Page 67

Jackson sat back, glaring a challenge until Garrett sighed, raised his binoculars again, and became all business. A moment later, he gave the hand signal confirming that he saw no weapons pointing their way, at least not yet.

They were clear to go. He was in.

Opening the window as far as it would go, Jackson hung his head out and talked the reluctant Carlos into a wobbly approach while Garrett secured their gear.

The helo bounced in a wind gust and struck the rail with a strut. They jarred violently. The pilot fretted about lawyers he couldn’t afford and called upon Jesus to run divine interference as he attempted another angle.

“Now,” Jackson shouted, and they slammed to the deck, rattling every bolt in the fuselage and every bone in their bodies.

While Jackson pushed gear out the door, Garrett ordered the pilot to wait on the island and stay tuned to the radio for thirty minutes in case their plan to escape using the yacht’s life boats didn’t pan out. If they weren’t ready to leave by then, they never would. The clock started ticking the second they set boots on Apokryphos. The helo hopped off the deck, leaving them crouched in its gusty backwash and dodging unsecured seat cushions. As their ride clop-clopped toward the island, silence descended, filled only by the quiet slaps and hiss of the sea against the ship’s hull.

“You’d think they have people dropping in uninvited all the time,” Jackson said, reaching for his gun.

Garrett stayed his hand. “Easy, Jack. Let’s not look like a threat until we have to.”

Looking straight back, they faced the bridge. Someone had to be watching them from behind those smoked windows. Watching them and not caring? Nick had said the crew was compelled to function as little more than automatons to operate and maintain the ship. His flesh crawled. He could almost feel the primal power envelop this vessel and everyone on it, even in the light of day.

They were about to embark on their mission when a woman rounded the outside of the bridge, wearing a black windbreaker, white palazzo pants, and a colorless smile. She walked tall and straight with confidence, her deep-red ponytail flying in the wind. “Welcome aboard Apokryphos.”

Garrett put his hand on his gun. Their welcome committee kept her hands in her pockets, against the chill—or holding a weapon of her own? Smiling assassins were all too common in their line of work.

“You two look tense,” the redhead said, following his hand’s movement with her eyes. “Well, not to worry. Your travel nightmares are over.” She removed her hands from her pockets to clasp them before her, empty. “I’m Monica Sol, manager of this fine vessel and the owner’s representative.”

“Well. Aren’t you special,” Garrett said, not moving his hand.

She lowered her head and blushed. “As a matter of fact, I am, yes.”

“As it happens, we’ve dropped in to have a chat with—”

“Cassidy,” Jackson broke in. “We’re friends of Cassidy’s.”

“Right,” Garrett agreed without missing a beat.

“Oh, how delightful.” The hands now clapped, excited. “She’ll be so happy to see you. I’m afraid she’s been a little bored.”

“I bet,” Jackson said.

“Come, come.” Monica gestured for them to follow and turned away. “You’re just in time for dinner.”

“Won’t be staying for that,” Garrett said under his breath. “Plan A.”

Jackson nodded and fell in behind their hostess, whom Nick described as the least compelled mortal he had ever witnessed in his sire’s presence. That made her either harmless—or the most dangerous person on the ship before sundown. Which was in another—he checked his watch—seventy-two minutes. Plenty of time.

Nervous energy tingled over his skin as they stepped through a door into the serene, spotless interior full of geometric-patterned carpets and cherry-wood paneling. Monica slipped out of her jacket and hung it in a utility closet by the door. Her white tunic bore no pockets. She was unarmed.

Garrett reached for his gun again when a blank-faced crew-member dressed entirely in black passed them on his way to the bridge. The man didn’t even glance in their direction, and Jackson felt like a ghost suddenly, there but unseen and in the company of an angel. Like he was already dead. He set his jaw and shook his head. He had to stay focused on the mission. Otherwise, they were done for.

“We’ll take the stairs,” Garrett said, when Monica pushed the call button on an elevator. “Healthier.”

“If you prefer.” She entered the stairwell.

Jackson nodded to his uncle and followed, tromping with as much noise as possible. As per “Plan A,” Garrett went to find another stairway farther back to take himself and his backpack two decks down to the engine room. The engine room where, according to Dominique, the miniature submarine was housed. The submarine in which Kambyses spent his oblivious days.

Monica only moved down one deck and into a short hallway. “Did we lose someone?” she said, brows rising when she stopped by a door and noticed Garrett gone.

“Hmm?” Jackson looked around and feigned innocence. “Oh, right. He needed the men’s room. He’ll find us. Can’t really get lost on this thing, can you?”

Her smile showed the first cracks. “You’d be surprised how many people get lost on this boat.”