days.
Jackson sat strapped to his seat in the helicopter. The muscles in his jaw and neck threatened to snap with tension, and the pounding roar of the rotors flayed his nerves and thrashed his patience. Samana Cay was still ten minutes out. Dusk only another hour and a half after that, tops, and then another night for Cassidy with the most dangerous creature ever to walk the earth.
Three days.
Jackson’s imagination ran wild with what all she had endured in the last four nights. His fist curled, itching to smash into something, anything.
Three days for Garrett to fly in from his South American hideout, to assemble their gear, organize their strategy—and find one lousy yacht. Between the two of them, everything but that last bit took less than a day. Finding Apokryphos should have been a simple matter of looking up her official tracking data, but anything named for its ability to remain hidden would, of course, not make it that easy for mere mortals to find her.
Nick had called Jackson the evening after his visit and railed at him—in both English and French—for, oddly enough, still being alive. “Are you truly so incompetent? This is over sixty meters of boat, very likely lurking very nearby. How can you not find such a thing, you imbecile?”
Normally they’d look up her AIS info and current coordinates, and be on their way. Apokryphos transmitted no such data. Or, if she did, falsified it. This search would take eyeballs. Coast Guard eyeballs, drone eyeballs, their eyeballs, even tourists-on-the-beach eyeballs.
“Where was all this eagerness to die when I had him in a cage?” Garrett said after the call disconnected. Jackson’s uncle hadn’t uttered a word during the conversation, which Jackson put on speaker for his benefit. Though nothing would have kept Garrett away from this ultimate of all hunts, he preferred his contact with their unlikely source to be as minimal as possible.
“You didn’t use the right motivation. It’s Cassidy he says he’s willing to die for.” That idea still brought him up short. Whether it was true for the vampire, would Jackson be willing to sacrifice himself for her? He liked to think he would, but…
Garrett snorted. “Right. He gave us a lead we can’t afford to pass up. As long as they all end up dead, I don’t care why.”
They had poured over the incomplete data about Apokryphos’s location, called in favors with patrols, and contacted Bahamian customs. There was no record anywhere of a vessel by that name or description. Apokryphos was a phantom.
“He may have gone straight out to sea and off the grid,” Garrett said. “We may need to wait until he surfaces for Nicky. Assuming this thing exists at all, of course. We only have his word on that and your…hunch that he’s telling the truth.”
“I checked. Cassidy really is MIA from work and from home.” Where he had found her father, of all unlikely people, believing that his daughter was out of town on business. “So I’ll follow every clue we have to find her.”
“Suit yourself.”
Jackson kept digging through the data. This morning he finally spotted an oddity among the hundreds of vessels plying these waters, a “fishing charter” that seemed to have no interest in deep water and instead loitered around the uninhabited Samana Cay in the far eastern Bahamas. It had to be Apokryphos. The situation smelled right, especially after he couldn’t get a hold of anyone on land connected with the mystery signal. If this wasn’t the traveling lair of the legendary Kambyses, Jackson would be as incompetent as Nick proclaimed him to be.
His headphones crackled and the irritatingly cheerful voice of the pilot said in a mellow island lilt, “Coming up on Samana Cay, gentlemen.”
It wasn’t the Striker corporate helo they were in, but the first available flying bucket they could hire out of Nassau, an old Bell 206 Jet Ranger he hoped had a better maintenance record than its exterior suggested. The pilot, looking as battered as his transport, was in high spirits the moment he saw the brick of cash Garrett tossed at him. Nor did he question the duffel bags they insisted on hauling into the cramped passenger compartment.
Though he might have, had he known what they contained.
Garrett fitted a pistol with a full magazine and handed it to his nephew. Jackson chambered a round, confirmed the safety, and slid it into a holster strapped to his thigh. His uncle did the same. Both of them had donned Kevlar vests over their black, long-sleeved shirts. The pockets of their cargo pants were stuffed with extra ammunition, charged full-spectrum lights and vials of silver dust. Each carried knives sharp enough to sever spines.
Garrett also had a small backpack hanging off one shoulder. Jackson tried not to think about the contents, which was Garrett’s idea of a weapon of last resort. There was enough C-4 in there to sink a small naval vessel in a matter of minutes. A yacht, probably in seconds. The thought made his nerves squirm. He was prepared to battle a vampire out to rip him apart, but would they really need to blow themselves up in the process?
No, it wouldn’t come to that. Garrett wasn’t that crazy. Right?
Jackson shook his head. This was no time to second-guess anything. He had to operate on instinct, and instinct dictated that he trust his uncle—with explosives.
He pushed the polarized sunglasses up his nose and cracked open the side window. Cool sea air blasted him as he angled for a better view. At the horizon, surrounded by dull blue water under a dull gray sky, was the dull green smear of Samana Cay, featureless and devoid of human life, remote to everything but seagulls and boats.
“And there’re your friends,” the pilot announced.
Jackson’s heart jumped. Where? He sat up straighter and peered between the pilot and empty copilot seats out the front window. “Fuck.”
Beside him, Garrett glanced up from reviewing the yacht’s schematics drawn up from Nick’s memory. “What have we got? The Queen Mary?”
No, this couldn’t be. This just could not be. Jackson stared harder. It was. A bright white dot anchored in the island’s shallow bay. A sport fisherman, maybe forty or fifty feet, sinister only to sailfish and Mahi.
“Want me to hail them, gentlemen?” the pilot inquired helpfully.
“No point,” Jackson said, feeling his hands clench until the knuckles cracked. “That’s not them.”
Grinning, Garret shook his head and pocketed the drawing. “I knew it.”
“No, you didn’t. Or you would have let me fly out here by myself.”
He shrugged. “Take it easy, kid. Patience is the key.”
That was something Jackson had less of by the hour. “Carlos, we’re leaving.”
The chopper wiggled around in a hesitant turn over the island just as the sun broke through a gap in the clouds. “You sure you don’t want to land here?”
“No, just turn this—wait!” Jackson tore off the sunglasses and pushed his face against the window. Something along the island’s far shore, two miles away, caught the late afternoon light. Something he couldn’t quite see.
A phantom.
“Carlos, head to the east shore.”
Another turn, this one more enthusiastic.
“Are you going to get us home in time for dinner?” Garrett wondered, though his tone held more wariness than jest.
Jackson focused out the front window, desperately searching the dark-gray Atlantic waters, seeking one enormous shadow. He spotted the glint of bold, gold lettering first, then the much lighter teak deck as it came into view.
“Got you, you son of a bitch. Carlos, swing around. Let’s take a closer look.”
As they choppered several wide circles around the vessel, the hunters made note of every nuance with binoculars. Two hundred feet of ship cruised below, sleek and dark and barely there. Along her sides and across her aft, the stylized gold script announced her name to all unfortunate enough to spot her anyway.
Apokryphos.
The hidden.
“I’ll be damned,” Garrett muttered.
“Can we hail them?” Jackson called out to the pilot.
Over the headphones, they listened to Carlos trying to radio the yacht. It didn’t respond until the third attempt. A chillingly unemotional male voice informed them they were on a leisure cruise, in no need of assistance, and receiving no guests.
“I hope you weren’t expecting a welcome mat,” Garrett said.
“Carlos, can you land this thing on their helipad?” The tiny space on the front deck looked tight, but clear of obstructions.
“They don’t sound like—”
“Just do it. Someone on board needs help. Trust me.”
Carlos swung around to eye the possibilities. “Wind is picking up. That boat is moving. It’s risky, gentlemen.”
“I’ll spot you. Just get us close. We’ll jump.”
Garret raised both brows. “It’s a bit late in the day for stunt work, don’t you think?”
“You can go home and have dinner. I’m not letting this—this”—he stabbed a finger at their target—“get away. We let this go, we’ll never see it again. We do this now, we retire tomorrow.”
“Oh, please tell us more,” Garrett said with a glance at the pilot. The man asked no questions about their trip, but at this rate, it wouldn’t be much longer before he figured out bloodshed was involved.
Jackson sat back, glaring a challenge until Garrett sighed, raised his binoculars again, and became all business. A moment later, he gave the hand signal confirming that he saw no weapons pointing their way, at least not yet.
They were clear to go. He was in.
Opening the window as far as it would go, Jackson hung his head out and talked the reluctant Carlos into a wobbly approach while Garrett secured their gear.
The helo bounced in a wind gust and struck the rail with a strut. They jarred violently. The pilot fretted about lawyers he couldn’t afford and called upon Jesus to run divine interference as he attempted another angle.
“Now,” Jackson shouted, and they slammed to the deck, rattling every bolt in the fuselage and every bone in their bodies.
While Jackson pushed gear out the door, Garrett ordered the pilot to wait on the island and stay tuned to the radio for thirty minutes in case their plan to escape using the yacht’s life boats didn’t pan out. If they weren’t ready to leave by then, they never would. The clock started ticking the second they set boots on Apokryphos. The helo hopped off the deck, leaving them crouched in its gusty backwash and dodging unsecured seat cushions. As their ride clop-clopped toward the island, silence descended, filled only by the quiet slaps and hiss of the sea against the ship’s hull.
“You’d think they have people dropping in uninvited all the time,” Jackson said, reaching for his gun.
Garrett stayed his hand. “Easy, Jack. Let’s not look like a threat until we have to.”
Looking straight back, they faced the bridge. Someone had to be watching them from behind those smoked windows. Watching them and not caring? Nick had said the crew was compelled to function as little more than automatons to operate and maintain the ship. His flesh crawled. He could almost feel the primal power envelop this vessel and everyone on it, even in the light of day.
They were about to embark on their mission when a woman rounded the outside of the bridge, wearing a black windbreaker, white palazzo pants, and a colorless smile. She walked tall and straight with confidence, her deep-red ponytail flying in the wind. “Welcome aboard Apokryphos.”
Garrett put his hand on his gun. Their welcome committee kept her hands in her pockets, against the chill—or holding a weapon of her own? Smiling assassins were all too common in their line of work.
“You two look tense,” the redhead said, following his hand’s movement with her eyes. “Well, not to worry. Your travel nightmares are over.” She removed her hands from her pockets to clasp them before her, empty. “I’m Monica Sol, manager of this fine vessel and the owner’s representative.”
“Well. Aren’t you special,” Garrett said, not moving his hand.
She lowered her head and blushed. “As a matter of fact, I am, yes.”
“As it happens, we’ve dropped in to have a chat with—”
“Cassidy,” Jackson broke in. “We’re friends of Cassidy’s.”
“Right,” Garrett agreed without missing a beat.
“Oh, how delightful.” The hands now clapped, excited. “She’ll be so happy to see you. I’m afraid she’s been a little bored.”
“I bet,” Jackson said.
“Come, come.” Monica gestured for them to follow and turned away. “You’re just in time for dinner.”
“Won’t be staying for that,” Garrett said under his breath. “Plan A.”
Jackson nodded and fell in behind their hostess, whom Nick described as the least compelled mortal he had ever witnessed in his sire’s presence. That made her either harmless—or the most dangerous person on the ship before sundown. Which was in another—he checked his watch—seventy-two minutes. Plenty of time.
Nervous energy tingled over his skin as they stepped through a door into the serene, spotless interior full of geometric-patterned carpets and cherry-wood paneling. Monica slipped out of her jacket and hung it in a utility closet by the door. Her white tunic bore no pockets. She was unarmed.
Garrett reached for his gun again when a blank-faced crew-member dressed entirely in black passed them on his way to the bridge. The man didn’t even glance in their direction, and Jackson felt like a ghost suddenly, there but unseen and in the company of an angel. Like he was already dead. He set his jaw and shook his head. He had to stay focused on the mission. Otherwise, they were done for.
“We’ll take the stairs,” Garrett said, when Monica pushed the call button on an elevator. “Healthier.”
“If you prefer.” She entered the stairwell.
Jackson nodded to his uncle and followed, tromping with as much noise as possible. As per “Plan A,” Garrett went to find another stairway farther back to take himself and his backpack two decks down to the engine room. The engine room where, according to Dominique, the miniature submarine was housed. The submarine in which Kambyses spent his oblivious days.
Monica only moved down one deck and into a short hallway. “Did we lose someone?” she said, brows rising when she stopped by a door and noticed Garrett gone.
“Hmm?” Jackson looked around and feigned innocence. “Oh, right. He needed the men’s room. He’ll find us. Can’t really get lost on this thing, can you?”
Her smile showed the first cracks. “You’d be surprised how many people get lost on this boat.”
“Cassidy?” Jackson prompted, gesturing toward the door.
“Yes, of course.” She knocked. “Cassie? You have company, honey.” Opening the door, she entered, Jackson on her heels.
“Cass?” The generous cabin suite with two neatly made up beds was empty. Swinging open the bathroom door, he found this deserted as well. He turned back to Monica, who hung back by the doorway, and let his defensive anger rise. “Where is she?”
The redhead’s angelic demeanor vanished. “You silly boy,” she chided. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you think?” he ground out, fists balling by his sides.
“I see. In that case, you should know that there is no one on this ship who isn’t ready to give their life to protect my lord’s interests. Currently, these interests include Cassidy Chandler.”
A muted pop-pop-pop from elsewhere on the ship punctuated her last words. Jackson recognized gunfire when he heard it. So did his tour guide, who looked pleased.
“It sounds like your colleague just figured that out, too.”
Jackson pulled out his own gun, but his thoughts immediately flew to the C-4 in Garrett’s backpack. Could a bullet set that off?
Monica’s condescending expression didn’t waver. More distant gunfire reached them, making him brace for an explosion that didn’t come. Instead, there was a small sound directly behind him.
Raising his weapon, he whirled around, but only made it far enough to spot a large body clad in black from the corner of his eye. Shit! How the fuck had he missed that guy? Why hadn’t he checked the closet, too?
His racing thoughts came to an abrupt halt when something hard connected with the back of his head. Stars exploded before his eyes.
Then he saw nothing at all.