Page 18 of Anchor
Despite their outrage, those on this floor keep themselves contained. The show of force the low-life was no doubt counting on with the explosion, is as effective at corralling these people as the bombs strapped to their bodies.
His reminders over the intercom don’t hurt, either.
From my vantage point behind a rusted sedan, I can see through one roundish window into the main seating area on the first floor of the ferry. No one else seems to be hurt, but there are plenty crying hysterically and a few who look like they’re about to hurl all over the floor.
The stairs leading up to the top, where the woman and captor are, run through the right side of the room, in full few of the rest of the hostages. Walking right out in front of them may do more harm than good, so the stairs are out.
I inch around a couple more cars until I reach the front railing. The ramp drops off directly in front of me and to my right is a chained off area that will almost guarantee a dip back in the ocean, but it’s the only way for me to climb up to listen in on what the bastard’s saying.
The deck hangs out over the water so I climb up the railing and feel around for a foothold above me. My fingers clamp down on a notch of wood about an inch thick. It’s not much, but it will have to do.
Setting my jaw, I pull myself up by sheer strength of will, my biceps and shoulders burning with the effort. Above me is a rung for the second story railing and I swing one hand up to grasp it, but sweat slicking my palm weakens my grip and I damn near fall right back into the water below.
A growl tears its way through my chest and I surge upward, wrapping my hand around the rail and pulling myself up. I reach my other hand to the next one and keep going until I put a foot on the floor to boost myself the rest of the way over.
There’s no opening in the rail on this side, but there is one on the other. I can’t stand up here and vault over the rail, because the windows are about waist high, and I don’t want to announce my presence before I’ve had a chance to see what this guy wants.
I inch my way around to the other side, making sure to shore my hands and footing with each step. It’s an arduous process, but there’s no room for error
With each step it gets easier to hear the goings-on inside the cabin. I sag against the railing when the woman at the wheel comes into sight. Her eyes are bright and glossy with unshed tears. She flinches and shrinks away and I get my first good look at the gunman.
He’s about six-foot tall with a trim build. Over his black shirt and nondescript cargo pants are straps wrapping around his shoulders. Two handguns dangle from the holsters. He’s older than I expected, maybe forty or forty-five, but his beard and mustache are threaded with gray.
They’re speaking too low for me to hear and whatever the man says to her leaves her gaping after him until she collects herself. She rouses the emergency line and speaks with whoever is in charge. If not a hostage negotiator at this point, then certainly Sheriff Stevens.
Then I catch my name from her lips and I nearly release my hold on the railing and fall back into the water.
The fuck?
It scatters the bits of my drive and focus into the wind. Mind racing, breathing labored, it’s impossible for me to gather them back up. They explode in a million directions, like shrapnel from an anti-personals mine in the thick heat of an Afghani desert.
An indeterminable amount of time passes before I can control my breathing, organize my thoughts. I manage to tune back into the conversation, but the feedback is too low for me to hear from my position, so I use the opportunity to climb the rest of the way over the rail and crawl through the shadows to a dark corner by the door where he can’t see me.
I give myself a short window to do a little recon before I burst in. I chance peering around the corner and find the captain bound and gagged in a corner. The woman’s low voice fills the room as she speaks to Stevens on the other end. As if drawn by it, I almost take a step inside, but a sound to my left brings me to my senses.
The gunman steps into the room, his hands on his hips, the guns poised at his waist. The woman’s eyes flick down to them and then back out the window. “Did you tell them?”
She purses her lips, her eyes pressing together before she answers. “Yes.”
His impatient snort causes her to jerk, her arms flaring out like an out-of-control marionette. “Well, are they going to get him?” He leans a hip on the counter next to her and crosses his arms over his chest. When she doesn’t answer right away, he pounds a fist against the countertop and she stumbles backward.
Frustration is good for me—it may cause him to make a mistake, but it’s also dangerous because it makes him unpredictable. Unpredictable men with weapons are worse than unpredictable women.
“Answer now, pretty bird, before I really get irritated.”
“I believe so, yes.” She keeps her eyes downcast and her fists coiled tight, the nails digging into her palms, but her response is steady.
Good girl.
His boots scrape against the metal floor and then I hear her swift, pained inhale. I’m close enough now I can hear his next threatening words. People may doubt the presence of evil in this world, but having seen it, and hearing this guy now, there’s no doubt in my mind it exists.
Her eyes bulge as he jerks her around and pins her against the edge of the counter. She trembles, but her eyes flash in defiance. “You know if it weren’t for you, there’d only be one person on this boat with a bomb strapped to their throat, but because you had to play hero, you’ve put every person in danger.” I risk looking around the corner and find her dangling from his hold, the tips of her toes scratching the floor as he pins the air. She scrabbles against him, her nails clawing at his arm, but he doesn’t relent. “Now you will radio those shitheads again and let them know I will execute one hostage every thirty minutes until I speak to him.”
His hand tenses in her hair and she squeaks. Then she says, “I thought you said no one would get hurt?”
“I guess it’ll be up to you, pretty bird,” he replies, then releases his hold.
His tone and his threats make me gnash my teeth. I want to charge in there and expose my position, but my indecision costs me and his footsteps recede back down the stairs.