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So far, so good.
All remained quiet as they shed their disguises and collected their gear. Taut lines squeaked as the yacht shifted in the currents sloshing beneath the dock. Brine and fresh-cut lawn soaked the damp air. No hint of smoke.
Garrett activated one of the small signal jammers he brought and stuck it to the side of the hull facing away from the dock. He activated another one in his pack. The radius was limited, but it would render any nearby mobile or radio device useless.
The gamble of their timing faltered the moment they started creeping up the short twin flights of stairs to the main deck, and the sound of a door slamming froze them in place. Clearly, someone was not occupied with lunch. Unhurried footsteps, along with a rolling clatter, approached. The clatter stopped, but the footsteps continued moving off toward the dock.
The would-be invaders looked at each other. Garrett, crouched on the port side of the platform, signaled Jackson to hold position.
Fuck that. Stretching his body up the narrow starboard stairway, he slowly poked his eyeballs over the edge. A large rolling bucket bristling with cleaning supplies sat in the middle of the open deck. The bucket’s keeper, a lanky young man in crew-standard black slacks and T-shirt, was busy wrestling a hose from the dock.
Jackson glanced at the expanse of salt-smeared windows and decks apparently slated for a scrubbing. This kid would be busy for hours. Or he might be the first of several crew on this task. The landing platform was likely part of the cleaning project. It was only a matter of minutes before the Sea Ray was discovered—along with Jackson and Garrett—and the alarm went up.
If they didn’t move fast, they were fucked. Ditto if they stayed where they were. Another gamble.
He scanned the windows, deck, and dock for a solution. Still only the one guy, dragging the coiling, ornery hose toward the bucket.
It was now or never.
When he turned his head to alert Garrett, he found his uncle already hovering behind him, silenced gun in hand, impatient expression on face. “Go!” Garrett mouthed.
Jackson scrambled, Garrett on his heels. Under the covering racket of water blasting into the bucket, they bolted up the stairs and across the deck behind the crewman’s back. As they hustled down the starboard promenade to the main entrance, Jackson drew his own gun. His belly roiled as he took it off safety. If this turned into a gunfight, they were fucked every which way.
Garrett took the lead going through the door, moving like the trained commando he was, silent, alert—ready to kill. Muted kitchen clatter greeted them in the small lobby, but no crew. Gun pointed at the deck in a two-handed hold, Jackson monitored the stairway and door to the salon while Garrett tucked another jammer into the coat closet.
They slipped down the corridor to the suites. To the right was their cabin. Ahead lay the door to Cassidy’s prison. Four nights and days they had spent here like college kids on spring break while she suffered. All those missed opportunities. The thought made his jaw clench with fury.
With his fingers, Garrett counted down three. Then they burst through the unlocked door. Rumpled sheets covered the bed, towels piled on a chair, and a tray of uneaten food filled the stale air with fetid rot. But there was no Cassidy.
While Garrett opened the small closet, Jackson headed for the bathroom. It, too, was empty. “Shit.” This operation was unraveling at a record pace. He had sworn to help her, save her. Instead, she was closer to death—and worse—with every minute he wasted. Maybe his father was right. Everything Jackson touched, he bungled. “Shit!”
Garrett joined him in the extravagant bathroom. He had holstered his weapon and pulled another jammer from his pack. Activating it, he handed it to Jackson. “Under-sink cabinet.”
Securing and holstering his own gun, he knelt and did as told, even as frustration and panic raced each other up his spine. Most of the yacht, including the bridge just above them, was now in a bubble of signal silence, but that wouldn’t be much of an advantage if they had to search this ship of nightmares deck-by-deck. Eventually, someone would spot them.
A second later, he realized it was already too late.
34
Shambling Bears
The unmistakable sound of the cabin door clicking open made the hunters freeze in place.
“Fuck,” Jackson mouthed, envisioning one of the addled and brawny crewmen seconds away from trapping them in a bathroom with nowhere to hide. Was nothing going to go right for them?
Garrett pivoted to the door. His hand reached for the Glock, but he kept the weapon in its holster as he stepped back into the cabin.
“Mister Garrett?” a surprised female voice said. “You still here?”
“It looks that way,” Garrett said amiably. Jackson stood and looked over his uncle’s shoulder.
The maid gawked, confused but not alarmed. She smiled when she noticed him, apple cheeks coloring, and Jackson stifled a groan as he remembered how recklessly his compelled ass had flirted with this girl. Her hands clutched before her. “I sorry I so late today. They say you check out.”
“That’s alright, Carmen,” Jackson said as he pushed past Garrett, who was wearing a terrifying caricature of a dopey smile. “We just stopped in to check on Cassidy. Do you know where she is?”
“Oh, Miss Cassidy gone for the day with Miss Monica.”
“So she’ll be back?” Jackson asked, forcing a buoyant tone. Garrett shot him a warning glare over the death grimace.
