White Hot (35 page)

Had the crew heard her earlier screams, and were they even now rushing to her rescue?

Doubtful.
Clint was in no shape to be rushing anywhere—she’d seen how much he was hurting after what must have been a brutal beating. And rushing around was also out of the question for Lars Bolun. He’d been shot, and it looked like he’d lost a lot of blood. As for the rest of them, well, they were the best crew of merchant marines on the planet, but none were exactly Delta Force material.

Honestly, she hoped they
weren’t
planning an heroic rescue attempt. Not when—

All at once DeAnne’s voice sounded in her mind.
I do have some good news.

She’d almost forgotten.
The Coast Guard was coming!

Surely, the Coastie assault team must be on its way by now. Not to mention the imminent arrival of the
George Washington
with DeAnne herself. Hadn’t it been ninety minutes a long time ago?

Damned if an insidious trickle of hope didn’t awaken within her, seeping through her veins like a shot of sloe gin.

In a muddle of conflicting emotions, Sam reached the top of the quarterdeck ladder. It descended steeply to the middle of the main deck where the trolley and the containers were lashed, and the big, square cargo hatches were located. The crippled crane listed crookedly above the locked hatches, its large, jawlike claw swinging precariously out over the side of the ship and back again with each roll of a wave.

“Down!” her captor ordered, startling her with a push toward the ladder.

As she climbed down, she slanted a surreptitious glance out over the Bering Sea, searching the waves for running lights, or the glint of weapons against black clothing, or the stately silhouette of an aircraft carrier steaming full speed ahead over the horizon.

Again, there was nothing. The only movement was wispy tendrils of fog drifting over slate gray water, the only
reflections from the patches of storm clouds melting up into the midnight sun.

The feeling of hope fizzled. She should have known it would prove false, as always.

They reached the bottom of the ladder, and she stepped off feeling the kiss of the Glock’s muzzle under her ear. “Walk!” the man holding it commanded, steering her across the deck with the cold steel.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, panic beginning anew.

“There.”

He indicated the crane. But he wasn’t pointing at the glass and metal cabin. Rather, he waved the Glock toward the steel mesh net hooked to the end of the cable. It swung back and forth like a pendulum from the half-repaired extension arm. The arm Clint had warned her was in danger of breaking off…and plunging down into the black void of the sea.

She faltered. “What? No, we can’t possibly go up there! It’s not—”

The gun dug into the back of her neck. Her fine hairs rose to greet it.

“Not we,” he sneered.
“You
.”

“Goddamn fucking sonofa
bitch
,” Clint swore, clenching his teeth so hard he was amazed they didn’t crack into bits. At least he wasn’t cold anymore. He was sweating bullets.

“We’re trying to be gentle, man,” Frank said apologetically as he dragged the too-small Farmer John wetsuit up Clint’s torso.

“Fuck that. Just do it,” Clint ground out. “Quickly!” He felt like a goddamn invalid. He hadn’t even been able to bend over to get the damn thing over his feet, let alone pull it on.

The fucking wetsuit was even tighter than he remembered. The pain was excruciating on his bruises, his throbbing internal organs, and in the purple mush that was his abdomen. But this was the only way he could think of to keep his body from literally falling apart at the seams—at least temporarily—so he could at least hobble about without risking an instant punctured lung.

So he was flat on his back and Jeeter was holding his shoulders steady while Johnny pulled and tugged at the Farmer John’s legs to get them over his calves. Clint had his
hands pressed onto a makeshift bandage tied around his ribs, attempting to hold it in place as the others adjusted the rubbery material around him.

“Damn it! Can’t you go any faster?”

He had to get to Samantha. God only knew what that sociopath Xing Guan was planning to do to her.

Matty poked his head in from outside and announced in low urgent tones, “They’re down on the weather deck now.”

Matty was playing carrier pigeon to Spiros’s recon. As soon as they’d heard Samantha’s screams, Clint had sent the pair to find and follow her and Xing Guan and report back the instant it looked like she might be in imminent danger.

“Where is he taking her?” Clint gritted out, grateful for the distraction as Frank pulled the zipper up over his ribs.

Matty frowned. “Looks to me like he’s heading for dhe crane. But…” He gave a Bollywood waggle of his head. “Dhat would not be smart. He’d be as good as trapped up dhere.”

Clint agreed. It made no sense. The smart thing would be for Guan to head for the trawler and make a run for it.

He eased out a painful breath.

But if he’d learned one thing about his nemesis over the past two weeks, it was that Guan was twice as tenacious as a junkyard dog. Clint knew full well the Chinese operator wasn’t going anywhere yet.

Not without the SD card.

Which was not good. For the obvious reasons, of course. But also because it left little doubt in Clint’s mind exactly what the bastard was up to.

And what role he intended…
for Samantha
.

“Come out, spy!”

Clint froze in his tracks at the static-y command that boomed through the overhead deck speakers. In a Chinese accent.

Shit.

Matty turned back to blink at him owlishly. “Spy? What is he dhalking about?”

They were threading their way through the cargo containers, making for the crane as fast as Clint could drag himself. Which wasn’t nearly fast enough. Moments ago, Matty had burst back through the door, extremely agitated, saying Spiros wanted him to come at once. Something was happening with the captain.

Something bad.

“Later,” Clint said, and started hobbling forward again. He’d pulled on his regular clothes over the wetsuit, so not only were his injuries slowing him down, but the friction between the neoprene and the uniform fabric made movement not only painful but difficult. It was like running underwater and having electroshock therapy at the same time. But the adrenaline screaming through his system gave him the anesthesia to power through it.

“Lieutenant Commander Clint Wolfwalker!”
the speakers thundered.

Double shit.

The bastard knew his name. His
real
name. How the hell—

Matty opened his mouth in astonishment but didn’t get a chance to ask the obvious question.

“I have your woman,” the speakers squawked harshly. “Come out or I kill her.”

Inwardly, Clint swore a blue streak.

“Don’t listen to him!” Samantha’s reedy voice called from somewhere, without the benefit of an amplifier. “You can’t—” Her words cut off abruptly with a shriek over the tinny sound of metal links clinking.

What the—

Fury flashed through Clint like a firebomb. Spiros tried to snag him as he shot past, but Clint shook him off. He charged peg-legged onto the open deck across from the crane, anxiously scanning the area for Samantha. Where the hell was she? He shot his gaze up to the crane’s cabin, knowing that was where Xing Guan must be.

What he saw turned his stomach. Spiros and Matty edged up behind him, muttering in disgust. The body of Guan’s son was propped up in the crane operator’s seat, his head lolling to one side, sightless eyes staring down at Clint. Xing Guan stood behind the body, holding a Glock in one hand and the crane’s portable control box in the other. There was an indecipherable look on the bastard’s face—somewhere between hatred and triumph, glee and desperation.

At first Clint didn’t understand. Then he heard a swallowed squeal and whipped his gaze in its direction. His heart literally stopped for several beats.

Oh. Fuck.

The two men behind him swore.

The cargo net was swinging precariously back and forth from the end of the damaged extension arm, suspended well over the side of the ship. Set against the black water, the diamond pattern of the huge steel net sparkled like the scales of a serpent coiled in the pale golden light of the midnight sun, its jaws closed around a smaller solid object imprisoned in its belly.

Oh, Jesus.

Samantha.

Her beautiful green eyes peered down at him, round and shiny as Caribbean tide pools. A tangle of blond hair surrounded her face like a halo, backlit by the rising sun. She looked like an angel. Her elegant fingers were threaded through the mesh, clinging to the strands of steel.
An angel in a cage
.

Clint took an involuntary step forward, his brain paralyzed by pure horror. What was the monster doing with her?

Spiros grabbed his shoulder. “Don’t, bro.”

A second later it became all too clear.
Insurance.

The cable jerked, abruptly plunging the net toward the sea several inches before jolting to a halt. Samantha’s eyes slammed shut and her fingers convulsed around the mesh diamonds. A squeak came from her throat though her full lips were pressed bravely into a thin line. Even from here he could see her body shaking with fear.

“Stop!” Clint roared, shaking off Spiros’s grip to round on Guan. “What the
hell
do you think you’re doing?”

His nemesis stepped to the open door of the cab and looked down his nose at him. “I get your attention,” the bastard said just loud enough for Clint to hear.

His anger sharpened. It took all his willpower to say semi-calmly, “All right. You’ve got it. Now let the woman go.”

Guan fingered the controller impassively. “Must give back first what you stole.”

Clint’s pulse sped. He wasn’t about to argue. Behind him, Spiros and Matty whispered to each other.

“Fine,” Clint said, and swiftly dug into his jacket pocket.

“Clint, no!” Samantha’s anguished plea speared down from her high prison. “Please don’t do this.”

“It’s all right,” he told her, and pulled out the tiny memory card. He held it up between two fingers, showing it to Xing Guan. “Here. Take it.”

Guan considered, then shook his head. “You bring up.”

Was he
kidding
? He shook his head firmly. “Let her down first.” Clint had no fucking intention of going up there, but he wanted Samantha out of harm’s way before breaking that bit of news. He darted a glance up at her, his heart squeezing. If anything happened to her…

Guan’s expression shifted. Could that have been a smile? The bastard lifted the controller. Put a finger to one of the buttons. “Down?”

Alarm ripped through Clint. He leapt forward, wincing in pain. “No!” The guy was fucking certifiable! “Hurt her and you’ll be dead before you can take another breath,” he spat out. He whipped the SIG from his pocket and took aim.

“Oh, God.” Samantha’s strangled whisper floated down.

Behind him, he heard Spiros rack his weapon and quietly urge Matty back.

Guan shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “I fail mission, I have accident. Dead anyway.”

The man’s nonchalance was unnerving. And unnatural. Clint jetted out a breath and ratcheted down his weapon. “I’ll give you the damn card! Just don’t fucking hurt her.”
He tipped his chin at the other side of the deck. “Take the trawler and get out of here before the navy comes. After that stunt you pulled with the Coast Guard cutter, you’ve got to know they’ll be here soon.”

Guan’s eyes narrowed, and he slashed his hand angrily. “Cutter not my orders. Stupid men.” He did a slicing one-eighty of the horizon. Suddenly, almost imperceptibly, he stiffened. Then he returned his focus to Clint. “Okay. I come.”

Clint blinked at the abrupt about-face, and swiftly searched the horizon, himself. His eye skittered over a flash of something solid…a fishing boat? The Chinese sub? Or maybe nothing. The rising sun had thrown a spangle of gold across the water, turning the rolling waves into a kaleidoscope of light and shadow, making it impossible to distinguish mirage from reality.

Guan lifted the controller again, placing his thumb over one of the buttons, and snapped Clint’s attention back to him.

Guan growled in warning, “Do not be stupid, Wolfwalker.”

“I won’t,” Clint assured him, raising his hands in the universal gesture for don’t-freak-out-I-won’t-try-anything. He turned and gestured to Spiros to put away his gun. That’s when he noticed the other crew members watching warily from the shadows between two railroad containers. Frank and Johnny stood holding up Lars Bolun, who looked woozy but furious. Clint shook his head once, signaling them to stay back.

Before he’d turned around again, Guan had scuttled down the king post and landed like a cat on the deck before him, still holding the portable controller. He withdrew a small electronic tablet from his jacket and held it out to Clint. “Put card in and turn on.”

The man was definitely no fool. Good thing Clint hadn’t tried pulling a switch.