There was a loud hum and lights went on everywhere in the corridor, Cross flattening himself against the bulkhead, Comstock hissing, “Good God …”
“Hang loose,” Cross answered.
The speaker on the opposite bulkhead crackled and a voice—it sounded like the voice of the devil—came over the air. “The rotten bloody bastards who slaughtered Tim McCarthy, the only support of his widowed mother. Listen close now! O’Fallon knows you by name. A Mr. Cross, a Miss Hall, a Mr. Comstock.” There was a pause. “Crewman Alvin Leeds.”
“Passenger list,” Comstock murmured. “But at least they don’t have Leeds.”
“Listen,” came the voice again. There was a woman’s scream, and the speaker crackled with terrible static, a noise so loud Cross tried to shield his ears, a sound like something ripping and tearing. Then the voice, the speaker still crackling static. “That was me killin’ a bloody British whore. I have me little British brats, too. I start killin’ a woman and a child every five minutes until the three of you appear before me in the Seabreeze Lounge. Four minutes, fifty-five seconds!” There was a loud click, and then an even louder one as the lights went out again and the panic lights tried to glow again.
Cross looked back toward where Jenny Hall and Liedecker were, Jenny standing square in the middle of the corridor, mouth open, tears streaming down her cheeks. She took out her pistol and for a moment, Cross thought she was going to shoot herself with it, but she threw it down, Cross dodging back in case it discharged. And then she was running, back along the way they’d come. Cross snapped, “Comstock!” and he pushed the AKM into the Britisher’s hands. “Cover the hold!” Cross was running after her, not daring to shout, Jenny disappearing around a bend in the corridor, the stairwell not far beyond. Cross reached the bend, skidding, half tripping, launching himself into a dead run, arms out at his sides, mouth wide and gulping air.
She was at the entrance to the stairwell now, Cross right behind her.
She disappeared inside. Cross hit the entrance as the door started to slam, punched it back, the door swinging wide, banging against the bulkhead, Jenny taking the stairs two at a time running. Cross threw his body toward her, his left hand catching at her right ankle, closing over it, pulling her down as he hurtled up and forward, his right arm closing around her waist, bulldogging her, both of their bodies, intertwined, rolling back down the stairs, Cross taking the impact as they crashed against the deck at the stairs’ base.
“Let me—” Cross’s hand went over her mouth. She tried biting him, her hands free, scratching at his exposed flesh, clawing at him. His legs scissored around her, trying to pin her, the nails just missing his eye and gouging along his cheek. His right hand flicked outward, slapping her, her head snapping back. She started to scream again and he did the only thing he could. His left hooked upward, catching her at the tip of the chin and decking her. His hands caught at her before she fell back. And Cross held her face in his hands, still straddling her, looking down at her. “I can’t let you go.” He drew her to him and just held her for a long second. The lights came on again. The speaker in the stairwell over their heads clicked on again. Abe Cross knew what he would hear.
And he knew he’d kill this man O’Fallon for it, not a man at all but a devil incarnate….
Vols advanced on knees and elbows toward the open doors, deciding that with the speaker blaring now was the best time, despite the light. He crawled between the open doors and onto the catwalk, peering down, the shotgun and the AKM left behind with the West German, Liedecker.
A half dozen men, laying out ropes of plastic explosives, the ropes uncoiling from open packing crates.
These madmen had planned this well.
He closed his eyes, trying to clear his head, trying to ignore the horrible voice of this homicidal maniac. It was one thing to kill for your country, to kill men who would just as easily kill you if they had to, but no more willingly. This man—this O’Fallon. Vols opened his eyes. Six men. Each armed with an assault rifle or submachine gun. Could they be taken? Where else were there explosives?
And then he heard the plaintive voice of a young child, saying, crying, “I’m scared! Mommie! Mommie! Mo—” There was the burst of static which Vols knew was gunfire. There were screams, then the shriek of a woman’s terror and another burst of static.
And then the voice of O’Fallon. “Five minutes or two more. I got enough to keep this goin’ longer than you can keep listenin’, I do!”
Vols only realized he’d been biting his lower lip when he tasted the blood.