CHAPTER 12
IT FELT LIKE CHURCH CAMP. Only without the campfire.
Instead, the group huddled in the staff room around a dinner of Spam, sardines, cold corn, and a few protein bars for dessert.
Angel’s contractions had stopped, and she sat in a recliner chair, her hands over her belly, rocking.
Yola was opening the packages of protein bars and cutting them into sections. Even Mimi was better and off her oxygen after her nebulizer treatment.
Hagan stood away, his gaze on Jake, but Aria had seen Jake apologize. Hagan grunted, no grace in his expression. Maybe because although Jake had tucked his weapon back into his belt when he left the rooftop, he still wore it.
It shook her, the way he transformed into spec ops right before her eyes. SEAL Jake was lethal, fierce, and willing to do whatever it took to protect her.
“Maybe I’m just really a bad person. Maybe I’m the villain of the story, pretending to be the hero.”
No, he was the real deal. He now sat on the floor, leaning against the wall with his legs crossed at the ankles, and held Ringo in his strong arms, rubbing the puppy’s tummy. Bailey sat beside him, glancing over at the former SEAL with what looked like hero worship.
Why not? The guy rescued puppies and children, protected the weak, and even let her inside his secrets.
And Jake Silver knew how to kiss. He tasted of adventure, but something solid and safe about him made her yearn to stay right there, in his arms.
Yes, he was very, very dangerous.
Yola passed her a slice of Spam and a protein bar. “Help yourself to sardines and corn,” she said. She gave the same speech and portion to Angel, then Hagan, Mimi, and finally Jake and Bailey.
Jake handed Bailey the puppy, then got off the floor and went over to sit in the chair by the bed of the kid he’d found downstairs.
No, not a kid. A former soldier, because Jake had found a pair of dog tags around his neck that identified him as Specialist Parker, twenty-four years old.
Parker lay asleep on the bed, his trembling stopped.
“Don’t you think we can untie him now?” Aria said, getting up to stand by the window. She’d made Jake wheel Parker into their common room, wanting to keep an eye on him.
“Not until he wakes up and I can see how he is.”
“He’s trouble is what he is,” Hagan said. “Keep him tied up.”
Aria looked at Hagan. He’d eaten his Spam in two bites. “He was high and didn’t know what he was doing.”
Hagan shook his head, looked away.
Something about him sent a chill under her skin, but what could she say? He’d saved her life.
And besides, Jake was here now.
“I think we should pray,” Mimi said, and everyone looked at her. She sat in the other recliner chair, her legs crossed, the chair dwarfing her petite body. “Really. We survived a Cat 5 hurricane. And we’re eating a meal to celebrate.”
It did feel like a celebration of sorts. “Who says we’re not going to continue when we get home?” She couldn’t believe she said that to Jake.
Meant it.
She wanted to know Jake without the trauma, under the sunlight and blue skies.
“Okay,” Jake said to Mimi’s suggestion. He closed his eyes.
Yes, most definitely church camp.
“Lord, your Word says that when we pass through the waters, you will be with us. That they will not sweep over us. And it’s true. You were with us in the storm. And you’re with us now, on the shore, and we thank you for saving us. You are good. And you are sovereign. And we trust you. Thank you for the Spam.”
“Amen,” Jake said.
Good. Sovereign. The words latched on.
“Did you know Spam was served to Allied troops in World War Two?” Jake said, picking up his piece of Spam. “It’s packed with protein and doesn’t need refrigeration.” He took a bite. “Mmm. And there is a Spam museum in Minnesota.” He looked at Aria. “I’ll take you there sometime.”
She grinned. Yeah, he would.
“It tastes like a hot dog,” Yola said.
“Oh, Yo, it’s a thousand times better than a hot dog,” Jake said.
Yola grinned.
Oh yes, the man had charm.
Parker stirred, groaned. Aria had started an IV drip of fluids. A sweat broke out over his forehead.
Jake stood up and came over to him. “Hey there, Specialist Parker. You’re okay.”
The man’s eyes flickered open and his gaze darted from Jake to the others, then back to Jake. “What—” He yanked at his bonds, his expression clouding. “Let me go!”
“Shh, buddy. Take a breath there.” Jake put his hand on his chest. “We don’t want you to hurt yourself.” He left out “or anybody else.” The kid probably wouldn’t remember trying to kill Aria.
“You’re going to be okay. We just need you to ride this high down, all the way to the ground floor.”
“He’s going to be in pain if he’s going into withdrawal,” Angel said quietly. Aria didn’t want to ask how she knew this.
“I could try and find some anti-nausea medicines,” Aria said.
“You’re not going back down to that pharmacy,” Jake said over his shoulder. “We don’t know how high the water is now.”
Or, how infected with germs and the diseases of dead animals.
Jake turned back to Parker. “You’ll just have to ride it out, pal. But we’ll be right here with you. We’re not leaving. I’m not going to lie—it’s gonna be miserable. And it’ll hurt. But when you’re through it, you’ll be able to start over. You’ll be free.”
Free.
For some reason, her hand went to her necklace—a reflex, maybe, of her memory of waking up after surgery, her entire body, her heart and soul in agony.
But on the pathway to freedom.
“I can’t do it,” Parker said. “I can’t.” He pulled at his bonds.
“You can, buddy. Just one breath at a time.” Jake eased back. “Listen. You can do anything one breath at a time. When I was going through hell week in BUD/S, my entire body hurt. I’d had about four hours of sleep in the very distant past and I was fighting sheer exhaustion. But I was on a swim, and I knew if I gave up, I was going to die. My buddy North was with me—he was my swim buddy, and he was shouting at me to keep moving. And the only thing going through my mind was . . . this could be it. I wasn’t going to quit, but I might die trying.
“And then I heard North say, ‘Just one more breath. Just one more breath,’ and I thought, if I could focus on that, just the next breath, maybe I could stop looking at the distance to the shore. So I did. Just one breath, a couple strokes, another breath, two more strokes, another breath. I didn’t look back. I didn’t look forward. I depended on North to keep me going the right direction and just kept breathing.”
“And you got to shore?” Bailey asked. Aria glanced at him. Oh boy, Jake should probably start signing autographs.
“Yep.” He looked at Mimi. “‘When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.’ That’s from Isaiah 43:2. I memorized it when I left for BUD/S. I’d forgotten that. Thank you.”
He turned back to Parker. “I guess what I’m saying is that you don’t need to see the shore. Just take one breath at a time, and you’ll get there.”
One breath at a time. Like one heartbeat at a time.
Parker was whimpering.
“I’m not giving up on you, and you can’t either. Set your mind to it. Do it.”
Parker met his eyes. “I can.”
“Atta boy, soldier.”
The wind tousled the curtains around the broken window. The breeze carried the humidity of the island, even at night. Aria turned, staring into the night, the vastness of the ocean, the moon carving a finger of light across the waves, a trail to the horizon.
Yola came over to stand beside her. “You know what I love about the ocean? It’s the unknown in the darkness. You know it’s out there, but you can’t see it. You can hear it, smell it, taste the salt in the air, feel it on your toes. Vast. Beautiful. Mysterious. But dark.” She wrapped her arms around herself, cut her voice low. “Don’t tell Mimi, but I’m not going back to Queens. Even before the storm, I had decided to stay. I don’t know why—just a feeling, I guess, that God has something more for me here. I sense him calling me to something big, something life changing, and I’m just supposed to stand on the shore, staring out at the sea to wait for it.”
Aria stood beside her, staring out into the vastness, the stars winking down at them. She hadn’t thought about just . . . well, standing on the shore, waiting. She always had to have a plan.
“I’d like to get the radio going,” Jake said. “Yo, can you sit with my man here?”
Yola turned. “Aye, aye, boss.”
Oh, for cryin’ in the sink. Aria rolled her eyes, but really, who wasn’t flirting with Jake?
Hagan, maybe. He eyed Jake as he left in search of batteries.
“Bailey, how about I make you a bed? Let’s go find you a mattress.” Aria headed out the door and Bailey followed her, carrying Ringo.
She knew the hallway so well, she didn’t need lights to step over the debris, find her way to an empty room. Finding a mattress, she grabbed one of the blankets she’d gathered and a pillow and brought them back to the staff room.
“He’s pretty cool, isn’t he?” Bailey said as he followed her.
She didn’t need an identifier. “Yeah, he is.”
“Do you think . . . ?” Bailey held Ringo close. The animal squirmed for a moment, then settled down in his arms. “Do you think he can find my dad?” The question emerged small, almost in hesitation.
Oh. Aria didn’t want to stir up a hope that might only break his heart. But, “If anyone can, it’s Jake.”
She entered the staff room and put his mattress down. Jake had vacated the room. Bailey sat on the bed. “Maybe tomorrow we can go looking for him,” he said now, about his father.
Tomorrow she hoped to be heading home. Because Jake had outlined his plan for her after he retrieved the pack of food, as he was refueling the generators on the roof.
“I’m going to drive out to that plane and see if I can get the radio working,” he’d said. “I could spend hours trying to find a yacht with a working radio, but . . . my guess is that that plane’s communication system might still be intact.”
He had capped off the fuel. Stood up and stared at the stars.
“I know,” she said. “Reminds me of Alaska.” A thousand stars arched overhead, tiny eyes watching them. She’d never felt so small. Or so aware that even so, she wasn’t forgotten.
“Yeah. Same beautiful view.”
She glanced at him. He was staring at her.
Oh.
But what if Mimi was right? God showed up in the storms. And saved—not from the disaster, but through it, even when she couldn’t see the shore.
One breath. One heartbeat at a time.
So, now she tucked the blanket around Bailey. “Yes, maybe tomorrow, Jake can find your dad. Try and get some sleep. You’re safe.”
She found Jake at the darkened nurses’ desk, the transistor humming. He held it to his ear. “Where did you find batteries?”
“I stole them from a television remote control,” he said. His voice had softened. “I found a VHF maritime channel.”
“Great. Uh, so . . . did you hear anything about the coast guard? Maybe a rescue mission to the Keys?”
He wore a strange expression. Drew in a breath.
“Jake, what’s going on?”
“I don’t think there’s a rescue mission on the horizon.”
She folded her arms, leaning a hip against the side of the desk. “Seriously? Why not?”
He put the transistor on the desk, turning down the volume. “On account of the tropical storm that is gathering offshore.”
She stared at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He shook his head, then reached out and held her hand.
“Oh my . . . is it headed this way?”
“It sounds like it. And from the sound of it, the coast guard doesn’t think they have a window to search for survivors.”
She looked around. “We can’t take another hit, Jake—”
He found his feet. Pulled her against himself. “I know.”
“Angel is going to go into labor, and Mimi needs more help than I can give her, and—”
“I know.” He put her away from him, met her eyes. “Tomorrow, first thing, I’m going out to that seaplane. And I’m getting us off this island.”
This was the last time he booked a seat in coach.
Ham checked his ticket and confirmed, yes, he was stuck in the middle of a family with two kids—the father and son on one side, the mother and a very blonde, chubby-faced little girl on the other. Both parents looked at him apologetically as the woman climbed out, grabbing up her toddler. “We need aisle seats in case we need to get out,” she said. “The kids are prone to airsickness.”
Ham forced a smile.
He’d been on forty-mile marches easier than this. But he stowed his carry-on and climbed into the middle, shoving his backpack into the minuscule space under the seat in front of him. His knees touched the seat in front of him, his shoulders overlapping into the side seats, and he closed his eyes, trying not to rue every second of this stupid trip.
He should have said no. Not to helping Senator White’s friends, but to the impulse that told him to dig up information on Signe’s death.
He’d already closed the door on losing her ten years ago. He should have simply accepted it and moved on.
Figured out a way to be a father to a daughter he didn’t know.
But Ham never did well with loose ends. He didn’t leave men behind, questions unanswered, and most of all, people he cared about in the lurch.
Especially if he thought they might be in trouble.
He might never get out of his head the image of the corpse of the woman he’d given his heart to—forever and only, amen—lying on a stainless-steel table in a morgue in Italy. He couldn’t be entirely sure it was Signe. The remains were brutally decayed, her deformed and bloated face and what remained of her body covered in a sheet. He searched for identifying marks—she had that scar on her upper arm from when she scraped herself on a nail in their tree fort—and found what looked like a long, pale mark exactly where he remembered it. And then there was her hair, bleached nearly white, but once long and beautiful.
She was the size and weight of Signe. Had her long legs, beautiful still in his mind. And her head shape seemed the same, a heart, with a strong, stubborn jaw.
He’d walked out of the building into the sunshine, gulping air, sinking down onto the cement steps, trying to get his heart to start beating.
“That’s the closest we’re going to get to a positive identification,” Salvatore said when he followed him out. “Do you want to sign off on it?”
He didn’t, but he obliged anyway. Because he was, after all, her husband.
Then he packed his bags and headed to the nearest airport. He hopped a flight to Rome, waited eight hours on standby, and found a seat on a KLM flight to JFK.
Next to him, the little girl was kicking the seat in front of her.
“Maddy, stop.” The woman wore her dishwater-blonde hair in a messy ponytail. She looked over at Ham. “I’m really sorry. We were in Italy for my brother’s wedding, and it’s been a long trip. She’ll go to sleep after we take off.”
“No problem, ma’am,” he said and pulled his hat down, folding his arms across his body. It was better than a C-130, probably.
Or not, because an hour and thirty minutes into the flight, Maddy was still squirming, whining about her ears feeling yucky, and on the other side, the little boy was playing Nintendo, his tongue caught in his teeth, rambunctious as he waged some sort of war on the machine.
So much for sleep.
The service came through the cabin, and he got a Diet Coke and some peanuts, not even denting his hunger.
Maddy settled down, her mother setting her up with a movie—a Disney offering with waves and ocean, and Maddy started to sing along.
“It’s Moana. She’s a fanatic.”
“I get it. I like the ocean too,” Ham said.
“Nolan and I used to travel, but after the kids arrived, well . . . this is our first big trip in five years.” She glanced at Maddy. “And probably our last for a while. Having kids changes everything.”
He hadn’t thought about that. Aggie would need someone to stay at home with her, if he needed to travel.
No, she would need her father to stay home with her.
So much for his global SAR team.
“My name is Serena. That’s my husband, Nolan.” She nodded toward him. Nolan was plugged into a movie, his charge now leaning against him, the Nintendo dropped into his lap, the little guy asleep.
“Looks like Dakota has had it,” Serena said, laughing.
“I’m Ham,” he said. “And I feel a little like Dakota, except I can never sleep on planes.”
“Yeah, me either.” She handed her empty glass to the flight attendant and reached for Ham’s.
“I’ll keep it, for the ice,” he said.
She reached for Maddy’s, but the little girl spotted her action and leaped for her half-finished drink.
It splashed over Serena, catching even Ham.
“Oh! Maddy!” Serena jumped back in the seat, her clothing saturated. The flight attendant handed her napkins, passed some to Ham.
Ham wiped off his arm, his pant leg, then dabbed up the moisture on Maddy’s seat.
“I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“A little sticky, but I’ll live,” he said and offered a smile.
“Maddy, sit down.”
The little girl had started to cry, and Serena put her arm around her. “It’s okay, honey.” She looked at Ham. “Do you have kids?”
He debated a moment, and then, “Yeah. A daughter. She’s ten.”
“Oh, I can’t wait until my kids are old enough to entertain themselves.”
He offered a half smile.
“Any advice?”
“Oh, uh . . . no. I’m . . . I’m not—”
And Maddy picked right then to throw up. Peanuts, soda, and everything else she’d consumed for the past three hours simply burped out of her, onto the seat, onto the floor, and even on Ham.
“Oh—oh!” Serena unbuckled, jumping out of her seat.
Ham had grabbed the barf bag in his seat and was holding it out under Maddy’s chin. “C’mon, kid, aim for the bag.”
Maddy let go another round. The odor rose from the seats and Ham gritted his teeth.
“Oh, wow, I’m so sorry—”
On the other side of him, Nolan had also gotten up.
“Get some wet paper towels,” Ham said to the man, who took off down the aisle, leaving a sleeping Dakota curled on the seats.
Maddy had erupted in a howl, her face and shirt plastered. The flight attendant must have seen the trouble because she arrived with a wet towel and a garbage bag.
Ham didn’t move. Vomit dripped from his arm, the smell turning his gut. Serena grabbed up Maddy and carried her away down to the bathroom.
Then it was just him, and the flight attendant, and a sleeping Dakota.
Another flight attendant appeared with another wet towel, along with Nolan, who offered a handful of wet paper towels. Ham wiped his arm, threw the bag away, and eased out of the seats so the attendants could clean them up.
“Sorry, man,” Nolan said.
Ham opened the overhead bin and dragged out his carry-on bag. “It’s okay. These things happen.”
But Nolan looked stricken as Ham headed for the bathroom.
He cleaned up, pulled off his T-shirt, washed it, then changed into a clean shirt and headed back toward his seat.
The seats had been cleaned, but the family was rearranged, with Dakota and Maddy sleeping in the center, the armrests up.
A flight attendant came up to him. She carried his backpack. “This way, sir. We found a place for you in first class.”
Oh. Well.
He looked down at Serena. “You okay?”
She had cleaned up too, changed her shirt, but the smell still emanated from her. She made a face. “So sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“I guess you have a lot more practice than I do. You knew exactly what to do.”
Huh.
“You do what you have to do, right?” he said. “Take care.”
She nodded, but his words lingered.
It didn’t really matter if Aggie was his or not.
Signe had given her over to him, into his care.
I’m sorry I couldn’t find you. But I got her, Sig. I have our daughter. She’s safe.
He settled into first class next to a woman who wore an eye mask, earphones, and a blanket.
He pushed his seat back and somehow fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.
The flight attendant had to wake him to land, and he was still groggy as he disembarked and stood in the passport control line.
His phone began to light up, vibrating as texts and voice mails rolled in.
He handed his passport to the agent and sneaked a look at his texting app.
A dozen or so texts from Orion, another handful from North.
Nothing from Jake, and that had Ham worried. He cleared passport control, then customs, and walked out into the terminal.
Dialed North.
“Have you heard from him?” North’s voice, groggy—it was nearing midnight.
“Who?”
“Jake, man. Didn’t you hear about the hurricane?”
Ham walked into a gate area and glanced at a nearby television. CNN. It showed pictures of a destroyed beach, and he wandered over.
“What hurricane?”
“Hurricane Lucy. It went through the Keys.”
And no, he wasn’t making the connection. “So?”
“Jake was in the Keys. With Aria.”
Ham simply stood there, trying to figure out his words. “I don’t . . . What do you mean? Jake’s in Minneapolis taking care of Aggie—”
“No. Aggie is with the Silvers. Jake is in Florida. And we haven’t been able to get ahold of him for three days.”
“Jake was in a hurricane?”
“Yeah. Didn’t you get any of my texts?”
Ham curled his hand around his neck. “And Aggie isn’t with him?”
“No—she’s with Ellie, she’s fine, man. But Jake is missing. Along with Aria.”
And the picture on the television panned over a recap of a Cat 5 storm that had washed over the island. A drone showed brutal damage, houses flattened or swept off their foundation, dead animals, debris littering the desolated island.
“Where are you?”
“Where do you think? Orion and I are in Miami. We’re trying to charter a boat, but they’re hard to come by. Read your texts.”
“I just got off a plane. Let me make some calls. I’m on my way.”
He hung up. Stared at the flight board.
At least this, he knew how to do.
Hang in there, Jake. We’ll find you.
Blue skies overhead, with the slightest tufting of dark clouds on the eastern horizon. A breeze lifted mist into the air as Jake’s boat skimmed through the waves. The sun burned his neck as he drove into the fingers of sunlight.
Today they would go home.
Jake had awoken at first light. If he could call what he’d done sleeping. Mostly, he’d kept one eye on Hagan, who had snored his way through the night.
He’d also risen numerous times to check on Parker. And Aria, who spent the night in the recliner by Parker’s bed.
“I’m a tough girl, with a tough heart.”
Yes, she was. Still, it left a pit in Jake’s gut to leave Hagan behind. He didn’t trust the guy, but maybe Jake was simply raw, tired, and edgy.
Especially with the weather report of another storm on the horizon. He’d heard of storms running the same route twice, but Aria was right.
They needed to get out of town before it hit.
Which meant his one focus was getting help, then getting back to the hospital.
Jake motored along the shore, his gaze on the plane. It seemed caught on something, maybe a coral reef, or a rocky shoreline, past a grouping of buildings.
As he drew closer, he spotted a three-story white building with what looked like the outline of a diver painted on the outside. About a foot of water surrounded the buildings.
Right. He’d forgotten that the Army Special Forces Underwater Operations School was located in Key West. The place looked abandoned, from the housing to the pool area. A metal strip had been torn from the roof of the fifty-foot free-ascent tower, used for simulating ascents out of submarines or dives down to sub level. Boats and scooters lay scattered like toys on the grounds.
As he motored closer, he saw that the float plane—a white, red-striped Piper Super Cub—had gotten hung up on a jutting of the rocky shoreline of the key. The wings had been damaged with gaping tears in the fabric, along with the floats, one of them wedged onto a rock. It would sink if it got out to sea.
Jake tied his skiff to the plane and climbed out onto one of the floats. He worked his way to the door.
Inside, however, the cockpit looked intact, despite one broken window.
He opened the door and leaned into the cockpit. A black Garmin SL30 Nav/Comm transceiver was mounted on one of the overhead cross braces.
And—jackpot—it was powered by a 35-watt DC battery.
Which, once he switched it on, worked.
He toggled the intercom. “Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is . . .” He didn’t know how to label himself, so, “Chief Petty Officer Jake Silver, requesting assistance at the Key West hospital.”
He listened, and when he heard nothing, he changed frequencies and tried again.
And again.
On the eighth try, he got a response. The voice cut in and out but he made out a sketchy, “Received . . . nature of your emergency . . .”
He was watching the horizon, the boil of clouds eating away at the blue sky. The ocean had started to chop. “We have eight souls trapped at the Key West medical center. We need transportation immediately.”
“Come in, base.”
He thought he heard a voice, a snatch of sound, but couldn’t get them back.
The plane began to rock in the waves.
He climbed into the cockpit, repeating his mayday through the channels. Seven hundred and sixty channels. He picked up chatter on a half dozen, giving his location and nature of emergency.
The waves jolted the plane, rocking it from its position.
“Mayday, mayday, mayday,” he called again, his gaze still on the oncoming storm. The deep panes of blue evidenced rain sheeting across the horizon. “This is Chief Petty Officer Silver—”
“—Officer—”
He stilled, listening. Nothing.
“We are trapped at the medical center in Key West.” He pressed the intercom to his forehead. “Please, come get us.”
Static.
Then, miraculously, “Chief Silver, this is NMA. I hear your distress call. What is your situation?”
A wave slammed into the plane, and Jake braced his hand against the console. The aircraft shuddered, then broke away from shore.
And just like that, the waves took him out to sea.
“We have eight souls stranded at the Key West medical center who need immediate assistance. Please send air evacuation.”
He felt the aircraft tilting, the water filling up in the floats.
“Request confirmed—”
The static resumed and Jake gave them another minute to come back.
Then he hung up the radio and opened the door.
Request confirmed.
He stared at the sky and the roil of clouds. Hopefully soon.
The water crested over the opposite float, driving the near one up, and he stepped out on it, his weight evening the plane out.
His boat had stayed on shore, his knot tethering it to the plane clearly insufficient.
The waves took him farther out. Oh joy, now he got wet—
Shots barked in the air and he stilled.
They came from the west, and he ducked down, searching under the nose of the plane for the source.
A yacht—it looked like the blue one that had been beached in the harbor—floated in the channel between the key and a shallow reef.
Aboard it, Jake made out the gray shirts of his favorite escapees.
Nice. A party boat.
As he watched, however, he spotted one of the men pointing his shotgun at a man seated on one of the couches at the stern of the boat.
He wore a ripped blue uniform and sat as if tied up.
Jake’s gut clenched. The men had found themselves a hostage, and by Jake’s best guess, it was a cop.
He shot a look at his boat, still moored on shore, caught on the rocks, but moving uneasily in the waves. Dive now, and he might catch it before it drifted away.
Or . . .
Another shot cracked the air. Laughter, loud and boisterous.
One of them sat on the bow, drinking out of a bottle, his feet dangling over the front.
Ah, they’d found the liquor supply.
Idiots.
Dangerous, drunk idiots.
And Jake just couldn’t live with himself if he let them kill a cop.
They were too far offshore, however, to make the crossing completely under water. And they’d spot him in a second, one glance at the sea.
Unless.
He dove into the channel and swam hard for his boat, his lungs nearly on fire as he surfaced on the back side of it. He crept along the shoreline, staying low, and emerged behind the cover of seagrass and shrubbery.
Then he hoofed it toward the tower of the dive school.
He just needed a tank, a rebreather, a mask, and fins.
And maybe, if someone had stayed on base, a little assistance.
He found the doors to the tower locked, but he still had his pick set in his pocket.
Inside, the room smelled of seawater, the dank, musty odor of cement, and trapped water.
He found the supply room, with the drying fins, masks and BCDs equipped with rebreathers, and oxygen tanks. Pulling down a tank, he checked the pressure and found it full, 3000 psi. Like Boy Scouts, always prepared.
He tested the tank, confirmed air, then hooked up the rebreather lines and attached the BCD. Then, he carried the entire unit, along with the fins and mask, out to the shoreline. Toed off his shoes and threw them in a nearby boat.
The yacht bobbed in the waves, maybe five hundred yards offshore to the east.
The plane sat half-submerged in the water.
He inflated the BCD, let it carry the tank weight for him, and waded out into the water. Putting on his mask, he then slipped into the vest, adjusted the fit, tested the rig. Air, sweet and cool.
He added his fins and slipped under the water.
The world turned silent as he kicked away from shore, diving down to slide along the bottom.
So he hadn’t entirely thought this through, but if he could get onto the boat, he could disarm one, or more, then use their panic to relieve them of their hostage.
An escape vessel might be helpful, however.
If Ham or North were here, one of them could act as a distraction, bring the boat alongside, posing as rescuers, while the others boarded the vessel.
Aria would kill him if this went south.
The water still hadn’t cleared from the storm, but he’d pulled up the compass on his dive watch, had set a heading before getting into the water and now followed it.
He came up under the boat, twenty feet down, and sat there, thinking.
If this was the same crew as before, there’d be six. Six armed, angry, possibly drunk men.
The props of the massive engine were damaged—the boat wasn’t going anywhere but where the waves blew it. Which made these chumps even more stupid. However, it did host an inflatable rescue dinghy, if Jake remembered correctly.
He could pull a dinghy from under the water, if he got the cop off the boat.
But first, he needed a distraction.
Or better yet . . .
He could sink the yacht.
Yes, this could work. He slid his fins off and attached them to his BCD by the straps. Then he unclipped his BCD. It would float in the water until he needed it again.
The Glock was still lodged in his belt. And he’d found a dive knife in one of the BCD pockets.
He hovered just below the boat, visualizing his attack.
Then, as he watched, feet appeared on the dive platform at the stern of the yacht.
He didn’t have to wonder what a drunk guy might be doing off the back of a boat.
But, one target down. He kicked to the surface, held on to the ledge, and grabbed the man’s leg.
Yanked.
His target fell into the water and Jake pushed him away from the boat. He didn’t need him dead, and drunk was disabled.
Jake swung himself up and aboard before the man could surface and alert his buddies.
On his way up, however, he released the life raft, letting it explode out of its case on the back into the water, inflating as it went.
It made a racket, but Jake was already on board.
“Hey!”
He really needed two hands, and his bandage was soggy anyway, so he switched his knife into his left hand, palmed the Glock from his belt with the other, and squeezed off a shot toward the man emerging from the captain’s desk. Purposely didn’t hit him, but it shaved off decking and sent the man scrambling.
He’d reached the cop. “Gimme your hands.”
They were duct-taped, and Jake slid his blade through them, barely looking at the man or the mess of his face.
Instead he sheathed the knife, grabbed him by the arm, and threw him off the back of the boat. “Swim for your life!”
He didn’t look to see where the man landed.
A shot pinged the boat right next to his leg and it shook him.
Thank you, God, that they were drunk.
He turned then and fired a shot into the deck of the ship, right into the fuel tank.
Another shot from behind him, and this time it shattered the light at the back of the boat.
He looked up and spotted a man with a darkly bruised face.
Oh, hi.
The man swore and raised his shotgun.
Jake had the sense he wasn’t going to miss.
Well, okay then. He raced for the back of the boat and leaped off, turning in the air. He caught his inflated BCD, barely submerged, came up fast.
A bullet skipped off the water beside him.
Please, let this work.
He aimed for the back fuel tank, the one that he’d shot through the deck and let seep long enough for fumes to gather.
Kicking hard away from the boat, he pulled the trigger.
The boat exploded. A mushroom cloud of fuel and flame and destruction.
He clipped on the BCD and dove, letting out his air. At the bottom, he slipped on his fins and searched for a swimmer.
He spied the cop struggling, twenty feet from the boat, swimming hard for the dinghy.
Good man.
Jake kicked hard, caught up, and grabbed the lead line of the dinghy. Then he emerged and grabbed the cop, towing him toward the raft.
He practically pushed the man into the boat, dove again, and like a dolphin, towed him into shore.
The flames from the yacht lit up the water.
And that’s how it was done.
Hooyah.
He surfaced as he came closer to the beach, spitting out his regulator and propping himself on the edge of the raft.
The man looked familiar. Short dark hair, a scattering of dark whiskers across his square jawline. The build of a linebacker.
The cop who’d let him onto the island.
“Yeah,” the cop said. Except he didn’t look okay. He’d been worked over, his eye swollen, a welt on his jaw, and he held his side from where a wound bled into the standing water of the raft.
He’d been stabbed.
Jake took off his fins, threw them into the raft, and towed it to shore, wishing he’d grabbed booties in his haste to get in the water. But he slipped his feet into his shoes, then reached for the man.
“What’s your name?”
“Wade. Wade Donovan. With the Key West Police.”
Jake saw the confirmation printed on his shirt. He helped Wade out of the raft, then shucked off the equipment and left it in the raft, keeping the dive knife. “Let’s get you some medical attention.”
Wade had crumpled onto shore, his face twisted. “I should have been paying attention, but they got the jump on me.”
“It happens. Let’s go.” Jake grabbed him by the waist and helped him up. He spotted a jet ski amid the scattered boats, grabbed the dive knife from the vest, and headed for it.
“What are you—”
“Scoring us a ride.” Jake grabbed the two wires protruding from the handlebar attached to the ignition box, cut them with his knife, then peeled away the rubber insulation, exposing the wires.
He tied them together. Then he climbed on and pressed the ignition button.
And voilà, God was suddenly on his side because the machine turned over.
Hooyah.
He revved it and it hummed to life.
“Get on,” he said to Wade, who was leaning over, clutching his knees. He hobbled over to Jake and eased his leg over the back, groaning. “Who are you? Some kind of criminal?”
And right then, Jake heard Aria’s voice, bright and solid in his head. “It’s in your DNA to find trouble and fix it. That makes you the good guy, not a villain.”
Jake pulled out, toward the inlet leading to the hospital. “Just a guy trying to help. Hold on, because my guess is that there’s more than just those guys on this island. And if I don’t get back, the woman I love is going to kill me.”