Page 13 of Anchor (First to Fight)

Every few minutes, I can’t resist glancing back as he works down the morbid line of people. His face is calm, impassive, almost methodical as he works with each person. He’s not aggressive. In fact, he doesn’t say a word as he strings each of them up with their own collar of explosives.

A flash, at least, I think it’s a flash, draws my attention to the left side of the ferry. I squint my eyes in the general direction.

Is it another boat?

God, that would be too easy, wouldn’t it? The cops will come in, subdue the bad guy and then we can all go home. Hope rises on delicate wings in my chest.

A rescue party would be too much to hope for. I have to tell myself to keep from experiencing the crushing disappointment that’s sure to come if it’s not.

I search the water, eyes straining to make out the flash again from churning white caps in the distance. There’s nothing of course, just water, useless water.

“You surprise me again,” comes a voice from behind me.

Cursing underneath my breath, I glance over my shoulder and find him standing just behind me. I chastise myself for becoming so distracted I didn’t notice the man creeping up behind me.

For an older guy he moves like a panther.

Silent…and lethal.

“I’m not sure I want to know what surprises you.”

Then he surprisesmeby chuckling. He taps the dash. “Just keep it straight, just like this, and we won’t have any problems.”

I nod because I don’t trust myself to speak.

“Good girl.” He grabs the radio with one meaty hand, probably for another morbid-ass announcement.

I clench my hands on the wheel to keep from doing anything crazy, like jumping on his back and beating my fists against his head.

While he’s distracted by twisting the knobs on the radio, I peek at the captain, who’s slumped over on the floor between a crate and the wall of controls. He doesn’t look too injured, but he’s old, even older than our abductor. His bald head is glossy with sweat. It drips over his closed eyes and down his ashen cheeks, despite the chilling breeze coming off the water.

The radio squeals, then clears. The chatter below us ceases. “Good evening, passengers. This is your captain speaking.” He smiles a little and then continues, “As long as you follow my instructions carefully, no one will get hurt today. Stay calm, don’t cause a fuss and we’ll all go home safely.” He looks at me during the next part, and his black eyes are as frigid as the night air. “But if you attempt to get off this boat. If you attempt to harm me, the collars you’re wearing will decapitate you so fast, your body won’t even know what happened.”

I resist the desire to pull at the constrictive rubber around my neck. My mind is screaming at me to get it off, get it off,get it offin an endless refrain. Sweat pops out on my skin with the effort it takes to keep my hands on the wheel. Each time I swallow my throat bobs against the restriction. Even though I know I can breathe, it’s getting harder and harder to choke down the briny air.

Before the man can continue his instructions, commotion on the lower floor pulls our attention down. The man takes a few steps, stretching the cord along behind him. I risk keeping one hand on the wheel to peer around the corner so I can see down the stairs.

I see blood first and my initial thought is the man shot someone, but then the two men fighting come into view, one of them with a bloody nose.

It’s the father. The one who is so pissed off.

He must be pushed to his limit because he clocks the guy trying to restrain him.

The man beside me shakes his head and sets down the radio. I have a fleeting thought to use it to contact someone on shore, but I gulp and remember defying the gunman would be a terrible idea.

There’s another shout and the father shoves the guy trying to pin him down. The guy trips over his own feet and momentum carries him right over a line of wire guarding the edges of the ferry’s side.

His hoarse cry follows him over the edge.

Everyone on board holds a collective breath. After a few seconds, when nothing happens, the buzz of low conversation reaches my ears. I hear snippets likewhere is he? Did the bomb not go off? What’s going on?

From my vantage point, I can only see a slice of water just over the top of the ceiling of the bottom floor. Since it’s dark, the ocean there is just a swirling mass of blackness. With one hand on the wheel, I stretch to my tippy toes to catch a glimpse of the man who’s fallen overboard.

Maybe his collar was defective. Maybe this crazy man has no idea what he’s doing.

Maybe we’ll make it out of this alive.

For someone who just threatened a boatful of people with decapitation if they tried to escape, the man beside me seems calm. Too calm.