White Hot (10 page)

Damn it! She didn’t
need
this happening right now! What she needed was a speedy transit to Nome with her crew unhurt and her cargo intact. She didn’t even want to
think
about the shit that would come hurtling at her from all sides if she failed to bring in this shipment on time. Let alone if the crew was harmed. Or the ship was lost completely.

Oh, hell.

“Samantha.” Clint took hold of her shoulders with steely
fingers. His black eyes drilled into hers. “Listen to me. I know you feel you must act—”

“That’s
my
crew up there. God knows what those bastards are doing to them!”

“I understand.” Clint’s tone held barely leashed rage. Well, join the club! “But I’m trained to deal with this kind of situation. You aren’t.”

She was sick of going around and around; it was getting them nowhere. She threw up her hands. “Fine. Whatever.” To be honest, she had no earthly clue how to wrest back control of her ship from the hijackers. If Clint did, so much the better. “But I’m coming with you.”

The stubborn look in her eyes must have convinced him she would not take no for an answer. He jetted out a breath. “Okay. But you’ve got to do exactly as I say.”

She shook her head. “My ship. We decide together.”

She could tell he wanted to strangle her. “God, you are stubborn!” he said between his teeth.

She just said back at him through
her
teeth, “Deal with it.”

His jaw worked, but he finally accepted the compromise—grudgingly. “We need to do a recon,” he said tightly. “Get on deck and scope things out. Make sure the crew isn’t in immediate danger.”

She nodded in agreement. “And see if there’s any way to reach the radio and DSC on the bridge.”

“Right.” He turned aside and started rooting through the things on the shelves and the supplies scattered on the deck. “But first we need weapons. I’d rather not face five tangos armed with only my wits.”

“Tangos?”

“Bad guys.” With a curse he turned away from the shelves empty-handed. “Where’s your gun?”

“In the wall safe in my cabin.”

“And my SIG is under my mattress,” he murmured disgustedly.

She hiked her brows, and he made a pained face. “Don’t start with me. I thought the crew would get suspicious if
someone caught me sporting a shoulder holster and a loaded pistol.” He made a move for the door. “We’d better try and retrieve them. How can we get to the staterooms?”

She followed. “There are two ventilation chutes built into the cofferdams—the double walls between the cargo holds—that go up vertically through the decks. They both lead to the outside to bring in fresh air, and are secured with a scuttle hatch. They’re shaped kinda like a narrow elevator shaft without the elevator. One goes all the way up through the midstructure and opens onto a small balcony behind the bridge. The other one is shorter, and ends on the main weather deck by the deck crane.”

He turned to look at her. “And this helps us how?”

“They both have emergency ladders going up the sides.”

His brows dipped thoughtfully. “How do you get into the shafts from here?”

“There are small latched hatches that open at each deck. They can be opened from both sides, including the outside scuttles. Unless, of course, a hijacker is standing on top of it.” She bit her lip, only half kidding.

“That works. The one that goes to the staterooms, you said it opens up outside behind the bridge?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“Let’s check that out first,” he said, grasping the door handle. “You never know. We could get lucky and there won’t be a guard.”

“Okay.” She hoped to hell he was right.

“Follow my lead, and don’t take
any
chances.”

She nodded, and he put a finger to his lips, eased open the storage room door a fraction, and peeked out. “It’s clear.”

Swiftly, they made their way to the midstructure ventilation shaft. Its heavy, hobbit-sized hatch opened with a squeal that made Sam’s pulse skyrocket. Clint urged her to grab the ladder and climb, then spit on the hinge before following her in and easing the hatch closed after them.

The small, square shaft plunged straight upward into stygian darkness. The safety lights were off, and they didn’t
dare switch them on. Inside, it smelled stale and salty, the taste of the cold air acrid on her tongue. She clung precariously to the ladder for a long moment, getting her bearings and adjusting to the roll of the ship from this unfamiliar position.

“Just pretend you’re climbing the mast of an old sailing ship,” he suggested.

“Oh, that helps a lot,” she muttered, feeling even dizzier with
that
visual in her head. God, she hated heights.

She fumbled her way up a few rungs. She knew the ladder went straight up the side of the shaft, but she couldn’t see a damned thing. Thank God the seas were relatively calm today. She didn’t relish the thought of swinging up the ladder like a monkey, dodging waves.

Clint stood a few rungs down, waiting patiently for her to move. His body was behind hers, his head about waist level and his arms fluidly bracketing her legs against the vessel’s pitch. If she slipped, he would catch her. At least until she started climbing.

“Still time to change your mind,” he said softly. “I can go on my own.”

She sucked down a steadying breath. “No way.”

The metal rungs were freezing cold and grimy. But they felt fairly solid. She hoped they really were. She hadn’t ever actually been inside either of these ventilation chutes before. That would teach her not to know every inch of her vessel. With a prayer that she could hang on if a big wave hit, she swallowed her fear and started up in earnest.

It probably only took a few minutes to reach the top, where a scuttle opened on a small balcony behind the bridge, but it seemed as though climbing up the claustrophobic chute took forever. Her heart was pounding like an Arctic storm and they hadn’t even gotten to the dangerous part yet. She held her breath as Clint climbed up behind her and groped up past her shoulder for the scuttle hatch. He carefully unlatched it and opened it just a crack. Closing her eyes against the bright light that streamed in, she hoped the metal hinge wouldn’t squeak.

It didn’t, but Clint pulled the hatch immediately closed. “Yep. There’s a man guarding the bridge.”

“Damn.” In the darkness, they clung to the ladder, not surprised but still disappointed.

Swaying with the roll of the passing swells, Clint’s body pressed rhythmically against her back, reminding her of earlier, when they’d made love. It felt good. But, lord, how quickly things changed.

Still, she knew instinctively she wouldn’t want to be in this situation with anyone else on earth.

He jetted out a breath. “All right. Let’s try for our weapons in the staterooms.”

Right. Weapons.

“Wait,” she said. Why hadn’t she thought of this sooner? “There’s a gun safe in the wardroom. We should go for that instead.”

He came to attention. “How many weapons?”

“Three rifles. Five or six handguns.”

She felt his sharp inhale. “Is the gun safe hidden? Or in full view?”

“It’s in a locked cupboard.”

His warm breath soughed past her ear. “Then with any luck they haven’t found it yet. Where’s the wardroom?”

“Quarterdeck, just below us, at the stern end of the passageway where it tees at the back of the ship.”

They descended the several rungs down the ladder to the deck below. Sam halted and felt for the hatch. Clint stood behind her and gently muscled the lever open. The hatch creaked in protest when he opened it, making them both freeze. They quickly peered around the door. To their relief, no guard was posted in the passageway to hear it.

“I’m going to have to start carrying a friggin’ oil can,” Clint muttered under his breath as they both nervously exhaled. He pushed the door open.

She started to duck out through it. He caught her arm.

“No. You stay here—” he began, but halted when she turned and glared at him. His jaw tightened but he didn’t complete the thought.

He was learning.

They eased out and swiftly ran down the passageway to the junction where another short corridor intersected it in a
T
. They peeked around to check it was clear, then slid around the corner and flattened themselves to the wall.

“Which door?” he asked.

There were three doors opening off each arm of the
T
. To the left of the intersection, a crew lounge overlooked the smallish poop deck that ran crosswise along the stern of the ship; on the interior side was a media room and a tiny library. Off the right arm of the tee, where they stood now, one door led to the interior galley, and opposite that, also overlooking the outside deck, was the large dining area. The third door farther down opened to their objective—the wardroom, or officers’ lounge.

She pointed at that one.

Clint looked grim. Not only did they have to pass by two doors that stood wide open, but then they must risk opening the one door that was closed. And hope like hell no one was inside.

Her heart pounded in her throat as they glided silently past the open rooms and approached the wardroom. Clint cautiously put his ear to the door, but she knew it was a useless exercise. The thing was made of solid steel, specifically designed to allow the officers inside to hold private conversations without fear of being overheard by curious crew members.

He put a hand to the door handle, but she stopped him. Something just didn’t feel right.

She shook her head and indicated the dining room door they’d passed. If they went through that way and out onto the poop deck, they could sneak around and take a peek through the windows to see if anyone was in the lounge.

He seemed to understand immediately, but stopped her when she led the way back to the door. He grabbed her arm and forcibly moved her behind him as he pressed himself to the doorframe, ducked a head around, then melted into the mess hall like a wraith.

No one was inside.

But she was impressed with the move nonetheless. She’d heard about First Nation hunters who could become one with their environment and disappear at will, but she’d always chalked it up as being the fanciful stuff of New Age woo-woo legend. But damn if he hadn’t done exactly that.

Wolf Walker? More like Ghost Walker.

He materialized at her side just as she stepped through the doorway. She had to stifle a gasp.

“How did you do that?” she whispered, heart pounding.

“Do what?” he asked, still concentrating, his gaze taking in every detail of their surroundings. In an unconscious movement, he handed her a baguette of French bread.

“What’s this?”

“What?”

She shook her head instead of rolling her eyes. “Never mind. Let’s go.” She crouch-ran between the tables, heading for the double doors leading to the deck, with Clint at her heels. Again he stopped her as she reached for the handle.

Okay, so maybe he
wasn’t
learning. She was getting pretty tired of his bossiness.

“There’s no sense in both of us getting caught,” he preempted her protest. “Your crew needs to know you’re free and working on a rescue. It gives them hope.”

She wasn’t so sure about that, but the idea made her hesitate just long enough for him to glide past her and out onto the deck. She tore off a hunk of bread with her teeth in annoyance, wondering if it were his exotic good looks and imposing body that gave him such a sense of entitlement over her—and no doubt every other woman on the planet—or if he was just naturally a domineering chauvinist.

Yet another reason she would never get involved with the man, even if she could. Not that she was remotely in the market for any kind of involvement, other than the kind they already shared.

By the time she’d gotten her pique under control, he’d returned, wearing a scowl.

“Someone’s in there,” he said in a low voice. “And all the lockers have been thrown open, things tossed everywhere.” A muscle jumped in his cheek.

She swore softly. “So they’ve found the gun safe. Is that open, too?”

He shook his head. “No. But there’s no way to get to it now.”

Frustration welled up alongside the knife edge of fear that never stopped whittling away at her. She felt so helpless.

“Shall we try for our weapons in the staterooms?” he suggested. He didn’t sound optimistic.

Her stomach rumbled softly. She’d already eaten the French bread baguette and wished she’d thought to pick up another on the way out. They hadn’t eaten dinner. Well, if going hungry was the worst that happened to them tonight, she’d be grateful. She ignored her stomach.

The staterooms
. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

But when they got there, they realized it would be impossible. The staterooms were located at the other end of the passageway, and a guard was posted just a few yards away on the landing of the main companionway. He was leaning against the railing in a bored slouch, but he had one of those big, ugly machine guns slung by its strap over one shoulder. Thank God his back was turned so he didn’t see the hatch open, then swiftly shut again.

“Any ideas?” Clint murmured after letting out a low string of curses.

“A diversion?” she suggested, clearing her throat. At least she wasn’t the only one feeling the pressure.

She felt his head shake. “Anything unusual happens, and they’ll know someone else is on board.”

Right.
That wouldn’t be good. And they were all armed to the teeth.

“What will we do?” she asked. “We can’t fight them with our bare hands.”

“As long as they don’t know we’re here, we’ve still got a shot at retrieving the guns, either our own or the ones in the wardroom. Hopefully sooner than later.”

She prayed it would be sooner.

“Come on. We should go and see what the situation is with the crew. The other ventilation shaft lets out on the weather deck, right?”

“Yeah.”

It took them several minutes to climb back down to the lowest deck, the orlop, where they’d started out. It was still and quiet down there, other than a low hum of machinery and the muted suck of the sea against the hull. The engines were silent, which probably meant the hijackers didn’t intend to take the ship, or they’d already be steaming off to parts unknown. Sam wondered what they did want…