The scent of blood fills the room. My skin burns even though I’m mostly naked. The sea swells rhythmically outside the window, oblivious to the carnage on board. I keep my knees bent, swaying with the motion.
Taking in slow, even breaths, I force the putrid air into my lungs as I pull my pants back up over blood-spattered legs. My hands, forearms, and chest are painted in it. I don’t bother with a shirt.
Ponytail lays slumped at my feet. I bend down, cutting the strap of his Uzi, pulling it free from his corpse. It’s sticky but should work. I push the safety selector all the way forward into the automatic position. He’s taped down the grip safety so I don’t need to worry about that.
And that’s a good thing because pounding feet in the hall tell me my moment of solitude is about to end. I slip my knives back into my pockets and step over Ponytail’s body.
Muffled gunshots come from upstairs. I move to the far side of the door so that when someone slams into it seconds later—and it hits Beard’s body, blocking the entrance—I’m hidden from view.
The door shudders as it’s struck again, Beard’s body rolling slightly but still blocking the door. I wait for the next impact and this time I fire. The bullets blast through the door and a scream tells me I hit someone.
I drop to the ground, heart hammering. The screaming continues so my victim—presumably one of the guys who was ransacking Lenox’s stateroom—is still alive. What will his buddy do?
Bullets explode through the door and ricochet around the room, puncturing the walls and breaking windows. He’s aiming at stomach height. I’m on the floor, dust and debris floating down to me.
I let out a bloodcurdling scream like he’s hit his mark, then roll onto my back, aiming my gun at the door. It hangs from its hinges, but still obscures the view from the hallway.
I keep screaming. A shape moves behind the door. I need to wait until he’s trying to get into the room, stepping over Beard’s corpse, so that any bullets which miss him will fire toward Lenox’s suite rather than my room. The chances of a stray bullet piercing walls and hitting James or one of my dogs is slim…but I can wait.
A hand curls around the broken door. I fire. The gun pumps hard, my arms vibrating from the powerful weapon. The pirate falls into the room, his brain painting the wall behind him.
There are whimpers coming from the hall. The first pirate I shot is still alive. Not for long. I roll to my feet, staying low.
Through the holes in the door I can make out a figure on the floor. He’s holding his thigh with both hands, blood gushing from his wound. I hit the femoral artery. All I have to do is wait. He can die in as little as two or three minutes from that wound.
Thudding and gunshots from above warn me I may not have those few minutes, though. Anxiety churns in my gut, pressuring me to move. But the dying man in the hallway still has his gun on his chest.
Beard’s body blocks the shattered door from fully opening. And another corpse now lies across him, draped between the hallway and the suite, further barricading me in here. I’m slim enough to fit through but I’m going to have to climb. The dying pirate in the hall may use his last breath to lift his weapon and end me as I clamber over the bodies—that’s what I would do in his position.
If I shoot him again, I risk bullets going in the general direction of my son. That is unacceptable. I decide to wait.
A pained shout from above—rough and familiar—constricts my chest.
Mulberry.
The rat-tat-tat of gunfire pulls my gaze to the ceiling. Bullets could come through it. Bullets could be going into James’s room right now.
Fear forms icicles around my heart, each one threatening to spear it.
The whimpering in the hall fades to silence. Through the holes in the door I watch the man go slack. Gun stock pressed to my shoulder, I keep the muzzle trained on the man on the floor. Any bullet’s trajectory would be through the hull…straight into the ocean. I don’t think one little bullet hole would sink us. And better the ship than James or one of the dogs.
Blood still pumps from the man’s leg but his eyes are closed, hands by his sides, gun laying untouched on his chest.
Four to go.
Keeping hold of my Uzi with my left hand, I grip the door frame with my right, steadying myself as I step up onto the pile of corpses.
Another round of gunshots from above urges me on. I try to ignore the uncomfortable way the flesh gives as my weight presses it down, the pile unsteady. Standing on the shoulder of a dead man, I peek out into the hall.
Gray—the man who seemed to be the pirates’ leader—is slumped at the bottom of the stairs. He’s lost his hat, but his gray hair still shows the outline of it. His chin rests on his chest. Which doesn’t look like it’s moving from here. But he’s not dead.
I can tell when I’m looking at a dead man. There is an otherworldly stillness that comes over a corpse. And Gray’s body is not still enough. Yet.
I don’t see any blood on him or any weapons, but I keep my eyes on him as I jump into the hall. The boat sways from a swell and I stumble, my shoulder knocking into the wall as I keep both hands on my weapon.
Blood squishes under my boots as I push off the wall and start toward Gray and the stairs to the salon. I will have to pass him. Should I shoot him, just for good measure? That might alert someone upstairs of my approach. Right now I have an element of surprise. No one expects ponytailed jogger prey to come back covered in blood, hefting an Uzi.
If they’ve subdued our side, I need all the advantages I can get.
I stop five feet from Gray. His chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. My finger itches to end him. Is he faking being unconscious? Doesn’t seem like his style—not that I know the man, but these guys don’t strike me as subtle.
Another round of gunshots from upstairs makes my decision for me. This battle needs to end before James gets hurt.
I start past Gray, my focus on the stairs. The rustle of fabric behind me sends a warning up my spine and I drop. A gunshot explodes, sending a bullet whistling through the air above my head.
Twisting as I fall, I land on my back, weapon aimed back down the stairs at Gray. He’s lowering his pistol to re-aim. I fire. Nothing. Fucking Uzis!
My feet are braced, keeping me halfway up the steps. I release them, sliding rapidly down toward Gray. A bullet thunks into the steps above me. My foot lashes out, knocking his pistol up. My other boot hits his chest. We spill down into the hallway in a tangle of limbs. But he’s still got a working gun and mine is basically an awkward bludgeoning tool. I’ll take what I can get, though, and lash out with it, jamming him in the throat.
He coughs but still brings his weapon around. I’ve got no room and no time. I drop the Uzi, grabbing his wrist with both hands. We roll, his weight landing on top of me. I bring his wrist to my mouth, biting down. He grunts, and I feel the chilling cold of a blade against my neck.
My eyes meet his over his wrist. He smiles. “Let go,” he says in accented English. I release him. He doesn’t aim the pistol at me. He’s got a big-ass knife on my neck, so doesn’t need it to subdue me. But this means he doesn’t want me dead right away. What a fool.
“Two can play the injured calf game,” he says, his breath on my face. “You fooled my men with your cries, but not me.”
Keeping the blade at my throat, he holsters his pistol and digs his hand into my hair, our embrace suddenly intimate. He leans back, pulling me with him, one hand in my hair, the other pressing the blade to my throat. He grins down at me, dark brown eyes searching my face. “I like prey that can fight back.”
Blood coats my tongue. “And I like men who die on their knees.”