White Hot (32 page)

But Sam had stopped listening. On
Île de Cœur
, the wardroom door had suddenly swung open. She froze. Even her heart stopped beating.

Then Lars Bolun stepped warily out onto the poop deck, a rifle raised in one hand and Carin supported in the crook of his other arm. He glanced from side to side, looking for danger.

Sam let out a cry of joy, nearly collapsing from the relief of seeing them both alive.

“Captain Richardson?” DeAnne Lovejoy was saying over the radio. “What’s going on out there? Please. Do
not
do anything to provoke the hijackers.”

Too late.

Sam’s pulse sped with elation as Lars moved aside and stood a vigilant watch as the rest of the crew crept out the door and headed through the rain for the ladder down to the weather deck—and
Eliza Jane
.

Clint had done it!

Oh, God, they were really going to make it!

“Sorry,” she blurted out to the State Department official. “I have to go now.” She dropped the mike and flipped off the radio, cutting off Ms. Lovejoy in midprotest.

Screw the cavalry.
She intended to be ready to crank this baby’s motor and run for their lives.

She reached blindly for the engine controls while scouring the upper deck for Clint.
Where was he?
She wanted to see him! She had to know for certain he was alive and unhurt. She needed to meet his eyes and share a happy moment of triumph, knowing they’d soon be together. That nothing more would stand between them and the rest of their lives.

Above her, the radio squawked. She ignored it.

Clint finally appeared at the wardroom door, and her heart soared. Dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, broad shouldered, lean hipped, a pistol gripped in each hand and a rifle slung across his back, he looked more like a pirate than a federal law enforcement officer.

But every inch a hero.

Her
hero.

The radio squawked again. She clicked it over to “mute.”

He strode across the deck to bring up the rear of the little group, protecting their flank as the crew hurriedly climbed and tumbled down the two flights as fast as they could to the rain-slick weather deck.

Her heart did a slow spin in her chest. She was so much in love with the man it hurt.

Their eyes met across the distance, and she smiled. His lips started to curve. Then stopped. His head swiveled sharply toward the front of the ship. His body froze.

Instantly, alarm swept over her. Her gaze whipped to follow his.

That’s when she saw it. The deck crane’s ladder. Someone was climbing it at breakneck speed.

The leader of the Chinese black-ops team, Xing Guan.

Her breath stalled.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

But there was no mistaking it, he was headed straight for the cab at the top.

And for the dead body hidden inside.

When it came, Xing Guan’s reaction to the body in the cab was not the expected shout of anger nor a yell to rally his decimated team to exact revenge. It was a deep cry of anguish.

The howl poured over the ship in a thick wave of grief, backdropped by the mournful patter of the rain. At the sound, everyone stopped in their tracks.

Shock vibrated through Clint. Clearly, the man’s pain was personal. A relative?

The similar features of the young upstart to the older head honcho suddenly made sense.

Sweet Jesus
, this was about to turn really ugly.

Clint didn’t stop to analyze. He simply went on instinct. “Get everyone moving,” he ordered Bolun with quiet intensity. “Get them off this ship, now!”

Also spooked by the enemy’s unexpected emotional display, the second mate immediately started issuing hushed instructions to the crew. Carin still clung to his side, refusing to leave him.

High up on the crane, Xing Guan had gathered the
young man’s body in his arms and was attempting to carry it to the deck below. But the crane’s ladder was not a narrow stairway like the ones that led up and down between decks; it was more like climbing down a telephone pole. The Chinese leader struggled. The rain was coming down harder now, sheeting over the cabin, slicking the ladder, the man, and the body, making the descent even more difficult.

The good news was so far the crew hadn’t been spotted. Twilight was on their side, with its enveloping grays and shadows, along with the obscuring fog and rain. But any minute now the grief-stricken Chinese leader would look around seeking help with his burden. He’d see them for sure.

“Go!” Clint told Bolun urgently. “Don’t wait for me. Make Samantha take the trawler out of range!”

He hoped to hell he could make it to the trawler, too. But if not…He’d cover their retreat as long as he could.

He risked a swift look down at Samantha, who was standing openmouthed at the smaller boat’s controls, staring up at him through the glittering raindrops, her face an ashen mask of alarm. As though she could read his intentions.
Damn.

“Don’t let her do anything stupid!” he growled after Bolun, who’d lifted Carin like a rag doll and was about to launch himself down the wet stairway with her. The last thing he saw before they were gone was the second mate’s grim nod of understanding.

Clint retreated into the steel gray puddles of shadow cast by the cloud-darkened midnight sun. Rain drizzled down his face, and adrenaline sang through his veins as he turned back to observe the old man.

Up on the crane, Guan continued to wrestle with the body. He finally gave a frustrated shout and gestured angrily at the two goons on the foredeck, who’d been watching him from afar, aghast and immobilized with uncertainty. At his beck, they jerked to attention and took off at a jog toward him on the other end of the ship.

Putting them on a collision course with the crew.

Clint muttered a curse. This escape attempt was shaping up to be a serious clusterfuck.

By now Johnny and Frank had made it down to the weather deck; Frank had sped off to get the rope ladder over the side. Johnny stayed behind to help Ginger, Matty, Spiros, and Jeeter down the steep, rain-slippery stairs between the two decks. He then sent them sprinting across the deck to the rail where Frank was madly unreeling the rope ladder down to
Eliza Jane
.

Listening intently for the enemy’s footfalls, Clint fervently prayed the crew would all make it off the ship before the distracted Chinese operators spotted them.

A split second too late, Clint saw his worst fear materialize.

The two jogging men reached the open expanse of the weather deck just as the last of the crew streaked across it toward the port rail. Seeing the fleeing prisoners, the tangos skidded to a halt, whipped up their T-85s, and began shouting and brandishing the submachine guns at the escapees.

Still on the deck above, Clint started for the ladder. But Bolun glanced up at him with a sign to stop and a grim shake of his head.

Clint froze as the second mate peeled Carin from his side and gently pushed her toward Johnny, then drew a .357 Magnum from his waistband.
Jesus.
The revolver was big, but hardly a match for the Type-85s. Bolun stepped fearlessly in front of the tangos and braced his legs apart like a gunslinger, making himself into a human shield.

The Chinese commander lost it then. Baring his teeth on a string of guttural expletives, Xing Guan dropped the unwieldy body back in the cab and started to storm down the ladder, spewing invective as he went.

Perfect.
Clint wanted to growl in frustration. They’d been
that close
to a smooth getaway. Now they’d all be lucky even to survive this goddamn Mexican standoff.

Tell that to the crew, though. Partially hidden by the second mate, the group continued to move closer to the rail,
inch by inch. He caught a glimpse of Carin’s huddled form disappearing over the side.

With a cold stab of certainty, Clint knew Samantha would be waiting at the bottom of the ladder to help each one of her crew onto the trawler, whether there was a gun pointed at her or not. Which there would be any second, he was sure.

Christ.
The woman’s reckless defiance scared him witless. But at the same time, he was also so damn proud of his brave, sweet woman that his chest was about to burst.

With conflicting emotions, he glimpsed Matty slip over the side, then Jeeter. Every fiber of his being wanted to go with them. To drop onto
Eliza Jane
’s deck next to Samantha, swing her into his arms, and set the throttle at full speed to get them the hell away from this living nightmare.

But that was not going to happen. Not today.

Probably not ever.

The second he saw the cold, hate-filled fury on Xing Guan’s face as the wiry leader jumped to the deck and marched toward the confrontation, Clint knew the man was beyond reason.

The long, distinctive shape of a Type-67 silenced pistol appeared in Guan’s clenched fist, aimed at Bolun’s chest.

Jerking up his SIG, Clint brought the crosshairs dead center on Xing Guan’s heart. But again, he was a nanosecond too late. Guan had snapped a command, and his two assassins were instantly at the rail, their submachine guns aimed down at the crew.

Fear froze Clint’s finger on the trigger.

Samantha!

A knife blade of hesitation sliced at him. He didn’t dare shoot Guan or the two assassins would cut down the crew where they stood. Including Samantha.

Clint could drop one, maybe even both the goons in rapid succession if he took them by surprise. But he’d never get off a third shot for Xing Guan in time to save Bolun.

He closed his eyes briefly, eased out an infuriated breath, and lowered his weapon a fraction.

There was just no good option here.

Guan gave another command, and his men started shouting at the crew, gesturing insistently for them to climb back up.

It took all Clint’s willpower to stay where he was as one by one the crew came up the rope ladder to
Île de Cœur
’s deck and huddled together in the cold rain. He went absolutely still, waiting for his heart to be ripped to a thousand pieces when Samantha appeared at the rail.

But she didn’t appear.

The last of the crew ascended and the rope ladder was hauled up, and still no Samantha. In a silent pact of solidarity, the others didn’t let on she was missing, counting on the fact that the Chinese were still not aware of her existence.

Clint stood rooted to the upper deck, hope for her surging through him. And gratitude to the crew. He felt utterly humbled by the fierce loyalty of the small group of strangers, which she had, through the fairness and compassion of her leadership, forged into a true family.

But his spate of optimism was short-lived.

When the crew was once again assembled under the cold, watchful eyes of the guards, feeling the merciless dominion of their submachine guns, Xing Guan pressed the long barrel of his pistol hard into Bolun’s forehead.

“Where is other soldier?” he demanded in his clipped accent, and jerked his chin up at the wardroom to indicate he meant their guard.

Their former guard.
Who was now dead.

Clint stilled. This was not good. Slowly he raised the SIG again, preparing for trouble.

Bolun stared unblinkingly back at Guan. “He decided to go for a midnight swim,” he said evenly.

The blow from the gun cracked into Bolun’s skull swift as lightning. Carin screamed, and the others exclaimed in protest. Guan’s response was to strike him again. “You kill soldier!”

Bolun didn’t reply. He was still visibly reeling from the blows. Guan shoved the gun barrel between his eyes.

“You kill son.” The old man ground out the enraged accusation between his tightly clenched teeth. “You die.”

Son?

Shit
.

In a flash Clint moved to the rail, dropping the SIG and kicking it into the shadows.

“No!” he shouted defiantly down at his nemesis. “
I
killed your son.”

Something bad was going on up there on
Île de Cœur
. Sam could feel it in the roiling of her stomach—and it wasn’t from the storm kicking up outside, tossing the small trawler around like a football.