CAT HEARD THE piercing scream even though her head was underwater admiring a pretty conch shell on the ocean floor. She aborted her dive, kicked to the surface and removed her mouthpiece. Treading water, she scrutinized Spree.
Four figures occupied the cockpit: two of them her friends, two of them strange males. One black, one white.
Who were the visitors? Not friendly or Debbie wouldn’t have screamed. How did they get on the boat? Did they swim? Drop from the sky?
What did they want?
The black man yelled something.
The white male took a step back, allowing her to see a gun in his hand.
Cat gasped, and sank below the surface, taking an unexpected swallow of salt water. Spitting, she surfaced and pushed wet hair out of her face.
What the hell was going on aboard Spree?
The man aimed his gun skyward. A shot crackled through the air.
Disbelieving, Cat pumped the water with her swim fins, remaining in place. Where was Javi? Already dead? No, she hadn’t heard another shot, but maybe they’d used a knife on him. Who knew how long the men had been on Spree. She’d been oblivious, gathering the conch in her mesh bag for supper.
She glanced to shore. Should she swim to the beach or back to the boat? She couldn’t help her friends if she joined them, but what could she do on an undeveloped island? She didn’t have a cell phone or any way to contact the—
A figure emerged from the hatch in the forward cabin and slipped over the side, barely making a splash as he entered the water. Javi.
She blinked. It happened so fast she wasn’t sure what she saw had been real.
No one in the cockpit noticed his escape, their view of the bow blocked by the cushions she’d left propped against the mast earlier.
Disbelieving, Cat kept pumping her fins to hold her head above the water. What had Javi done? The captain had abandoned Joan and Deb to the intruders and their gun. Why would he do that?
Because he was a coward. Disappointment surged through her, stronger than her confusion.
And where was he now? She surveyed the anchorage, waiting for his dark head to appear. How long could he hold his breath?
One of the men on Spree yelled something else, forcing her attention back to the boat. The white intruder hurried down into the cabin. Was he searching for the captain? Oh, my God. His partner was also waving a gun.
What should she do?
Javi surfaced five feet away from her and sucked a deep breath into his lungs. Treading water, he placed a finger over his mouth signaling her to stay quiet, then swam toward her.
“What’s going on?” she demanded.
“Pirates have taken over Spree,” he said, breathing hard.
She stared at him. Pirates?
“I’m going to swim away from you. They might not know you’re out here, and it’s better if they don’t.”
“What?”
“Pay attention,” he said. “We need to swim to shore before they realize where we are and start shooting. Stay underwater as much as you can. Don’t use your snorkel.”
“What about Joan and Deb?”
“Don’t argue. Start swimming.”
“But we can’t just leave—”
“Swim.” After a huge breath, Javi dove underwater with a powerful kick, angling away from her.
A shout came from Spree again. A scream from Joan this time. Oh, God. Joanie.
The white man reemerged in the cockpit yelling something. Both men looked toward Gun Cay.
Cat dove below the surface, stroking and kicking as hard as she could toward land.
A gunshot rang out, its sound altered, muffled because she was underwater. A split second later a bullet jetted into the water ahead of her, trailing bubbles behind. Another shot. Another bullet—closer this time—streamed toward the ocean floor. She altered her course, not daring to surface, praying hard.
She could all but feel a bullet enter the back of her head.
She’d never make it to shore without another breath.
* * *
JAVI HEARD THE SHOTS, but they were nowhere near him.
They’d spotted Irish in the water, not him. Probably because of the dive flag.
He surfaced with a huge splash and a shout to draw their fire. After a quick breath for his burning lungs, he dove again.
Bullets hissed into the water around him.
He dove deeper and swam hard, altering his trajectory toward land so the pirates wouldn’t know where he’d surface next time, giving him time to grab a quick breath.
Would Irish make it to shore without getting shot? Would she have sense enough to crawl off the beach into the cover of the mangroves? He’d find out soon enough.
Guilt ate at him for leaving Joan and Debbie behind. He hated to think about their surprise, their fury, when they found him gone. But there was nothing he could do for them if he was dead. He had no doubt the intruders planned to murder him, weight his body and throw it overboard.
Whatever they’d done, they didn’t need him. They needed the women for cover.
He surfaced for a breath and dared a quick look. The beach was thirty feet away, but he didn’t see Irish anywhere. His gut tightened. With the assistance of swim fins, she should have made it to shore before him. Where was she?
Praying she was still alive, he dove again and swam toward the beach.
When his feet crunched sand, he crouched and ran a jagged course toward the mangroves. Shots rang out, but thudded into the sand around him. Even an expert shot would have trouble hitting a moving target with a handgun at this distance. Especially from a rocking sailboat.
He entered the safety of the mangroves and faded out of sight. Breathing hard, he sank into a crouch, making his body mass as small as possible, and scanned the water for Irish. He didn’t see a body floating.
He patted his pockets, making sure the few things he’d had time to gather made the trip. The Glock and cell phone were both secure. The odds of either working after a swim were nil, but he hadn’t wanted to leave another weapon for the pirates. He checked the phone, but it was dead. No way to summon help.
Maybe it would dry out, but not likely.
He felt for the wrench in the other side pocket, but knew it was there. Damn thing was heavy, had weighed him down on the swim for shore. Not much of a weapon, but a tool to disable Spree’s diesel if it came to that. He flicked the last item, a disposable butane lighter, which flared instantly.
At least he could start a fire.
From his position he had a good view of the anchorage. Spree remained in place, rocking peacefully on her anchor. One man and Debbie were visible above deck. On the stern the fold-up dive ladder remained down where Cat had left it to get back on board. No doubt the intruders had used it themselves after swimming over from the Sandra Lou. That boat now lay on her side, soon to slip beneath the surface and disappear.
So they must have dry bags for their guns. Did that mean this caper had been carefully planned? Or were they just lucky to happen onto Spree when they entered the anchorage?
He returned his attention to the beach, hunting for Irish. Where was she?
“I’m over here.”
He snapped his head to his left and found her also hiding in the tangled roots. She’d picked her location well. He hadn’t seen her from ten feet away.
“Are you okay?” he asked, moving toward her. A mesh bag full of conch and her swim fins lay propped on the mangrove roots at her feet.
“No, I’m definitely not okay.”
“Are you injured, shot?” he demanded.
“No.”
But when he made his way next to her, she was hugging herself, her hands jammed into her armpits, shivering. Whether from cold or fright, he wasn’t sure. “What the hell happened on Spree?” she demanded.
“I suspect the owners of Sandra Lou are responsible for a theft and murder in Nassau a few days ago.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“One of the reasons it took so long to clear in Alice Town was because officials were on alert for perps who possibly fled on a boat. I think the Sandra Lou is that boat. Take a look at it.”
Irish swung her gaze away from him. She gasped when she focused on the sinking yacht. “Oh, my God. What is going on?”
“My gut feeling is the pirates deliberately sank their boat to get rid of evidence. Now they need Spree to make their escape.”
“You say they killed someone in Nassau?” she asked, her voice a hoarse whisper.
“That was the report. If these are the same perps.”
“Then they’ll kill Debbie and Joan, too.”
“I don’t think so,” Javi said. “At least not right away.”
“Why not?”
“The authorities are searching for two men, so two women provide excellent cover. When the Royal Bahamas Defence Force shows up—and they will after that gunfire, someone had to hear it—Spree appears to be two friendly couples out on a sailing vacation.”
“Still, you shouldn’t have left them. Why did you leave them?”
“If I’d stayed on that boat, I’d be dead.”
“I knew it.” She hugged herself in an obvious attempt to get warm. “You’re a coward.”
The accusation stung, but Javi ignored it. Irish was shaking uncontrollably, and probably not thinking clearly. This is why he preferred to work alone. No need to explain his thinking or actions to a partner.
He needed to get her out of that T-shirt and into the sun.
“I know that’s what it looks like, but think about it,” he said. “I’m a physical threat they don’t need. The minute I showed my face, they would have shot me.”
She nodded, hopefully considering what he said.
“I can’t save your friends if I’m dead,” he repeated.
“You thought this all out before you jumped ship?”
“Yes.”
Looking doubtful, she said, “So how are you going to save them?”
“I don’t suppose you have a cell phone in that bag.”
“Why would I take a phone snorkeling?”
“Some people carry a dry bag in case of emergency.” Another explanation, more waste of valuable time.
“So why didn’t you bring yours when you abandoned ship?” she demanded.
“I did, but I didn’t have time to dig a dry bag out of storage. The phone is dead.”
“Oh.” She nodded, apparently out of questions for now.
“But the shots they fired were a mistake,” Javi told her.
“It could draw attention,” she agreed, her teeth now chattering. “I wondered about that. So what can we do without a phone?”
“I’m working on a plan. First, I need to warm you up.”
He reached out to touch the gooseflesh on her arm, but she jerked away, shooting him a look of disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
He shook his head. She thought he wanted sex? Irish was in shock and disoriented. Would she give him trouble when the sun went down and their joint body heat would become necessary? Likely she’d be too cold then to object.
“We’re going to move out of the mangroves into the sun. There’s a clearing about a quarter mile inland with a fire pit used by tourists.”
He grabbed her snorkel bag, stood and extended an arm to help her. “You’ll feel better when you start moving. Watch where you step.”
Javi assisted Irish—who wore lightweight dive shoes similar to the ones he had on—over the mangrove roots onto the narrow hiking path.
“Windmill your arms like this,” he told Irish, demonstrating and feeling better himself for it. “It’ll generate heat.”
They were out of range now, so didn’t have to worry about being shot. He took a last look through the vegetation at Spree. The cockpit was empty. The pirates had taken both women below deck.
The Sandra Lou had turned belly up, the scarred, faded blue bottom of her hull all that remained visible. Unless the authorities knew where to look, soon there’d be no hint that she’d even existed.
This was his fault. He was the captain and had let this happen. He should have been more wary of a new boat in the anchorage, tried to raise them on the radio when they’d arrived. If he had, he might have noticed something from their transmission. Or lack of one. They might have ignored him, which would have told him a lot.
He of all people knew what a scary world this was.
How was he going to get them out of this disaster?
When they reached the clearing, Irish collapsed on one of the rocks that circled the fire pit, a depression in the sand containing leftover chunks of charred wood and ashes. Propped against one side was a blackened metal grate that adventurous tourists used to cook hot dogs or hamburgers over their fire.
He sat next to her on another rock and found the seat warmed by the sun. Good.
Irish had stopped shivering but looked frightened and miserable. She had every right to be both. They were in one hell of a mess, as were her friends on the boat. He needed to think, to come up with a foolproof plan. If such a thing existed.
“Do you think you could start a fire?” she asked, nodding at the ashes in the pit. “I could gather wood.”
Javi nodded. “Go ahead. Moving around will help warm you up.”
Her eyes widened. “Do you think they’ll come ashore looking for us? The smoke could give away our position.”
“I hope so, eventually. That’s part of my plan.”
“You want to lure them ashore?”
“Maybe. I’m still working out the details.”
“Why bring them to us?”
“Do me a favor, Irish. Look for dry wood and let me think.”
Color rose into her cheeks. “Aye-aye, Captain, sir.” She all but flung the words at him as she executed a crisp salute. He winced.
“On my way, sir.”
She rose and limped toward the edge of the clearing.
This would be so much easier if he were alone.
But then Irish would be a hostage along with her friends. A chill traveled his spine. No, that wouldn’t be better.
Would he be able to save Joan and Debbie? Odds weren’t looking great right now. He had too little to work with. If only he knew more about the pirates, their background, their motivation. But he didn’t have that advantage. He’d have to act in the dark, using generic assumptions on how violent, desperate men would behave. He thought about the slurred voice of the white man. The fact that they might be high on the pharmaceuticals they stole complicated any decision making.
Irish returned and dropped an armload of branches into the pit. She didn’t glance his way or speak.
“I’m sorry,” he told her.
She glared at him, green eyes narrowed. “For what?”
“For sounding like a dictator, giving you orders. Hell, for everything.” He spread his arms. “For bringing you here, for putting you and your friends in danger.”
“It’s not your fault.” She sat on the rock again. “We insisted on coming to the Bahamas.”
“But I knew better.”
“I remember you trying to talk us out of it.”
He shrugged. He should have tried harder. He stared into the cold fire pit. Why hadn’t he refused? Maybe he’d wanted to show off his nautical skills because of his attraction to Irish. Or had he let his annoyance with her friends interfere with his judgment?
He’d wanted a challenge. Now he had one.
After a moment, she asked, “Do you think the pirates have tied them up?”
“Yes. I’m certain they’re restrained somehow,” Javi said carefully.
Irish closed her eyes. “Oh, my God. Those men will rape them.”
Javi nodded. He’d known this was coming. “They could, but I don’t think they will.”
“What’s to stop them? You’re certainly not on Spree to protect them.”
“Right now they’ve got more to worry about than raping women. And from what I heard of their voices, I think at least one of them is high.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.” She released a deep sigh. “Joan and Deb must be terrified. I’m terrified.” She leveled her accusing gaze on him again. “You shouldn’t have left them.”
“I’m flattered you think I could overpower two men with guns.”
“No,” she whispered. “I guess not.”
Javi opened her mesh snorkel bag to take stock of what he had to work with, and removed five healthy conch shells, none of them gray, none of them fishy smelling. She’d done well on her hunt. He’d cook the meat over a fire, doubting Irish would eat raw conch. And they’d need food. His lunch had been a ham sandwich eaten right here in this clearing while ashore with Joan and Debbie. That had been hours ago.
“Did you have any lunch?” he asked.
“I ate an apple before I went swimming. I planned on eating when I got back.”
He nodded. Irish was too frightened to want food at this point, but that would eventually change.
He peered into the bag. An almost full liter of water and a knife remained in the bottom.
He removed the knife and tested its sharpness. Excellent.
He had a weapon.