“If ye hurt her, you won’t live long enough to regret it.” Clay’s tone is blunt, lacking all its usual curve and sway.
But the admiral grins, crushing the lit cigarette onto the table, burning a hole through the wood, then pushes himself up. I realize what I didn’t before—his uniform is at least two sizes too small. The pant legs stop short at his ankles. The jacket buttons bulge to the point of breaking. This is not his uniform.
And these men are not his officers.
Maybe they boarded the U.S. naval ship and took control. Or maybe it was a mutiny—they killed off the real admiral, or captain, and gavethemselves whatever title they chose. Either way, they aren’t here to warn us of the dangers out at sea.
They are the danger.
Langston pushes me up against the kitchen counter and I let out a faint squeak. Clay’s eyes flinch to me, and I can see all the fury in them, the need to protect me. But there’s three of them, and only one of him.
“Let’s go outside, have a chat about what to do next,” the admiral—or simply Kotchek—suggests, blond eyebrows sloped down, looking docile, relaxed. “A man like you could be useful; you’re strong, knowledgeable. We’d be lucky to have you.” He moves toward Clay, clapping him on the shoulder. But Clay shoves him off.
Bosch reacts, pressing the gun to Clay’s temple.
“Easy, easy,” Kochek says to Bosch. “Let’s get some fresh air, talk this through.”
Bosch nods at Clay to move, and Clay takes a half step toward the doorway.
At the same moment, Langston flicks his eyes to me, dark, serpent-like, and he lowers his hand to my stomach, inching beneath my shirt to feel my skin.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” I bark, trying to push him back, but he thrusts his full weight against me, holding me in place.
Clay turns, starts moving toward me—fire in his eyes.
But Bosch steps in front of him, gun turned slightly in his hand, a smile in his eyes—like he’s daring Clay to take another step, to give him a reason to squeeze the trigger.
Clay stops.
“He’s just feeling a little protective,” Kochek explains, as if he were giving a lecture on male behavior. “He’s had a wife all to himself, but just like the sea, things can change quickly. I, myself, never had a wife,” he adds, the side of his mouth twitching. “I think I might enjoy it.” He grins at me, and my stomach turns.
Langston makes a sound from the back of his throat, guttural,pleased, and his hand slides up my stomach. I clench my teeth and close my eyes. Whatever is about to happen, I will fight back, no matter what.
But when my eyes flip open, finding Clay, there is something in him—an intensity I’ve never seen before. Langston lays his mouth against my throat, kissing up to my ear. I am numb. All I can see is Clay. And I know he isn’t going to let this happen. We’ll both die first.
I breathe in—and everything stutters into slow motion.
Clay lunges. But not toward me. He dives through the open doorway into the living room.
I know what he’s doing, where he’s going. Bosch is so stunned, he doesn’t fire his gun. He flinches, then ducks behind the wall, as if he senses what’s coming.
I hear the closet door open, slamming back against the wall—the one below the stairs. I hear the ammunition hitting the wood floor, spilling from the small box, and the rapid click of the rifle being loaded.
“Shit,” Bosch sputters, his chest rising.
Kochek hasn’t moved; he looks defiant, a statue refusing to flinch. “Kill him,” he commands Bosch.
And Bosch, obeying, inches his body forward, peering around the doorway into the living room. But that’s all it takes, the sound echoes through the house, the first shot piercing Bosch in the shoulder. He staggers, points his gun through the doorway to fire back, but the second shot explodes, knocking him dead center in the chest. He falls back, like a tree tipping up from the roots, and his back hits the floor, an arm taking one of the kitchen chairs with him.
I let out a small cry, startled.
But in an instant, Kochek reaches for the handgun at his own waist and takes a step back, ready to fire as soon as Clay appears in the doorway.
Langston wraps his arms around me, yanking me to the back door. I scream, clawing at his arm, but it doesn’t slow him down. He fumblesfor the doorknob, panicked, but manages to get it open, pulling me down the wooden steps.
I hear Clay shout my name from inside. But Langston keeps going, dragging me toward the shore. I yank an arm free, swinging it up to Langston’s face. But he grabs my wrist, contorting it back so hard I think it’s going to break.
“Bitch,” he barks, squeezing his elbow around my throat and dragging me away from the house, my feet making lines through the dirt. “When we get you back to the ship, you’ll behave.” The words are spit through clenched teeth, and my mind reels forward, knowing I can’t let him take me onto the boat. If I leave the island, that will be the end. There’ll be no escape.
