White Hot (15 page)

That was where he planned to make his splash-out.

Adrenaline started to pump as he swiftly felt his way along the giant bay and found the small crew door at the far side. It felt more like a watertight door on a submarine, with a wheeled locking mechanism and all. Thankfully, he’d listened to his own advice and picked up a can of gear oil when he’d stopped for the rope, to keep any metal hinges from squeaking.

Using his hands as eyes, he located and squirted oil on the wheel and lock as well as the rusty side hinges, and prayed they wouldn’t squeal like stuck pigs when he opened the door.

He glanced aft down the length of the ship, and upward. The guard was still posted at the top of the main companionway two decks up, prowling around the small, visible square of light, the strap of his Type-85 submachine gun still slung over one shoulder. Clint mentally gauged the distance between them. Far enough away for the guard not to hear the metallic scrape of the hatch opening, or notice when a sliver of sunlight suddenly cut through it into the dark deck.
Probably.

But Clint didn’t have a lot of choice. This was the only practical way out. He’d have to risk it.

He took his time, gingerly finessing the rusty bolt, stopping dead when the beginnings of a metallic protest threatened to betray him. He splashed more oil on and eased the door open another fraction of an inch. Splashed and eased. Splashed and eased. Until finally there was a crack large enough to see through to the outside.

The sun was still high in the robin’s-egg blue sky, and he squinted against the razor’s edge of light that hit his eye as he peered across the frigid expanse of the Bering Sea. A slice of the cold July wind cut into his face, but no storm clouds hovered overhead.

And there was the Australian trawler, just where it was supposed to be, bobbing on the sparkling silver waves about two hundred yards off their starboard side.

The pewter gray span of water that lay between
Île de Cœur
and the other vessel looked as cold as it surely was, but unlike on his marathon swim to escape the Russian sub last week, there wasn’t an iceberg in sight. Summer hit fast and hard in the far north; temperatures sometimes soared into the fifties.

He glanced down, calculating the distance to the waves from where he stood. About thirty feet or so. The coil of thin nylon rope he’d picked up from the storage closet on his way here was at least that long and strong enough to secure a two-ton tractor. He’d have no trouble going over the side and rappelling down to where he could slip unobtrusively into the sea—without risking two broken legs.

Or a hailstorm of machine gun fire.

All in all, the swim was going to be a piece of cake. Seriously. When he and his former SEAL team had stopped off in Iceland for a few days of R&R on the way back from a particularly weird mission in the North Sea, they’d seen goddamn
tourists
diving in colder water than this, in some unpronounceable lake formed by an ancient volcano.

Of course, no one had been shooting at them. And they did have drysuits that fit.

Details.

Everyone knew bullets didn’t penetrate any farther than six inches when shot into water, no matter how hard Hollywood tried to convince moviegoers otherwise. He’d be fine. At least until he got to the trawler. That’s where the diceyness factor would kick in.

The bad news was that the trawler was not one of the big, modern kinds with a U-shaped fantail at the stern where the
Gilson-winch was mounted for casting off the fishing nets. If it had been, he could have swum right up the slot and climbed aboard practically at the back of the wheelhouse. That would have been convenient. Still, although the trawler’s back end was flat as a pancake, the good news was that one of the tow warps lay in a disorderly pile on the very back edge of the afterdeck. Even from here he could see several cables and lines snaking over the transom gunwale, with their ends trailing in the water.

No, he’d have no problem climbing aboard the enemy vessel.

However, doing so without getting caught was an entirely different matter.

He scanned the length of the trawler, immediately spotting a tango standing splay-legged on the forward deck, smoking a cigarette. Could be worse. At least the man was facing forward.

Clint grimaced and studied the boat, looking for the second man he’d seen earlier. There was no sign of him. Not on deck. Not in the pilothouse. Not among the jumble of warps and lines, or the scatter of fishing equipment that packed the aft working deck. Well, there was one more thing he had to do before he splashed out, anyway.

For several minutes he searched for the perfect hiding place for the SD card. It made him nervous as hell to have it anywhere but on his person. He didn’t want to have to go back for it if he needed to make a fast getaway. On the other hand, a fast getaway seemed highly unlikely under the circumstances. Plus, he didn’t want to take any chances on his swim, in case the small dry-bag he was taking with him leaked and the card was ruined. Or he didn’t make it back alive. This way his boss at least had a shot at finding it.

A few yards away was an orange snowplow. He crept under the plow and looked up at the mechanicals in the undercarriage. A small in-line fuse box was right above him. He pried open the plastic top and tucked the data card inside, then closed the lid and pressed his thumbprint clearly onto it.

That should do it.

Clint went back to the hatch and checked the trawler for Tango Two. Still not visible. He stood and watched for a few more minutes, but that was as long as he dared. He couldn’t wait any longer. He’d just have to go in blind.

The more time it took to get to that radio and call in the Coast Guard, the more shit could rain down on the situation. One good man had already been killed because of him. He wasn’t about to let the body count go any higher. He could handle whatever those two threw at him. He just hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Over and back. Send the signal. Quick and dirty. That was the order of the day.

And if he had the devil’s own luck, he’d even live to tell the tale.

Sam felt like she was going to pass out. She halted her pacing, bent over at the waist, and took a deep breath. Probably lack of oxygen from being cooped up in this damn room. She was slowly going stir-crazy down here.

Up until today, this secret hideaway had been her private sanctuary. A place she could come to be alone with her thoughts. A place she could contemplate her life and reach important decisions. And mere hours ago, a place where she’d been happier and more content than she’d been in a long, long time.

She grasped the leather bracelet in her fist and squeezed her eyes shut.

But now…Now being here felt claustrophobic. Like she was enduring a horrible punishment of solitary confinement in prison. The last thing Sam wanted was to be alone. Or to be forced to listen to the witches’ brew of thoughts roiling around in her head.

Thoughts of her crew and what might be happening to them.

Thoughts of the man who just this afternoon had left her breathless with his passion and his tenderness.

Thoughts of the incredible danger he was in right now,
this very moment. While she was down here hiding like a coward.

No.

She opened her fist, looked at the cherished bear claw, and let out a mewl of anguish. Then a growl of anger. And came to the most important decision of her life.

This was not acceptable.

She had to do something.

She needed to get to someplace she could watch what was happening and be prepared to go to him, to jump in and help him if he needed her. Like with a hand, or an extra pair of eyes, or a timely distraction, if he needed it to get safely back on board.

Lieutenant Commander Walker might be prepared to die to save her and the crew. But she was not prepared to let him.

No. Damn. Way.

Taking a deep breath, she tucked the bracelet into her bra, next to her heart, straightened, and marched to the door. She pretended she didn’t feel how her hand was shaking as she reached for the latch and lifted it. Determinedly, she squared her jaw, swung open the door, and quickly stepped through it.

Before she could chicken out and change her mind.

Holy
shit
, the water was cold.

The Arctic-weight wetsuit was decent and kept Clint from feeling the very worst of it, but because of the small size, he was shivering by the time he’d swum the relatively short distance to the trawler. Where the edges of the wetsuit, boots, and gloves barely met at his ankles and wrists, his skin stung with icy shards of pain. Thankfully, the full-face hood covered him well, so his face didn’t burn too badly from the cold.

Once he’d rappelled down into the water, it had only taken him a short time to reach the other vessel, swimming as deep as he could, and only coming to the surface for quick snatches of breath through the snorkel.

He bobbed up on the far side of the trawler, where he’d be hidden from
Île de Cœur
and prying eyes. But to get on board, he’d have to swim around to the transom and climb up the stern, since that part of the trawler’s deck dipped closest to the water. Swimming to the corner of the boat’s backside, he listened carefully for any movement on the afterdeck. Under the salty smell of the sea, a faint drift of
cigarette smoke teased his nose. But not strong enough for the guy to be smoking anywhere close by. Good. Still no sign of the other man. Hopefully he’d stay put wherever he was.

Clint raised his mask and peered across the choppy waves to
Île de Cœur
, assessing the likelihood of being spotted by someone on the larger ship during the few moments he’d be open and exposed as he climbed aboard the trawler.

Not surprisingly, the hostages had been moved off the deck. He wondered briefly where they’d been taken and hoped they were unharmed. A flare of fury made him clench his jaw when he saw the bloody body of Shandy, still sprawled where he had fallen.
The fucking bastards.
Couldn’t they at least put a damned sheet over the man?

He shifted his gaze and saw that three of the hijackers were standing on deck having a heated discussion. He recognized the fireplug shape of the head honcho, whom he assumed was Xing Guan, and as usual the fucker was not a happy camper. The good news was the trio was paying no attention to anything else around them. And no one else was on deck.

Effectively camouflaged by a huge black shadow cast by the cargo ship in the late evening sun against the smaller vessel, he swam around to the flat of the trawler’s transom, grabbed one of the dangling lines, and gingerly gave it a tug. Instantly, he felt the fishing net attached to it start to slide across the afterdeck. He dropped the line at once. He definitely didn’t want the whole damn mess to slide off and topple into the sea. Nothing like attracting unwanted attention.

He swam a couple more feet and caught up another line. Same result. The third did the same.
Hell.

His last two attempts went no better.

Suddenly, a corner of the fishing net broke loose from the pile and slithered under the taffrail, nearly landing on his shoulders before the rest caught on something that halted its progress.

Crap.

He dove back under the frigid water, half expecting excited shouts and bullets to follow. He held his breath, controlling the chattering of his teeth with an iron jaw.

But the silence was not broken—other than from the surge of blood in his ears.

Damn it anyway.
This was not working. He needed a different plan.

Cautiously he surfaced and scoped out the flat span of transom more closely. The back of the trawler lay low in the water, but not low enough for him to reach the deck without help. He needed a way up. But there was nothing. No swim step. No chock. No anchor cable. Not even a damn propeller he could hoist himself up from. Where was his grappling hook when he needed it? Oh, yeah, on that Russian sub at the bottom of the sea.

He cursed inwardly, eyeing the corner of net that was dangling over the gunwale. He’d just have to secure it somehow, so it could support his weight without sliding into the sea. His gaze landed on a sturdy deck cleat a foot or two in from the edge, and he pushed out a breath. Not great, but it would have to do.

It took him several harrowing minutes of concentration, grabbing the corner of the net and flicking it up in a rippling motion to inch it over to the cleat, praying fervently each time that the rest of the net stayed put on deck—and that the two goons didn’t hear him doing it. By the time the heavy webbing finally caught on the cleat and fastened securely, sweat was trickling down his temples beneath his hood…and his ankles were all but numb from being in the cold water for so long.

Which of course made climbing the net one-handed—because his fins were clutched in the other—nearly impossible. It was only with the help of the dive knife to cut occasional slits in the mess for footholds that he managed to haul himself up, no doubt looking far more like a crab than a SEAL.

Definitely time to retire from fieldwork
, he thought disgustedly
as he rolled himself onto the afterdeck, scooting tight up against the base of the capstan. Again he held his breath, waiting for shouts of discovery. But once again, none came.