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My thoughts drift away, back into the abyss, as Quinn takes up the front. We’re pressed against the marina’s facility building, our backs to the brick. The Pentagon sits just across the harbor. To get here unnoticed, we had to move in small groups. The first group is headed up by Proctor and closest to The Countess. Proctor got a warrant to commandeer Simon’s neighboring sailboat; the owner’s of that vessel are being kept at the station out of harm’s way.
Four FBI agents are aboard the vessel now.
Quinn taps at his earpiece. “There’s movement on The Countess. Proctor’s going in with the first group.” He glances over his shoulder. “When we move in, watch your six.”
I nod. I want to be the one to look Simon in his eyes when he sees his end coming. When the knowledge that he won’t ever advance to “master” first lights his eyes. But I’ll settle for looking into them during the aftermath.
I just hope they don’t have to kill him before I get that chance.
A crackle sounds through my own earpiece, and my muscles tense, my grip on my gun tightens. Quinn is first in command for our small group of three. Just me, Quinn, and Carson. I could almost laugh that it’s come down to this—stuck between two men that only a week ago, I almost pegged for accomplices.
Carson and Quinn would’ve made an interesting team—but truthfully, I’m not sure who would be the master, and who would be the apprentice. They’re both too stubborn to take clear directives from the other. Though I give Carson credit, he does try awfully hard to impress Quinn.
My train of thought stops suddenly as a shout comes through my feed. Hands up! Hands up! Then the rest happens too quickly for me to distinguish.
A shot rings out…my heart slams against my chest, my foot digs into the earth…and the order to move in sounds through the earpiece. Quinn throws his hand forward, ordering us to advance.
The earth moves up and down in my vision. The thud of footfalls bounces heavy in my ears. An out-of-body euphoria washes over me. And for one, clear second, I take notice of the moonlit river. The reflection of the luminescent orb shimmering and reflecting off tranquil waters.
The Countess is a large sailboat. I note this also, along with the rocking of the boat. Something this massive shouldn’t stir so easily as we board the vessel.
“Fall back!” Proctor stands with his gun hiked to his shoulder, giving orders. “The suspect is down. Group two, search the rest of the cabin. Apprehend anyone else on this vessel.”
I hear the order. I’m following Quinn’s lead as he heads below into the hull, Carson right behind me. But my eyes are taking in everything—trying to understand why they haven’t seen Avery yet.
“Quinn—”
“We’ll find her,” he says.
The deeper we go into the cabin, the darker it becomes. The thicker the air settles around us. It’s like going underground, the feel of entering a tomb. A coldness bites into my skin, and I clamp both hands around my SIG for comfort.
The noise above becomes a muffled annoyance. I realize the walls are covered with padding. This is familiar; my abductor did the same to his basement. As we descend, the steps creaking beneath our feet, one sound—one beautiful sound—catches my ears.
A whimper.
It’s the sound of terror—but it’s lovely. It’s the sound I made when Jackson Randall Lovett was shot to death beside me, and I looked into the beams of the flashlights, right into the barrels of the guns. And then into the eyes of the FBI agents.
Avery is making that sound now.
“Clear the room,” Quinn orders. “Cover everywhere.”
It’s an impossible directive to follow when all I want to do is rush to Avery—but this time, I follow the order. Enough rules have been broken. I need to stay the course to make sure she survives this.
“Clear!” Carson shouts.
“Clear here, too,” Quinn says from the corner of the dungeon.
Because that’s what this is. A verified hell in the belly of a ship.
I finish checking my corner, forcing my fingers to ease off the handle of my gun. “Clear.” Only I’m not so sure…
Along one wall, in beautiful script: She walks in beauty, like the night…
And on the opposite wall: Her walls talk…
The next wall displays another verse from the dreaded poem: Had half impaired the nameless grace… Which waves in every raven tress
And above Avery, written in perfect penmanship: We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
