch-in, sir. There’s someone waiting to speak with you.”

Clint’s brows rose. “Who?” But he was speaking to static. It had to be Washington. On the radio earlier he’d requested they apprise his boss of the situation. Maybe the admiral was calling with good news—for instance that he’d finally managed to get a requisition for a helo past the bean counters.

Streaks of silver and blue glitter spilled over the cab.

From the phone, a cricket chirped in his ear, followed by a woman’s voice, “Lieutenant Commander Clint Walker?” She sounded like she was calling from inside a tin can long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away. He didn’t recognize the voice.

He frowned, tempted to raise the volume of his own in answer, but he didn’t dare. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

Below, he could hear the tangos close in on the trolley, yelling dire threats at the person they thought was hidden beneath it setting off the firecrackers. The last thing he wanted was to tip them off they were wrong.

“I’m in-flight on a C-2 Greyhound,” the woman on the phone continued in a raised voice. “I can’t really hear you, Walker, but I’m aware of your present situation and the dispatcher assures me you’re there, so I’ll just talk and you listen.” She muttered a girly curse that raised his brows. “Okay, click your signal button or tap the mouthpiece or something if you understand.”

Who the hell
was
this woman? A C-2 Greyhound was a high-priority carrier onboard delivery plane used to fly to—or from—an aircraft carrier, but she was obviously not someone familiar with military protocol. He pulled the phone from his ear, examined the keypad, and pressed a button that had a bell shape on it, which produced a short mechanical tone. He put the phone back and listened to her with one ear and to the tangos with the other.

“Great,” the woman shouted. “My name is DeAnne Lovejoy, and I work for the U.S. State Department. I’ve been sent to try and facilitate—”

Clint saw red. And it wasn’t fireworks.
State Department?

Were they
kidding
? Not a helo. Not a SEAL team. A goddamn
bureaucrat
?

Samantha’s worried eyes glanced at him hopefully. He gave his head an angry shake. She looked away, but not before he saw the haunted shadows return.

“—understand the hijackers are Chinese? Tap the button once for yes, twice for no.”

What he really wanted to do was smash the phone into a million pieces to show what he thought of this useless conversation. Instead he forced himself to calmly press the call button once. His grandfather would have been proud.

“Excellent. And you believe they are security service, or military?”

He pressed it again, swallowing his impatience. He’d already gone over all this with the Coast Guard! Typical that the bureaucrats didn’t trust intel from a military source. That explained a lot about the state of intelligence gathering in this country.