The Girl on the Yacht (26 page)

The two women quickly slipped past John. Cameron took the lead with Marin pulling up to cover. At the same instant, John took two steps back into the galley. Without a thought, more like instinct, his hand reached over to the knife block and pulled out the first knife it touched. He held out the tiny paring blade and stared at it in bemusement as well as fear.
This is really messed up. I need a gun, or at least a bigger knife.
He fumbled for the right choice until he found the butcher knife––all ten inches of sharpened carbide steel.
That’s better
. He motioned back and forth as if he were in a knife fight.
I can do this––no problem
.

From outside, a voice broke the silence.

Immediately unnerved, John dropped the knife and it arrowed to the floor with a heavy, dull, single, thump. Next to his foot, the blade vibrated from its protrusion in the teak floor.

“John,” the voice said from the other side of the glass door.

“Mitch?” Cameron holstered her weapon and pressed her mike button. “He’s okay, stand down.” With no hesitation in opening the door, she grabbed Mitch’s wrist and jerked him inside the salon.

The look on his face was almost comic-book drawn––his eyes as wide as silver dollars, his teeth clenched so tight the veins in his brow bulged. Off balance, he caught his fall with his extended free arm.

“You can’t be here,” Cameron ordered.

“What?” Mitch responded with a high level of anxiety from the rough handling.

Marin set her gun on the table and rested her hand on Cameron’s forearm. “Easy.”

John figured that for the third or forth time that day, Cameron’s adrenaline must have been pumping through her, and she appeared to be dangling on the edge of control. He also saw there was more to it than that.
She really liked Mitch
.

“Cameron,” John said in a strong tone.

She turned around to him.

“He’s okay. We’re okay.”

She released her grip.

“What’s going on?” Mitch rubbed his wrist and stared at Cameron.

“Some guy wants us dead.” John grinned at him.

“
Me
. Wants
me
dead,” Marin corrected him.

“I think—
us
—covers all contingencies.” John raised his eyebrows.

Mitch took his time and studied each of their faces. “You’re not kidding.” His mouth dropped open. “Who? Why?”

“The guy who killed Laura––he meant to kill Marin,” Cameron said.

“It should have been me.”

“Don’t ever say that.” John’s eyes became serious. “Nobody should have died. It’s not your fault. The guy’s a psychopath.”

“If I hadn’t––”

“Stop it,” Cameron insisted. “John’s right. We have to catch this lunatic. I’d prefer dead, but alive works, too.” Cameron turned toward Mitch. “Sorry, I’ve been . . . I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“You’ve had the toughest day of all of us,” Marin said and turned to Mitch. “She’s right, you can’t be here.”

Mitch’s face showed total confusion.

“Let’s get back to the plan. How are we going to do this?” John plopped down on the sofa, his eyes never leaving Cameron. “The way I see it, you’re not going to be able to last all night. You have all the signs of exhaustion.”

“I can help. What do you want me to do?” the plastic surgeon volunteered.

“Go home!” came from the three others at the same time.

Mitch was surprised by the vehement response. “I’m not leaving.”

“You’re not staying here.” Cameron guided him toward the door. “Mitch, you can’t stay here. You might get hurt. You might get one of us hurt.”

“Marin and John are staying,” he protested.

“Marin can handle herself. The jury’s out on John, but he’s got a lot at stake.”

“And I don’t?” He looked at Cameron. “I’ll worry about you.”

“Get used to it––I’m a cop. It goes with the job. If you can’t do that, then we have no future.”

John felt like he was watching a soap opera.

Mitch nodded. It was clear that it was the hardest nod he had ever given. His head looked like he had to force it up and down.

“I’m not going far. Not home. I’ll stay on my boat. I’m sure I won’t be sleeping much, so if you want to talk during the night, give me a call. I hope you do, because I’ll want to hear your voice every minute.” The doctor had a tear in his eye. “How do I leave you?”

“You’re not leaving––you’re just a few boats away. You’ve got to promise that you won’t come over in the night. I’d hate to shoot you by accident.” Cameron smiled. “Come on, I’ll take you to your boat.” She held out her hand.

“Maybe you can rest on my boat,” Mitch said.

“I don’t think I can do that––tomorrow maybe.”

“Why don’t you go and get some rest over there for a few hours?” Marin suggested.

“No, my job’s here. We’re in this together until it’s over.”

“Don’t say it like that.” John felt the goose bumps on the back of his neck. “You need to get some sleep––Marin and I will keep watch. You can camp out in the guest room up front in the bow or the captain’s quarters down below in the stern.”

“I’ll be right back.” Cameron put her hand on the butt of her gun and led Mitch out into the cool evening.

“Mitch, we’re going to be all right,” Marin assured him.

A few minutes later, Cameron reappeared in the salon and had a weary, grim smile on her face.

“Tell me about the boat. How many ways inside?”

John thought for a few seconds.

“There’s the sliding door on to the back deck. Forward, there’s a door on either side of the helm station, and the stairwell from the upper station.” He pointed forward.

“Can they be locked from inside?”

“Yeah.”

“Do it.”

He made a dash for the forward area, and in a minute, he returned.

“Done.”

She pointed to the stairs leading down.

“What about down there?”

“No exterior doors on the lower level. Only the interior stairs coming up to this level,” Marin said.

“But, there are two escape hatches in the ceilings of the cabins,” John said.

“Lock those, too.” Cameron, deep in thought, paced over to the curtain-covered window. “How many rooms downstairs?”

“Master stateroom, guest stateroom, my computer room, three bathrooms, and a couple of closets,” John said.

“What about the captain’s room? Where’s that?”

“It’s off the swim step in the back.”

“Can you get inside through there?”

“No, it’s sealed off by the engine room. A captain would have to go outside, climb the steps, and enter through the back doors.”

“I’ll stay inside. Where’s that guest room?”

“Come on, I need to lock the hatches in there.” John led the way downstairs, along the narrow corridor, to the farthest forward cabin. He glanced back at the master stateroom and saw Bailey curled up on the king-size bed. He shook his head. He continued on to the guest quarters and opened the door to a spacious room with a pedestal queen-size bed in the center.

“Pretty nice.” She watched John tie a line across each hatch.

“I put a knot that releases with a quick pull of this end.” He yanked the dangling line, and it unraveled. “That way, we can still get out quickly if we have to.” He retied the same knot again.

She dropped on to the bed.

“Let me get a few hours of sleep.” She glanced at her watch––11:30. “Wake me around 2:30––earlier if one of you gets tired.”

“Maybe I should hang on to your gun for you.” John held out his hand. “Just in case.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Never mind.” He closed the door.

“Leave it open,” she said.

He pushed it back open.

In the salon, he and Marin went about turning off the interior lights. When they finished, she pulled up a dining chair and sat.

John stood at the top of the stairs.

“Let’s keep an eye on things from the computer room.” He led the way and pulled another chair into the tiny office.

Marin finally got enough energy to follow and went downstairs a few minutes later.

“It’s going to be a long night,” she said while she set her gun on the counter––more than an arm’s reach from John.

“No trust,” he said.

“I trust you––to shoot someone. I don’t want it to be me.”

“I hit that target,” he argued.

She nodded and sat down.

John stared at the pistol on the counter and something came back to him. “What did you mean when you said that it’s your FBI-issued weapon?” He looked at her curiously. “And, Cameron said you could handle yourself. How would she know that?”

“I had to do a background check to be a consultant for the Sheriff’s office. Cam knows I’m a former FBI Special Agent.”

His mind seemed to hit the brakes and back up slowly. “Who are you? The Marin I knew in college would have hated guns. What happened? The FBI?”

“A year after I finished my Ph.D., they approached me. You’d been gone for a couple of years, and I was in a bad relationship. They offered me a chance to make a difference, and it would be an adventure, I thought. Something seemed to be missing in my life. It lasted two years. My team worked financial cases in New York––but there was no will in the agency to bring any of the investment bankers to justice. I did twelve hour surveillance––day after day. It made me numb, and one day, I walked away. It’s your fault.” She smiled at John.

He was drawn back in his chair. “Me?”

“Yeah, if you hadn’t deserted me.”

“Wait a minute––I deserted you? As I recall, you stopped calling. I thought it was over.”

“I saw how heartbroken you were.” She grinned at him. “Your picture was plastered on magazines with
this
model or
that
female actor at some fancy premier in Hollywood. You’re the one who deserted
me
.”

“That’s not fair. Didn’t you just say you were in a bad relationship.” He threw it back at her.

“Let’s not get off the subject. What’s up with all those beautiful women?”

“Hey, I was the catch of the day––you know, the up-and-coming tech genius.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What can I say? You didn’t care.”

“I cared.” She turned away. “The FBI wasn’t only about that bad relationship––I needed to get far away to stop thinking about you, but the magazines kept coming.” She focused on the monitors.

“Did you see something?” His attention darted to the screens and away from the topic.

“It was nothing. A fish, I think.” She wiped her eye and stood up. “I’m tired. It’s two-thirty in the morning. I’m going to get Cameron. One of us should get some sleep––how are you doing?”

“I’m good. You go take an hour or so. I think we’re approaching the time where we all better be on our game––especially you two with your guns. Don’t sleep too long.”

She turned the corner into the corridor.

“I meant it, you know,” he said in a low voice.

“What?”

“I love you––always have, always will.”

She turned around, walked over, and held her arms out, waiting for him to stand.

When he did, she embraced him like he had never felt before––it was warm, solid, pulling him into her soul. He wrapped his large forearms around her and squeezed.

Enclosed by him, she purred. “I’ve always loved you, too.”

He felt his T-shirt dampen from the tears rolling off her cheeks.

“Why don’t we get married after this is over?” he asked. “You know it’s not the first time I’ve asked.”

She smiled. “We’ll see. Let’s just get through this.”

“I don’t get it. Why don’t you say yes?”

“I have baggage. What passed for a good marriage at my house was a mom that never seemed happy when dad was around.” She pulled back from him. “Just know that I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. I want to be with you––forever.”

Disappointed by the answer, he said, “You better get some rest.”

She disappeared down the corridor.

Five minutes later, Cameron appeared in the same spot where Marin had vanished.

“Nothing happening?”

“What?” He wondered if she overheard their conversation.

She glanced at the monitors. “Nothing happening?”

“Not yet. Take over for me here––I need to make some coffee.” He explained to her the toggle mechanism to change the camera views.

In the galley, he went through the things Marin said. Her father really screwed her up.
I have to live with that if I want her
. He smiled. She said she loved him––he was exhausted, but he smiled. The coffee machine beeped, and he was back in the moment. He grabbed the stainless steel carafe and two mugs, then headed down the stairs.

Michael’s wristwatch vibrated from the alarm set at 3:30 a.m., and he awoke abruptly in the forward berth like a cat with alert sensors monitoring every detail of his surroundings. Semi-rested, he heard every sound––no matter how benign its nature––the call of a gull, the splash of a fish, the creak of a dock line. He learned how to get enough rest when he was in the SEALs––it had been an unnatural part of his training. The instructors pushed them to their limits and then gave them a few minutes to recover before another grueling maneuver.

Time to go
. Up in the helm, he turned on the GPS display and pulled up the Blue Water Marina in Newport Harbor. Michael pegged the image with its electronic ruler and wrote down the distances he needed. Next, he checked the tide tables on the display’s Internet connection.
Got it
.

Within a few minutes, he had made the necessary calculations for his underwater navigation route––time, distance, depths, and currents. His precise estimates would put him at the boat from his designated entry point in fifty-seven minutes. Time needed to attach the device––twelve minutes. To return to the egress point––sixty-three minutes. Total time in the water––two hours, twelve minutes. It had been a while since his last timed, night dive––no surfacing, no light––only his watch and compass for bearings. He anticipated the challenge knowing his skills were more than enough to handle the task.

He walked back to the railing on the stern of the Regal and pushed the down button on the electronic panel. The floor under the WaveRunner descended into the water.
Hydraulic swim step lift—cool
. Michael stood for a time gazing out at the perfect conditions for a mission––light cloud cover, no moon, no wind, calm seas––and most importantly, the element of surprise on his side.

Before releasing the WaveRunner from its tether, he opened the watertight compartment and slid in his 1911 handgun with suppressor, throwaway cell phone, and dry bagged package the size of a beer can. He turned back to his duffel and removed his black wetsuit, dropped his pants, discarded his T-shirt to the side, and slid into the rubbery legs. After forcing his arms through the stiff sleeves, he stretched out the hood, pulled over the top, and zippered everything up.

He took the duffel with its remaining contents and tossed it on to the WaveRunner’s swim step. Michael untied one of the dock lines from the boat’s cleat and tossed it in with the other things. He bent over his rebreather and checked the gasses and valves one last time.
It’s a go
.

He slung the large black backpack of tanks, valves, gauges, and hoses on to his back and secured the heavy belts tight for the rough, open ocean, fifteen-mile ride. He reached over with the rope and lashed the duffel to the heavy hold bar.

The black and midnight blue machine with its black cloaked rider cruised invisibly through the protected harbor in Huntington. The small wake was the only signature left behind after he passed through. Minutes later, he was full throttle a mile offshore in total darkness, heading toward Newport. The occasional swell never slowed the rocket. Twenty-one minutes into it, he had completed the crossing and guided the sleek craft between the long jetties making the final turn into the quiet yacht harbor.

Stillness was the word that best described the journey past the boat-crowded docks. It would change soon enough, when the mariners descended on the harbor for their day of relaxation and fun. He glanced at his watch––
right on time
.

In the far distance, he spotted an intense beam of light sweeping across the water. He made out the moving boat’s navigation lights, green on his left and red to his right––it was headed in his direction. Clad in black, Michael slowly steered the dark WaveRunner into an open slip, turned it facing out, and cut the engine. While he crouched behind the elevated handle bars, the harbor fireboat passed by slowly. Its search light jumped from boat to boat in the slips along its route. When it neared, the light leapfrogged his apparently boat-vacant slip. He continued to watch while the fireboat slowed and then pulled into the empty Harbor Patrol docks near the end of the harbor. The crew tied up the boat and headed for the dock master’s building.

That’s odd
, he thought.
There are no other boats in the facility
.
Where are the patrol boats and the other fire boats?
No time for wayward thoughts. He focused back on his schedule. He pushed the start button, tweaked the throttle, slowly crept from the slip, and angled the craft down the back bay inlet past the bridge with one destination in mind.

Michael searched in the darkness for the spot he had located on the first night it had all started. There it was, just as he remembered. The dilapidated seawall had protruded far enough into the water to hide the WaveRunner. Behind the four-foot high outcropping, he donned his mask and slipped into the water without a ripple. He forced the fins over his size-twelve feet, and then he checked the unarmed device. All he had to do was attach it to the hull and flip the arming toggle.

Michael studied the white wristband with his coordinates, took his bearings from the compass, and started the first leg on forty-three degrees by twenty-three minutes. Even at his shallow depth, it was coal black with the only illumination the low florescent dial on his watch. Occasionally, he would wand it over his compass and the gauges on his rebreather to take his readings. Eerily dark, he couldn’t see more than an arm’s length ahead, below, or to the sides. Without bubbles ascending to the surface, it would be easy for a novice to become disoriented, not certain which way was up. He had read about cave divers in total darkness using rebreathers. They swam deeper into the gloom when they were stubbornly certain they had been rising to an exit hole. Some had not been fortunate enough to tell the story, and their bodies were found in some of the deepest shafts in the world.

He glanced at his watch and made his final correction turn––a few degrees to account for the tide––two minutes from target.

When he neared the docks, Michael saw the faint glow of lights under the large yacht from forty-feet away. At twenty-five-feet, the intensity magnified to what appeared to be twice as bright.
I need to be in and out of here without being spotted. Why do they have lights on at 5:30 in the morning––and why so bright?