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Just like that, like turning off a switch, the rain stopped. There was one last sigh of wind and the boat ran out into a clear, moonlit night on the gulf stream. Ahead of me, just in the line of sight, were the lights of a freighter moving south.
I pushed the throttle forward. The boat jumped ahead, rattling my spine. I aimed for a spot well behind the lights. I wanted to come up in its wake. The water was calmer there, but more important, if it was the Black Freighter—or any freighter—they wouldn’t be watching backwards. The watch would be scanning the horizon forward. And from what I knew about freighters, they wouldn’t be doing that very carefully.
Rick’s boat ate up the distance. It was the fastest boat I’d ever been on and the feeling of speed and power was almost dream-like. It took less than five minutes to hit the wake of the freighter, about a half mile back. I turned the boat south, moving even faster in the smoother water where the freighter had just pushed through, and sped up to the ship’s stern.
I throttled back. The turbulence increased close to the ship. I moved as close as I could, making constant small adjustments on the throttle and the wheel. I could just see the lettering on the stern, but couldn’t make out what it said. I moved my boat to the side, hoping some gleam off the water would light it up; no luck.
I moved close again. I couldn’t risk shining a light on it. Somebody on board might see it and there would go my surprise. So I got in as close as I could get without losing control of the boat. The constant whirlpool of backwash from the prop made it tough to control the boat without smacking the freighter’s steel hull. I tried to look up at the lettering and down at the water at the same time. I was getting a neck cramp, but not much more.
I had to risk a small light. There was no other way. In a clamp beside the wheel Rick had mounted a spotlight, the kind that can pick out rock formations on the moon. There were no smaller flashlights on board as far as I knew. I looked to the bow of the boat, trying to gauge the backwash, and I had an idea.
I pointed the boat directly at the freighter’s stern. I eased up as close as I could get and flicked the bow running lights on and off as quickly as I could.
The light made an eerie red glow that ran up the ship’s stern. It was just enough to read the letters.
Petit Fleur.
This was it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Securing a small boat to a moving ship at sea is not easy. I didn’t have time to do it right—any moment now somebody might lean out over the stern to spit and see me. But I was hoping to sneak Anna away without too much noise, and the boat was my only escape route, even if it was almost out of gas.
But there was no way to tie it off at the freighter’s waterline. I would have to tie it from on deck. That increased the angle dangerously, but that’s all there was.
There was also no way to get up the stern without making a certain amount of noise. I would just have to risk it. I’d come prepared with some things from Rick’s shed, including a small folding grappling hook and 100 feet of nylon rope. I had meant it to be a last resort, in case there was no other way up. It would be dangerous and uncertain, and I would be vulnerable for a long minute while I hung from the rope.
I threw the grappling hook up and waited. A small clunk; then, no sound. Nobody yelled “Hey,” or “Oye,” or “mon dieu.” So I slid up the line hand over hand. It was even harder than I’d thought. The freighter was pitching one way at its own speed. Rick’s boat was pitching must faster. With each end of the rope going at a different rate I felt like a yo-yo until I finally pulled myself up to where I could grab the rail of the freighter and ease onto the deck with the bowline of Rick’s boat clamped in my teeth.
As I climbed up onto the deck I lost about two yards of skin on a large, shiny cleat. I decided I could risk a few quiet words, and said them. The bleeding wasn’t too bad, and I rubbed the spot for a moment. What the hell was a cleat doing there, anyway? I tied Rick’s boat off to the cleat and limped into the cover of a packing crate.
I looked along the deck. It was open here, stacked in a few places with crates of deck cargo and tangles of bicycles. There was no sign of anything living.
Far ahead, maybe sixty feet away, the superstructure stuck up, wheelhouse on top. I thought I could see a shape in there behind the glass, but whether it was human I couldn’t say.
I decide to assume it was. That was safer. I moved forward a step and stumbled. I had ducked behind a large chunk of strangely shaped plywood. Whatever it was, the thing had two pontoons on its bottom. I looked it over. It was a jagged, angular shape, ten feet high and maybe twenty feet long. A handful of wires ran down it into a large waterproof battery case bolted to the top of the pontoons. I ran a finger along one of the wires. It led to a Christmas tree light bulb that poked through the plywood. I crouched beside the thing. A long nylon cable was secured to a ring welded to the pontoons. It was probably supposed to be towed or moored.
I moved on, doing my creepy-crawly along the deck, trying to think like a shadow, sliding from one hiding place to the next. I
n a few minutes I had worked my way across the deck to the stairs that ran up to the wheelhouse.
Now the fun started. I had to get up the stairs and inside without being seen. If I could do that, I could probably persuade the guy at the wheel to take a nap for a while. Then I could find Anna quickly and quietly and get away.
I thought about making him tell me where Anna was, but decided it was too risky. The best plan was to take him out fast. Then I could move through the ship easily. I didn’t worry about hurting an innocent man or any of that softheaded crap. If he was on board this ship he was not innocent.
I thought about the rest of the crew. At this hour it was slack time on board. The crew would be sleeping, playing cards, relaxing. Not worrying about a flat-fishing guide sneaking around the ship with murder in his heart.
I looked carefully up and down the deck from my hiding place behind a crate. Nothing moved, nobody leaned against the rail.
The stairs were brightly lit, but they ran up the side at a steep enough angle that the man at the wheel couldn’t see them without leaving his place. So all I had to do was glide up the steps and whip open the door—and hope the door wasn’t locked or bolted.
I took a deep breath and used a trick I had learned in the Rangers. I gave myself a mental countdown —5, 4, 3, 2, 1, go!— and I was across the small patch of deck and up the stairs.
I grabbed at the handle and hit the door with my shoulder in one motion and was in the wheelhouse and on top of the guy steering before he could do more than turn a few inches and gape at me.
I slammed the heel of my hand into his temple and he slid to the floor. Perfect. No fuss, no muss, no bother. All according to plan.
Except that I hadn’t planned on the second man behind me.
