Tori glanced around at the men in the wheelhouse, took in the way they were looking at her, and she understood that this wasn’t just about Gabe Rio. If Miguel lost this job and word got out about what had happened, he might never get another job. Yet the captain’s concern extended further than Miguel for once. Staying out of prison would be cold comfort if they all ended up out of a job. If they brought Tori along, she might be the one person who could speak on their behalf, if it came to that.
“What happens to Josh while we’re on the island?” she asked.
“Nothing yet,” Gabe replied, his voice cold.
Tori nodded. “All right. Then what are we waiting for?”
26
Josh lay on his side on the floor of the rec room. If he’d had the strength, he would have climbed onto one of the two ugly sofas. Their cushions might be faded and stained, but at least they would be soft. On the other hand, the fabric felt like sandpaper on a normal day, and right now the cold floor felt good on his swollen, bloody cheek. Dirty boot prints didn’t bother him. Pain had pushed him past such concerns.
He wished he still had the gun Miguel had let him carry during the night.
Fucking Miguel. Josh figured that once the chief mate had figured out something was amiss — that the new cook was something other than what he seemed — Miguel had been waiting for the moment he could take that gun back. And once he had, things had swiftly unraveled.
His right hand tensed, fingers instinctively clutching at the weapon he yearned for. If he’d had the gun, though, it wouldn’t have been Miguel Rio who caught the first bullet — he’d marked that for Hank Boggs. That son of a bitch had a reckoning in his future, and Josh figured it was only a matter of time. Really, the only chance Gabe had of getting the Antoinette free of the noose that was drawing close around it would be to throw the whole goddamn galley stove overboard and leave immediately, before Voss and the rest of Josh’s squad got restless and figured out that someone had spoiled their plans. Otherwise, Voss would run out of patience, realize something had gone wrong, and the FBI would move in.
The Rio brothers had twenty-four hours, give or take, and instead of using that time to slip quietly away, Gabe wanted to retrieve the guns, drag them back to Miami, and put them on Viscaya’s doorstep like a cat bringing its master a dead bird. The captain was a stubborn son of a bitch, but that was all right with Josh. The more time they wasted trying to get those guns back, the better his odds of survival.
Josh had been emphatic about the squad not moving in until he set off the personal locator beacon he’d hidden behind the stove, but he knew his partner all too well. He’d called in on the sat-phone to tell them the Antoinette was about to rendezvous with the Mariposa. Already Voss would be wondering how come he hadn’t called in again or set off the PLB. She’d be tempted to throw out the plan they’d made, and to ignore the cautions he’d given to wait for his signal. All Josh had to do was manage to stay alive until Voss ran out of patience.
The smell of his own blood filled his nostrils. He could feel a little pool of it growing tacky as it dried under his cheek. His jaw throbbed and his whole face felt swollen. His left eye had swollen up so much that he couldn’t open it all the way. Gently, he ran his tongue over his teeth, probing to see if any were broken. One tooth on the lower left side of his mouth felt loose, but otherwise they were all intact.
He doubted the same could be said of his ribs. They probably weren’t broken, but given the way his right side felt when he breathed, he thought several must be badly bruised. Boggs had started with his fists, but once Josh had slid to the floor, the chief engineer had started kicking. Now there were places all over his body that were numb, and far too many others he wished he could not feel.
As far as he was aware, Josh had been on the floor for about an hour, perhaps more. But he couldn’t deny the possibility that he had lain there longer, unconscious. His head still swam a little, and he figured he had a mild concussion.
“Get up,” he whispered to himself. His lips felt numb and the words were little more than a mumble.
If Boggs comes back, he might kill you.
The thought raced through him like a jolt of adrenaline. Captain Rio didn’t seem inclined to kill him yet, but Josh knew that could change without warning. If he wanted to live, he ought to find some way to defend himself. If he could fashion some kind of weapon, even a club adapted from the leg of the Ping-Pong table, then all the better. Boggs had it coming, one way or another.
Josh had given his loyalty to the FBI. Maybe not his heart and soul, but at the very least his mind and body. He knew the law, and throwing the big bald engineer over the side or shivving him in the throat with some makeshift blade snapped off a piece of rec room furniture would be frowned upon by the U.S. government. Josh wouldn’t be proud of it, either. That kind of justice didn’t fit with how he viewed himself or his job.
But no one had ever beaten him for their own entertainment before, so his views were adjusting accordingly. When the shit hit the fan, if he couldn’t arrange for Boggs to catch a bullet, he would be severely disappointed.
He took a thin breath, wary of his aching ribs, and lifted his head. The blood on his face had started to dry to the floor and it tugged painfully as he pulled his cheek away. Propping himself up with his left arm, right hand pressed to his bruised ribs, he managed to roll slowly and rise to his knees. His jaw still felt swollen and he blew a pained exhalation out through his teeth.
Then he paused, taking stock. No jutting bones. Nothing punctured internally as far as he could tell. Just pain, all over. Breathing through his nose now — the way he did when he felt nauseous and was trying to stave off the urge to vomit — he put a hand on the chair he’d been sitting in when Boggs had started to work him over. Shaky as a newborn colt, he rose and slid into the chair, settling back gingerly, closing his eyes as he let out another breath.
So much for looking for a weapon. If Boggs came back now, Josh would barely be able to lift a hand, never mind defend himself.
A few more minutes. Just take it easy. Don’t rush. A few more minutes and he would get up from the chair, find something that he could hurt the chief engineer with.
He let his eyes close and started to drift. The adrenaline rush started to subside and all he wanted to do was crash — just sleep, and heal. But Josh couldn’t afford to do that. Inhaling sharply, he opened his eyes and stared at the bright Caribbean light coming through the small windows on either side of the door. No telling when Boggs or the captain would return.
“Up,” he whispered, wary now of how much the guards outside the two doors might hear. Valente and Tupper had been posted last night, one at either entrance, but he had no idea who might be out there now. Best to be quiet.
Pushing himself up from the chair, he sucked in a painful breath, then crossed his arms in front of his chest. He hesitated, steadying his breathing, then forced his eyes open wider, steeling his nerves, focusing on the task at hand. He glanced around the rec room, moving his whole body instead of just his head, not wanting to twist anything too far just in case the muscles were torn. He didn’t have the strength to break up a chair or snap a leg off the Ping-Pong table, though he considered that for a moment.
No, it had to be something he could hide, something sharp and quick.