White Hot (34 page)

“Where is it?”

Clint lay curled in a ball on the wet, freezing deck and steeled himself for Xing Guan’s next vicious kick. When it ripped square into his kidneys, Clint grunted in searing pain.

“Fuck you, asshole,” he gritted out between teeth clenched against the cold and the agony. Letting them chatter would be a sign of weakness.

The crew was huddled against the midstructure bulkhead, forced to watch his savage tune-up. Some of them, anyway. The two women had been permitted by the guards to turn away. The one he recognized as Carin had her face buried in Bolun’s shoulder—opposite the machine gun muzzle to his neck. If looks could kill, they’d already be halfway to Seattle.

Another kick hammered into Clint’s flesh, this time in the ribs. He heard two distinct snaps as a new bolt of pain stabbed through his side. Black spots danced through his vision.

“Give me computer card or I kill you!” Xing Guan barked. The man was incensed—and clearly in no mood for mercy.

Clint had no illusions about his chances for survival—with or without giving him the microcard—but he also had no fucking intention of making it easy on the bastard. “Go ahead,” he wheezed, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re going to kill me anyway.”

He heard one of the women gasp, while the other sobbed quietly.

“Just give him what he wants!” the young kid on the crew cried, his voice ragged. “Whatever it is ain’t worth—
Oof
.”

“Shut up, Jeeter,” Bolun hissed at the kid.

“But—” Jeeter’s protest cut off amid the sounds of the other men’s growls, which quickly also turned to protests.

A woman screamed.
“No!”

Clint snapped opened his eyes. Xing Guan was jamming the long barrel of his pistol into the kid’s forehead, his face ablaze with hatred. “I kill you instead! Your life for son’s!”

Clint struggled to rise up a little. “Please. Don’t,” he rasped.

“You give card!” Guan demanded, taking neither his eyes nor the gun off the kid. Jeeter’s own eyes were wide with terror and rimmed in red.

Clint swallowed. This was getting far too dangerous. Somehow he had to protect these people. Even if it meant…

Defeat curled like an electric eel in his belly. “Fine. You win,” he ground out furiously, and let himself collapse back onto the deck in agony.

“Give now!” Guan ordered, obviously not believing Clint.

Clint shook off a nauseating wave of dizziness. “I’ll tell you where it’s hidden…after you let the others go.”

For a second his torturer just stared at him, his gun arm held stiffly in place. Then he turned back and sliced his
malevolent gaze along the line of hostages, following with the aim of the pistol. It halted at Bolun.

The second mate gently pushed Carin off his shoulder. She whimpered, tears soaking her face.

Guan sneered, twitched the gun’s aim down, and shot her in the heart.

Oh, Jesus God.

Clint froze as, for a split second, the whole world went perfectly still. After the sharp report of the gun, there wasn’t a sound to be heard, not a movement to be seen. Not from the humans, nor the wind, nor the sea. Even the waves seemed to halt at their crests, causing the ship’s motion to pause in midroll.

Carin inhaled a short breath of surprise, looked down to where her hand had instinctively gone to the pinprick of pain, and blinked. As an orchid of crimson blossomed across her chest, her uncomprehending eyes fluttered closed, her knees dissolved, and she began to sink. Frank and Johnny caught her in a tangle of arms, shocked horror etched on their faces.

Ginger started to scream.

And that’s when all hell broke loose.

“You fucking
bastard
!” Lars Bolun boomed. He launched himself at Xing Guan, knocking aside his pistol just as it went off for a second time, going for the man’s throat.

“
Sonofa
”—Clint forced his aching body from its fetal curl, grunting in agony, and dove for the sniper—“
bitch!
” He brought the unguarded tango down with a body slam to his legs.

The remaining assassin whipped his gun around to Bolun’s back as the second mate struggled with Guan. But too late. Matty and Spiros were all over him like sharks on bait. Two shots went wild before the third man hit the deck amid a pile of flailing limbs.

Clint heard Bolun’s fist smash into Xing Guan’s face over and over as he grappled with the pistol, attempting to wrench it away. The Chinese commander was built like an ox and strong as a jackal, and should have been able to shake off the tall, lean second mate with little effort. But Carin’s death seemed to have given Bolun supernatural strength. It was a dead even match.

But Clint was losing ground fast against the sniper. Ignoring the excruciating pain, he clung like a leech to the twisting man’s legs. He kicked up with all his remaining strength to foil the aim of the man’s T-85 as it swung around and targeted Bolun. Clint’s bruised kidneys screamed in agony and the sharp bones of his broken ribs ground into his insides, sending razor blades of sickening sensation through his middle. The fucker kicked back at him, again and again, but he gritted his teeth against the blows and refused to let go.

A spray of submachine gun fire burst through the twilight darkness, cut through abruptly by Bolun’s shout of pain.

The second mate staggered. And lost his grip on Guan. Ribbons of blood flew from his shoulder.

Clint must have loosened his grip on the sniper for a millisecond. The man wrenched free and lurched to his feet.

Shit on a—

Clint steeled his muscles to fling himself into his adversary’s knees in another pain-wracked body slam. But before he could execute, a single shot cracked through the air. The sniper went rigid, his mouth twisting in a slash of shock.
What the—
Another shot whistled past. The tango’s body jerked. His weapon clattered to the deck.

Clint didn’t stop to wonder who was doing the shooting. He rolled, grabbed the T-85, and whipped around to save Bolun from Xing Guan’s kill shot.

Bolun was on his knees, head down and grimacing, one bloodstained hand wrapped around a scarlet-drenched shoulder.

Clint spun to Matty and Spiros, but they were okay. Using the end of a cleat line, Spiros had his boot planted on the hijacker’s spine, tying the glowering man’s wrists and ankles together behind his bowed-up back like a hog on a spit. Matty held a gun in his shaking hands, pointed more or less at the top of the man’s skull.

Six down, Clint thought with satisfaction.
Just one more to go
.

He quickly scanned the surrounding deck, squinting through the half light, his heartbeat thumping like distant depth charges in his chest.

Fucking hell.

Xing Guan was gone. How long had he—

A woman’s scream shattered the night air. Clint darted his gaze to Ginger. But she stood wide-eyed, her hands plastered over her mouth, staring transfixed at the poop deck above.

Oh, hell.

Every cell in Clint’s body lit up, electric with dread, as he realized who must have let out the terrified sound.

And why.

Oh, God!

Samantha!

Sam recoiled, attempting to avoid a second blow delivered with the butt of her own Glock, which the Chinese leader swung at her viciously. It glanced off her cheek, leaving a stinging slash of pain on her flesh and bringing tears to her eyes. She forced back another scream.

He’d surprised her, attacking from behind and disarming her in a swift, practiced move as she’d leaned trembling against the rail, shaken to the core after deliberately shooting the man with the dropped machine gun she’d found in the wardroom. She’d had no choice.
He would have killed Clint.
But now
she’d
killed a man. Oh, God,
oh, God
.

She’d killed a man.

And now she’d pay the price.

Instead of closing her eyes in revulsion at what she’d done, she should have been watching the scene below. Should have kept her attention locked on the bad guys. Made sure all three had been dealt with before letting the physical reaction take her over. But she hadn’t.

The brutal leader reached for her. Terrified, she jumped back and tried to run, but he was too quick. His iron hand
flashed out and grabbed her arm, then spun her and wrenched it up behind her back so hard, this time she couldn’t stop the scream from breaking free.

He pushed savagely, marching her forward in the direction of the ladder.

“You won’t get away with this!” she cried, struggling while trying to keep up with his pace.

He just pushed harder.

She stumbled, and he yanked her up by her back-bent arm. She gasped out a cry.

“Stop! You’re hurting me!”

“Good. Who are you?” he demanded in a staccato accent, his mouth practically biting off her ear. “You are
spy
.”

“No!” Her heart quailed, pounding with horror at the accusation. God help her if he thought she was involved in Clint’s mission. She swallowed away the acrid taste of fear that flooded her mouth. Vivid images of Clint’s battered face and Shandy’s and Carin’s blood-soaked, lifeless bodies flashed through her mind. “That’s absurd,” she croaked as he marched her forward along the narrow gangway. “This is a cargo ship.”

She would
not
give in to the panic clawing at her chest.

The rest of her beleaguered crew was now safe, she reminded herself. And Clint was miraculously still alive—
thank God
.

Shandy and Carin had made the ultimate sacrifice with their lives. Could she do any less? If the worst happened and she had to die to keep the others safe, then she’d do it willingly.

But she’d damn well go down swinging, with her pride and honor intact.

She drew herself up, blocking out the stabbing pain in her upper arm, the rivulets of blood trickling down her cheek, and the trembling in her limbs. “I am
not
a spy,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “I’m Captain Samantha Richardson, commander of this vessel. Who are you, and what do you want with my ship?”

He yanked her to a stop and gave an ugly, derisive snort. “Captain? You only a woman.”

Her terror was momentarily eclipsed by fury at the chauvinist barb. Were
all
men like her father?

“And you are a murderer!” she retorted, but instantly regretted the lapse in judgment.
Crap.
Fear surged back in a tidal wave as she braced herself for a broken arm, or worse.

His voice hissed in her ear, “Remember that when you lie to me.” He jerked her arm hard, to get her moving again.

She bit down on a yelp. “I’m not lying,” she ground out, fighting tears of pain and rage. “I swear.” She needed Clint. Needed his strong, steady presence to talk her down off this emotional ledge before she did something foolish. With blurry vision she sought out the deck below, where he and the crew were standing.

For a nanosecond, her heart stuttered to a stop, as did her feet.

Correction. Where he’d
been
standing.

There was no sign of him! Or of the crew, or the captured guard. Or even of the two dead bodies, other than a red stain spreading thinly across the rain-soaked deck.

She snapped her eyes straight ahead, praying her tormentor hadn’t noticed.

“Walk! Fast!” he barked, pushing at her again.

Her heartbeat surged as she reluctantly obeyed.
Where were they all?

Her mind whirled with possibilities. Probably they’d gone inside to stash their prisoner, tend to the wounded, and lay poor Carin somewhere more dignified than the open deck.

Or better yet, maybe they’d escaped onto the trawler and were getting the hell out of Dodge. She subtly cocked an ear, hoping to hear the sputter and fart of the fishing boat’s engines.

But there was nothing. All around, it was still and silent as an iceberg. Only the suck and splash of waves breaking against the hull disturbed the midnight calm after the storm.

Her captor jerked her arm impatiently again, shoving her forward. “Not stop!”

Her gasp of pain echoed through the silence.

Hell, it was almost
too
quiet.