Who Knows the Dark (7 page)

Nox and Mason, and the captain. The boat continued to rock and shake, but Cade realized—beyond his own nervous shiver—the violence of the storm had started to subside.

He crept to the end of the hall, steadfastly ignoring the blood draining from the body on the floor. At the doorway he paused and made out dim figures thanks to the emergency lights.

“How many?” Nox’s fury couldn’t be contained.

“Just the one. Must’ve stowed away,” said the captain, sounding choked and winded.

Nox made a sound of disgust. “Your crew—”

“Two of my guys are dead,” the captain snapped. “You want to interrogate the rest of them? You’ll have to wait—they’re busy trying to steer the boat back on course at the moment.”

Silence reigned as the boat shifted again, another dramatic wrench to the side, but moments later the rocking slowed down.

“I’m going topside.”

No one said another word as the captain stomped away.

Murmurs, then Mason and Nox talking quietly; Cade couldn’t stand another second.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, revealing himself. The chatter stopped as both figures turned in his direction.

“A stowaway with a gun, from what they could put together. Hiding in the engine room. Shot the first mate and another crewman before taking control of the ship’s steering, aiming us for the heart of the storm. No ID, just a nondescript guy in black clothes carrying a cheap gun.”

“One guy?” Cade asked after Nox finished his story. They were huddled under the emergency light near the stairs. “To kill everyone?”

“He was redirecting the ship—maybe a rendezvous point?” Mason interjected. “Move us to where the others could….”

“An awful lot of trouble to kill us now on the open water. Why not just do it at the docks?” Nox muttered.

“Great, now we’re criticizing people who wanted to kill us because they didn’t do the job correctly.” Cade shook his head, his scathing look wasted in the darkness of the ship.

“I’m just saying, it’s sloppy and half-assed.”

Mason hummed a little, then offered, “Maybe it was just a random looking to rob us. Not to mention a free trip off the island.”

“Maybe.” Cade tried to read Nox’s angry silence as him having an opinion as to who it was. Or why they would. Given the firepower and precision at the Iron Butterfly, he refused to believe the grand plan for killing them consisted of one guy and a gun with a single clip.

“We bring down the remaining crew members to look at the body, see if they can identify him.”

Cade heard Nox’s words and gave a shudder. “And if not?”

“Either way, we’re getting the hell off this boat as soon as possible.”

Quiet agreement, then Nox pulled out his gun, nodding to Mason. “Get everyone packed and ready to go.”

“H
IS
NAME
’
S
Wick. He’s a small-time Dead Bolt dealer,” one of the crew said; he was the last one brought down to observe the body they’d dragged into the small stateroom. “I’ve seen him around for years.”

“Who does he work for?” Nox asked, carefully watching the man’s lined and weary face.

The man shrugged. “Nobody. Wasn’t big-time or nothing, just making enough to live, you know.”

Nox felt Mason’s eyes on him as Mason stepped forward and touched his foot against the dead man’s leg. “So someone might hire him to do a job? And he’d say yes?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Something about the man’s tone made Nox look up.

The captain bristled from the doorway. “Did you know about this? Did you tell him who was on board?”

A twitch in the man’s left check was the only thing Nox needed.

He moved swiftly, one second resting calmly against the wall, the next pinning the crewman to the ground and twisting his arm in a painful wrench.

“You told him what?” Nox hissed.

The man whimpered, fighting for only a moment before sagging under the weight of Nox’s anger. “Just… just some rich people who were on the run. That’s it.”

“So a robbery,” Mason said slowly. “So take whatever we had, then how was he getting off the boat?”

Another cry as Nox gave the man incentive to answer. “I… I was gonna move the boat off course, bust up the radar so we’d have to dock, and then… then he’d get off and… and split the take with me.”

“You fucking piece of shit,” the captain hissed. Nox didn’t look up, just twisted and twisted until the guy cried out in agony. “You killed Harris and Niemen!”

“No… no. Wick did, I swear!”

Nox looked up at Mason; the lights were back on, and the full extent of the damage done to the ship by one—possibly two—men was clear. Two crewmen shot execution-style. Half the operating systems damaged or destroyed. The body of one Mr. Wick lying on the floor.

It didn’t add up to anything that made sense, and frankly it was pissing him off.

“I don’t give a shit who killed who. Get us to land, and then you can do whatever you want to him,” Nox murmured to the captain, giving one last jerk before letting the coconspirator go. The man fell to the floor, weeping and shaking and muttering his innocence.

“Fine.” The captain gave one last harsh and unforgiving look, then turned on his heel.

Nox waited until the captain was gone, then nodded to Mason.

“You were right. Just a robbery,” he said evenly.

Mason’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “Seriously? You believe him?”

Nox kicked the man at his feet. “Yeah, why shouldn’t I?”

The man whimpered.

With a frown, Mason put his gun away, sliding it into the back of his waistband. “So we’ll get off the boat and head for the farm?”

Jaw set, Nox stepped over the doomed crewman and around Mr. Wick’s body. While he knew the people behind the bombing of the Iron Butterfly and the production of Dead Bolt had to be smarter than this—wise enough not to put their trust in a dock rat and a small-time criminal—his options and their resources were limited.

“Yeah. That’s always been the plan, right?” He walked out into the hallway, claustrophobia beginning to eat away at his brain. The boat rocked under his feet as he made his way to the stateroom where everyone was camped out.

“Well?” Cade asked instantly, rising. Behind him, Sam and Rachel sat on the bed, both looking like shit. Damian hid in the corner, hands nervously playing against his thighs.

Nox looked at them, one after the other. No, resources were low and their prospects were basically prison or death. Changing course right now would lead them into another proverbial storm of the unknown—and Nox was tired of not knowing.

“Ill-advised robbery attempt,” Nox said, avoiding Cade’s heated stare. “It’s taken care of. But we’re docking a little early. Everyone needs to be ready to go.”

“Are you sure?” Cade asked, walking into Nox’s personal space without hesitation.

Nox blinked, then nodded slowly. “Positive. Be ready in a half hour, and dress warm.”

T
HE
OLD
waterfront, destroyed by weather and neglect, creaked and rocked against the side of the yacht as they pulled into a collection of junked debris forming something resembling a slip, most likely for private yachts a very long time ago. The floodlights on the deck were extinguished; the entire maneuver was done with flashlights from the remaining crew and a few scattered lights on the dock.

Nox—armed and tense—stood in the shadows, watching the entire thing unfold. Everyone else was belowdecks, armed with their luggage and orders to be on their toes. He had high hopes for finding transportation, but if not, they were about to set off on a very long walk.

The unease of their little run-in with Mr. Wick and his crewman accomplice sat ugly and cold in his stomach. The rest of his group accepted the explanations, but Nox couldn’t put aside his paranoia. If the past seventeen years had taught him anything, it was not to ignore the voice inside himself. His gut said they were being maneuvered, and staying alert was the only thing that would save them.

And a small, ugly whisper reminded Nox of the thought underlying it all—he was using them as bait to draw out the threat, instead of truly trying to escape it.

The captain whistled a complicated series of chirps. There was silence, then a returning salvo of the same. The yacht lurched as it slammed into the shadows sticking out of the water.

They came to a halt, everything quiet save for the water lapping against the side of the boat.

“Mr. Mullens,” the captain said as he approached Nox. “Welcome to South Carolina.”

N
OX
RAPPED
on the door to belowdecks.

Mason emerged a second later, followed by Cade, with Rachel and Damian helping Sam up the stairs behind them. Each of them held a bag, Cade with two and Mason pointing a gun at the remaining crewmen on the deck. As soon as he hit the cold air, Sam began to cough, and Nox’s shoulders ratcheted up around his ears.

Working alone had its benefits. Working to keep a group of people alive strained every nerve in his body.

He had to find them transportation.

“We’ll get you on land. Carlos will meet you on the other side—he knows some people who can help you,” the captain said, herding them across the deck, then to the small gap between the yacht and the dock. Professionalism took over as his personal anger seemed to simmer and bank; Nox had no doubt that the betrayal of his employee was going to end in the poor jackass being fed to the fishes sometime very soon.

That is, if Nox decided the crew would walk away from this endeavor.

A crewman flashed his light to illuminate their path to actual land. It looked like an obstacle course, full of holes and gaps in the decaying dock, much to Nox’s dismay. He heard the rumbling of concerns behind him.

“I’ll go first. Watch the way I walk,” Nox said, bravado keeping his voice on an even keel. “It’ll be fine.”

Over the side of the yacht, Nox took the wide step onto the closest piece of dock. He couldn’t see the water, but he could hear every slap and slip under the damaged pylons. The wide shine of the flashlight from the deck gave him his next objective. His boots slipped on the metal under his feet, and after a pause to catch his breath, he steadied himself, then moved again. Ahead he could see the folded metal; it would be a razor’s edge from the center of the damaged dock to the concrete slab that would provide safety.

A buzz sounded between his ears. Nox approached each jagged hole, each uneven patch, like stones across a river. Step, balance, step, balance. Jump, balance with arms straight out, lungs straining with effort. He held his breath with the last leap and landed on both feet on the solid ground.

Slowly he turned around and looked back at the yacht.

Cade was already halfway, nimbly navigating the dock like it was second nature.

“Seriously?” Nox muttered, and Cade made the last jump and bumped into him as he landed.

“Gymnastics for eight years. Your lumber wasn’t that difficult to beat,” Cade said, throwing two backpacks into the shadows. “Let’s get everyone else over.”

Nox smothered a faint burn of amusement as he signaled for Damian to go next.

Sam was next to last. They decided to wrap a rope around his waist—one end on the yacht with Mason, one end in Nox’s hands—with Cade meeting him halfway as a guide. The wind started to pick up, as the storm they’d escaped was fast approaching, and it made Nox more anxious.

“Come on, let’s go. I’m not dressed for the weather,” Cade joked, darting over the holes in the dock to the middle. “Pretty, yes—practical, nooo.”

Nox couldn’t see Sam’s expression, but judging by the way the rope trembled and Cade’s cheerful patter, he assumed his son was terrified.

Because
he
was terrified.

“Here we go,” Cade said as he moved toward the yacht again. The flashlights from the boat and the ones behind Nox—wielded by Rachel and Damian—shone a clear path. Nox began to pull the rope gently as Sam moved.

Everything dissolved to slow motion—Sam’s shaky steps, Cade guiding him over each hole and around each jagged edge. Nox held his breath, fingers tight on the rope.

“Little bit more,” Cade said, clear as a bell, reaching out to take Sam’s hand to lead him over and around the fold of the dock. “Just put your foot—”

The jerk of the rope pulled Nox forward. Thrown off-balance, he began to slide off the concrete dock onto the damaged planks. A flashlight went flying as someone grabbed the back of his jacket.

N
OX
WRAPPED
the rope around his wrists, skidding on his knees. The sharp burn of the steel cut through his jeans, and the rope jerked as he tried to stop the free fall.

He could hear shouts—“Hold on, hold on, keep the rope tight!”—and he concentrated on that.
Hold the rope, hold it tight.
The hand on his back suddenly strengthened, even as the light from their side of the dock wavered.

“Cade!” Rachel yelled. “Do you have him?”

The rope tightened, and Nox started to slide again. His jacket slid upward as Damian—he assumed—kept him from going down into the divide of the crumpled steel.

“Got him!” Cade suddenly shouted back. The sound was lower than before, echoing from somewhere under the dock.

Oh God. Sam had fallen into the water.

“Pull me up!” Cade was screaming. Nox threw his body backward, pushing with his legs in an attempt to get back up on the concrete dock. Hands scrabbled at him. Damian grunted and Rachel cursed as he inched up, the rope jerking in his hands, cutting deep into his wrists.

More shouts followed, then the sudden reappearance of the lights. One last grunt and Nox found himself on his back on the concrete, breath whistling as the pain hit him all at once.

“Well shit,” Rachel bitched from somewhere over him. She sounded as winded as he felt. “He’s hurt!”

“What?” Someone—maybe Mason—was yelling back.