Stepping onto the moonlit deck, Jonah found a dark corner and drew his pistol. It was a last-ditch option at best, possibly only buying seconds when considering the kind of ordnance the pirates had at their disposal. For instance, the long tubular weapon mounted to one of the nearer Toyotas looked like anti-tank artillery. Christ.
Jonah pulled the small radio from his vest and pulled it out of the plastic bag.
“On board,” he whispered, no louder than he dared. As far as he could tell, the pirates only stopped by once an hour or so, but it wouldn’t have been terribly difficult to spot him from the nearby dock.
Shit. The radio was ruined. Seawater had seeped inside, destroying the sensitive electronics. Triple-bagging the device and wrapping it all up with duct tape hadn’t been enough. The screw up, minor as it was, made him feel rusty, off his game.
Jonah ducked through the main entranceway to the cabin of the yacht and crept inside. As beautiful as the ship was from the outside, it was ugly on the inside. Just a few bunks, an open galley and a marine toilet with a curtain for the door. Everything smelled strongly of paint, salt and disinfectant. At least the cockpit was something to brag about, twin lightweight seats facing consoles that would have been at home in a fighter jet. The controls were all inert, with a thin layer of dust covering them. The Horizon hadn’t sailed an inch since first arriving in the harbor as a pirate trophy.
The American pulled back the curtain of the nearest bunk. A single beam of starlight fell on the pale face of the young woman he’d seen through the periscope. She wasn’t conventionally attractive, not with the boyish haircut and small frame, but something about her struck Jonah deeply. Pity he couldn’t help a second hostage escape.
He carefully replaced the curtain and went to the next bunk. Pulling back it’s curtain, he saw the sleeping form of Professor Fatima Nassiri. Though easily over sixty years in age, she still retained the features of an exceptionally beautiful woman, black hair, dark skin, but the facial lines of someone who laughed too little. She wore a loose button shirt and shorts, revealing endless rows of cuts and bruises. She’d been through hell.
Before waking her, Jonah produced her son’s passport from a plastic baggie. With one hand, he held it out in front of him, opened to the doctor’s picture. With the other, he firmly placed his hand over Fatima’s mouth.
The doctor awoke suddenly, struggling and clawing at his wet, neoprene-clad arms, her eyes flashing. She caught sight of the passport photo and her eyes locked on the image of her son. She froze, unable to tear herself away from the photo. Jonah slowly loosened the pressure of her mouth. Once satisfied she wouldn’t scream, he removed his hand.
“Do not speak,” said Jonah. “Do you recognize this picture?”
Fatima nodded.
“Good. Your son sent me to get you out of here. I came in using SCUBA gear. We will leave using SCUBA gear. You will cling to my back and use my spare regulator. You will not open your eyes. It took me an hour to infiltrate the harbor; it could take twice that leaving. You must mentally prepare yourself for what’s to come.”
Fatima nodded again, but with a hint of defiance this time. The more she gained her faculties back, the more Jonah could see that she had her own ideas about how this would go down.
“You’re an experienced diver, right?”
Fatima shook her head. “Once only,” she whispered. “At a resort.”
“Seriously? I thought you were an oceanographer or some shit — look, nevermind. Just hold on, control your breathing and keep your eyes closed. We have a sub — I mean a ship waiting just outside the harbor.”
“How many men are with you?” asked Fatima.
“No time for questions,” said Jonah, turning around. “Let’s get moving.”
“But what about Klea?” demanded Fatima, dangerously loud.
“Jesus! Lower your voice!” said Jonah. “She’s not my problem. I have one spare regulator, and it’s yours. Time to go.”
“I will not leave without Klea,” insisted Fatima. She rose to her feet. Though a foot shorter than Jonah, the professor stood toe to toe with him as if she were a titan facing a mere mortal. Un-fucking-believable.
“Fatima, it is theoretically possible to evacuate you unconscious,” threatened Jonah.
“We’re watched during the night,” she hissed.
“We don’t have time!” Jonah said. Then hearing footsteps behind him, he whipped around, pistol in hand, only to see the bright glint of the steel blade flash just below his chin, millimeters from his exposed throat.
The young woman from the first bunk stood before him, chef’s knife in hand. Jonah’s hand instinctively went to protect his throat, his fingertips brushing the tangled, severed lines of his regulator tubes. She’d slashed them in half, both his main and his spare. Air rushed out unimpeded with a hoarse roar, expending the reserve oxygen tank in seconds. Repairing them wouldn’t do a goddamn thing; the entire system was useless without the reserves.
Rage rushed through him like a flash flood in a bottleneck canyon. Reaching forward with his left hand, he grabbed Klea around her neck, his massive hand constricting her airflow as the other hand tightened his grip on his pistol.
She didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t beg for her life. She just looked at him. His surveillance from the submarine hadn’t done her justice, not her smooth, pale skin or dark Audrey Hepburn eyes, glassy under the moonlit sky.
“What in the actual fuck?!” demanded Jonah, shaking her.
Still she didn’t react, didn’t even fucking blink. Through his grip, Jonah felt the slightest muscle movement, the faintest twitch. He looked down to see her adjusting her grip on the weapon. His prison instincts told him she was intently considering stabbing him. With a knife that size and her obvious commitment, she had a good chance of grievously injuring him before he ended things. Not a good situation for either of them — she’d be dead and he’d be gutted.
He loosened his grip. Klea didn’t need another sign; she wriggled herself loose and stepped back. Fatima stood frozen, looking at both as they faced each other down, Jonah with pistol drawn, Klea with her fierce, dark eyes and sharpened blade.
“Talk,” said Jonah.
“I have a plan to get us out of here,” she said, her voice hoarse from his grip. “All of us. So drop the frogman gear and come with me.”
CHAPTER 12
“Fatima,” said Klea as she flipped the knife around to hold it by the handle. “Take this. Cut the mooring ropes down to a thread. They must appear normal but break with the slightest pull.”
Jonah grimaced. The plan was to wake up Fatima and only Fatima, stick an air regulator in her mouth, jump overboard, and sayonara, suckers. If Klea woke up, Jonah had planned to say some bullshit about a second diver coming just for her. Or a helicopter. Or a goddamn aircraft carrier group. It didn’t matter. A lie was a lie.
Fatima took the knife from Klea, pulled a black hijab over her head and disappeared out of the main hatchway.
“What are you?” demanded Klea. “US Navy? Special Forces? Private contractor?”
“Escaped convict,” answered Jonah. “And if your plan is to use this boat to outrun the pirates, your plan sucks.”