White Hot (9 page)

He hung on to his temper. He allowed that she had every
right, and good reason, to ask. “I am not a pirate,” he said meeting her eyes levelly. “Or any other kind of criminal. I am employed by U.S. Naval Intelligence. I work to
prevent
terrorist acts against American ships, not participate in them.”

She digested his denial for a long, skeptical moment. Thankfully she didn’t examine his careful wording too closely.

Part of it? No. But he may well be the catalyst.
Interpretation.

“All right,” she said at length. “I’ll choose to continue to believe you. For now.” She pushed out a breath. “Now please, let me go. I need to get up there and find out—”

“What part of
no fucking way
don’t you get?” he said vehemently. “I am
not
letting you go up there. You stay here.
I’ll
—”

“Excuse me?
I
am the goddamn captain of this ship!” she declared. She went up on her toes, putting her face right into his. The brim of her old yachting cap poked at his forehead. “And last time I checked,
captain
trumps
lieutenant commander
.” For emphasis, she jabbed her forefinger at his chest with each syllable. “Which means
you
, sir, will follow
my
orders!”

Seriously?

First she accused him, and now she was pulling rank on him?

Anger simmered through his veins. “And what, exactly,” he queried softly, “are those orders, ma’am?”

She backed down a fraction, relief minutely easing her tight muscles. He couldn’t believe she actually thought he’d ceded command to her. He clamped his jaw and let her keep her fantasy for now.

“I need to go up and see for certain what’s happening.” She took a step back from him, banding her arms over her midriff. “We have a cargo hold packed with fireworks. Literally. What we heard may just have been some of those going off by accident. Or even a practical joke. Some of the crew are real wiseacres.”

He jerked a nod. It was solid reasoning. Except for the part where it was Samantha who went up to check on things. There was not a chance he’d let her put herself in danger like that.

“If it is pirates,” she continued as though she honestly believed he’d go along with this, “I need to get to the radio on the bridge. To set off the DSC, and contact the authorities.”

Which was exactly what Clint planned to do. The DSC—short for digital select calling—was the automated distress signal transmitter required on all ships. Press the button and help would arrive. Eventually.

But he didn’t relish rushing the bridge without a weapon. Silently he cursed his bad judgment in leaving the SIG hidden under the mattress in his stateroom. A rookie move, no doubt caused by diminished brain capacity resulting from his bad case of rampaging hormones.

Hell of a time to be stranded bare-assed, without even his gun. What he wouldn’t give for the bag of gear he’d been forced to leave behind last week on that damn Russian submarine. That was where he’d started out this joyride—going undercover on an international scientific expedition hosted by the Russians, in order to acquire the stolen Chinese data card that had been hidden on the submarine. Things had not gone exactly as planned.

“Does anyone on board have a satellite phone?” he asked.

She made a frustrated face. “Don’t think so. Just regular cell phones. We’re generally not out of range long enough to justify the expense.”

Great.
“Any chance of cell reception?”

She grimaced. “Not this far out to sea. Sometimes you can get a bar if the weather’s just right, but it’s rare.”

“What about a computer?”

She jetted out a breath, not looking any more hopeful. “There’s a desktop in the main salon, and I have a laptop in my cabin. But there’s no wireless out here, not without a satellite connection. When we’re at sea, we rely on the ship-to-shore radio for communication.”

“On the bridge.”

She nodded unhappily.

The bridge, the command center for the entire ship, was the first place any competent pirate would secure. Or anyone else taking over a vessel for whatever reason…

“And I’m guessing the engine room has not been retrofitted as a safe room.” On most newer ships, the engine room was built so that during a hostile attack, the entire crew could withdraw and barricade themselves inside, shut down the ship’s engines, cut off the bridge controls remotely so the hijackers couldn’t turn them back on, trigger the DSC distress transmission, and simply drift until the ship was rescued or the pirates gave up and left.

“God forbid the company actually spend good money on security,” she muttered in response.

He wondered briefly at the bitter note in her words, but now was not the time to ask.

He put a hand to her shoulder. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’ll go up top and do a reconnaissance. Then—”

She cut him with a death ray look. “What part of
I’m the fucking captain
don’t
you
get? You have absolutely no authori—”

Suddenly there was a loud clattering of boots on the metal stairs of the companionway. Angry shouts ricocheted across the ro-ro deck above.

Instantly, Clint clapped a hand over Samantha’s mouth, cutting off her rant, trying to discern the language of the shouts as he dragged her back behind the solid door of the storage room they’d taken refuge in.

It sounded like Chinese.
Though, admittedly, he was no Asian language expert. It could be Korean. Or even some flavor of Indonesian. The Indonesians were big in the pirate business. Although not usually in the Bering Sea.

How many?
Clint silently counted.
One, two, three
individuals were now clomping down toward the lower deck. There had to be at minimum two more up on the weather or crew decks guarding the captured crew. Therefore an enemy force of at least five pirates.

Or Chinese operatives.

Samantha was right. The chances of this takeover being a coincidence on the day after he came on board were slim to none. Clint did not believe in coincidence any more than she apparently did.

He gathered himself, preparing for battle. For once, she didn’t fight him as they stood there, barely breathing, hiding behind the open door to the closet-sized storage room. It was pitch-dark inside, but overhead lights from the staircase painted the surrounding bulkhead with irregular shadows, providing a bit of camouflage. With luck, the hijackers wouldn’t spot the opening.

Or them.

There was louder clattering on the stairs.

“I’m telling you, I
am
Captain Sam Richardson!” a voice protested loudly. The voice was male. American. “You won’t find anyone else down here!”

Clint realized someone from the crew was pretending to be the captain. Someone too brave for his own good.

Clint moved his head slightly to look at Samantha. Even in the relative dark he could see she’d gone pale. She opened her mouth, and he could tell she was about to protest, to step out and reveal herself. He swiftly covered her mouth again and banded an arm around her so she couldn’t do anything stupid.

“You lie!” shouted another male voice, this one with a heavy Asian accent. The sound of flesh being struck cracked through the air. “Tell me where the passenger is!”

“I’m not lying,” the fake Captain Richardson said after a grunt of pain. “I’m the captain, and there’s no one else on board. I swear.”

Another whack resounded. “You
not
captain! Stripes on uniform not correct!” The Asian interrogator sounded older. And completely unsympathetic. Clint’s heart sank. Was he about to meet the infamous Xing Guan in person?

“Maybe for the military,” the American said with another grunt of pain. “But this ship is owned by a private company. The uniforms are different. Just ask the crew.”

“I will find man you hide from me!” the interrogator gritted out. “Then you both die!”

Samantha had started to tremble. She looked at Clint imploringly. He eased his hand from her mouth but shook his head somberly and kept his arm wrapped firmly around her shoulders.

“Who else on ship? How many?” the interrogator demanded.

“There are seven crew members,” the imposter captain said. “Everyone’s on deck but me. I’m telling you, there’s no one else.”

“Seven not enough. You lie!”

“No! Only”—the American gave a sharp
oof
of pain—“seven!”

The interrogator barked out orders to the other two tangos and they sprang to obey, beginning a thorough search of the orlop.

The two went methodically through the engineering spaces and storage areas, room by room with guns in hand. Clint could feel Samantha’s body jump each time a metal door banged open. He listened with growing trepidation as the hurried footfalls and shouted progress of the searchers got closer and closer to their hiding place.

They were so screwed.

Samantha’s wide eyes latched onto him and held. The dawning panic in them made his resolve harden to stone.

Okay. Clint may be screwed, and possibly the crewman impersonating the captain. But Samantha didn’t have to be.

If Clint gave himself up, they’d take him prisoner and stop the search. Whether the hijackers were pirates looking for the ship’s real captain, or Xing Guan’s assassination squad hunting the spy in possession of their stolen technology, capturing Clint would satisfy either objective. He looked down at the gold stripes on his shirt and then at Samantha’s. Okay, maybe not the captain, but he’d think of something.

And as they dragged him away, he’d drop the precious data card somewhere on
Île de Cœur
where the navy could find it.

He’d be dead. But Samantha and her crew would be safe.

He let her go and scooted past, intending to step out from behind the door. She grabbed his arm and shook her head vigorously. “No!” she silently mouthed.

“Yes,” he mouthed back, his mind made up. “Stay here. You’ll be okay.”

One of the searchers smacked a door open just down the passageway. It banged like a gunshot. Sam’s fingers dug into him.

Clint grimly set his jaw and peeled them from his arm. But before he could step away, she grasped the heavy metal door and pulled it tight against them so they were crushed between it and the bulkhead. The gap was so narrow he had to quickly turn his head for fear his nose would be squashed flat.

He glared down at her. She ignored him.

In a deft maneuver, she reached for the rod used to secure the open door in rough seas, and clipped the end hook into the matching eye in the bulkhead next to him, effectively locking them in place like two sardines in a can.

Loud footsteps pounded along the passageway, bearing quickly down on them.

Damn it!
If he moved now, he’d give her away, too.

Angrily, he froze in place, and they both held their breath as the tango clomped into their closet. The overhead light snapped on. Samantha’s eyes squeezed shut, and Clint could feel her body tremble against his side. He moved his hand infinitesimally, caught her fingers in his, and gave them a squeeze.

The tango let out a furious growl, and suddenly cans and containers were swept from metal shelves so hard they crashed against the bulkhead and peppered to the floor like a hailstorm. Clint turned his head to see better, scraping his nose on rough metal.

A set of blunt fingers curled around the edge of the door and jerked it. The hook rattled loudly, but held.

Clint coiled his muscles, preparing to launch into a fight for his life.
For Samantha’s life.

She squeezed his hand in a death grip.

The door jerked again.

Then the fingers disappeared. The tango shouted something to the head honcho as, miraculously, his footsteps pounded out of the room, joining the other searchers as they climbed down into the cargo holds below the orlop.

The whole time the leader continued to harangue, interrogate, and abuse the crew member claiming to be Captain Sam Richardson. With every blow, Samantha grew more and more upset. Her pretty green eyes had long since filled with liquid rage. She didn’t look as much like she wanted to burst into tears as like she wanted to burst out of their hiding place and kill the hijackers with her bare hands.

He got that. No worse punishment existed than being forced to stand by helpless, watching as a friend was brutalized.

Finally the tangos finished their search of the cargo holds. The commander barked at his underlings, his irate voice making it clear he was not happy that no one else had been found. Clint wouldn’t want to be the imposter captain, who was sure to take the brunt of the brute’s anger.

The question was, would he take the abuse and remain mute?

Or would he break, and throw Clint to the dragon…?

“I have to do something!” Sam said shakily after the pirates were well out of earshot. “Now!”

She battled the trembling in her voice and limbs, struggling to appear just as strong as the muscle-bound caveman standing next to her who seemed intent on preventing her from doing her job.

She and Clint were still hiding in the storage room but had quietly shut the door so they could talk. Well, argue. She might be terrified down to her toes, but she’d be damned if she’d let those bastard pirates hurt her crew or take her ship!