Bloodline

Tucker could no longer hear the whine of the jet boat. He had watched the initial chase, saw them tear off to the side, leading the trio in a wild pursuit, running along the edge of the blockade.

He hoped their plan worked, but he had his own mission to address: to keep Amanda safe. After pulling her off that surgical table, he felt extra responsible for her-especially as he’d abandoned her newborn in the rush to escape.

I should have been more thorough in examining her.

But there was nothing to be done to correct that mistake, except keep Amanda protected.

To that end, he swam out toward where a plastic trash barrel floated on its side. He grabbed the handle. The plan was to build a nest around their hiding spot, to do their best to camouflage themselves amid the debris field.

Off to the east, the skies were already growing pale with the coming sunrise. He wanted better cover before then.

He didn’t expect they would have to remain in hiding for long. Maybe two hours. A disaster of this scope-the sinking of an entire island-would draw a global media circus: scores of television helicopters, curiosity seekers, and news reporters. Only then would it be safe to move Amanda out of hiding and search for a rescue, something to be caught on film.

That exposure should keep Amanda safe.

Such a story would attract a large audience.

Nothing like blood in the water to draw attention.

As he turned and dragged the barrel, a fin rose out of the water ahead of him. Then another. And another.

He forgot that blood drew more than just attention.

He pictured the hammerheads he’d seen earlier.

Something bumped his leg.

He let go of the barrel and yanked out his dagger. He’d left his pistol tucked in the stack of lumber.

He searched, twisting all around, but the waters were pitch-dark. Even the fins had vanished.

Then something touched his ankle. He kicked, striking something hard. It rose up under him, shoving him high. Seconds later, black water sluiced off the glass deck of the Ghost.

The hatch popped open, and Jack Kirkland poked his head out. He eyed the dagger still in Tucker’s fist. “You planning on attacking my boat with that knife? After all I went through to save your sorry asses?”

Tucker sheathed his blade, wanting to hug the man.

“You try swimming through a crumbling forest of concrete with an island falling on top of your head.” Jack wore a huge smile. “Was the time of my life! now let’s see about getting you all on board.”

By the time that was accomplished, Jack had turned more somber. Especially seeing Amanda’s condition. She was shivering, blue-lipped, and pale, on the edge of shock.

Kowalski wrapped a dry blanket around her, from the stores aboard the Ghost. He was surprisingly gentle for such a lumbering fellow. But a blanket was far from enough.

“She needs immediate medical help,” Tucker said as he settled her into one of the seats.

Kane sat next to him, leaning against his knee.

“I know where she can get it,” Jack said. “Close by. I’ve got a state-of-the-art facility aboard the Deep Fathom. We can be steaming out of these waters within the hour and get her somewhere safe.”

Tucker sank into his seat, grateful and relieved.

Jack lowered the Ghost back under the water and piloted them away. “What the hell did they do to her?”

“I don’t know,” Tucker said numbly.

And I hope I never do.

“What about your other friends?”

Tucker looked up through the glass roof and admitted the same.

“I don’t know.”

5:01 A.M .

“We’re on fumes,” Gray shouted.

At least, I hope I have even that.

Seichan sat next to him with her two SIGs on her lap. She glanced over at him. A glimmer of fear shone in her eyes-she wasn’t stupid-but it seemed only to ignite the larger excitement found there. She smiled, her hair whipped by the wind, the collar of her blouse snapping, showing the length of her neck.

“Let’s do this.”

Ever a woman of few words.

He grinned back, which only made her smile deepen-still hard-edged and purposeful, but now shining with something darker and softer, something he wanted to explore.

When they had the time.

He spun the jet boat back toward the blockade. They’d given the trio of pursuers a wild ride, weaving in and out of the line. The carbon-fiber hull had a few new holes in it, but Seichan had shot the same number of men.

She had proved her marksmanship had not dulled since he first met her. Of course, back then she’d been an assassin for the Guild, shooting at him.

Gray aimed their jet boat for the larger patrol cutter, a hundred-footer, plainly the command center for the fleet. He was confident that no eyes were looking toward where he’d hidden the others. He had planned on coming out here alone, expected to be captured, maybe killed.

And that hadn’t changed.

Only Seichan had offered another plan-to gain something from their sacrifice. This entire mission had started from an act of piracy; perhaps another act of piracy could end it.

Half of piracy involved bloodshed and destruction.

From the sinking of the island, from the trail of bodies, they’d already accomplished that well enough.

The other half of piracy was the theft of treasures.

That is what they’d come here to do.

Gray raced toward the patrol cutter, heading dead-on, a maneuver the smaller ships had not expected. Caught off guard by the sudden suicidal move, the smaller boats were slow in closing the gap. Seichan further discouraged them. She stood, one knee on her seat for balance, her two arms raised out to either side, black SIGs in each hand. She laid down a deadly barrage of fire to hold that gap open long enough for Gray to slip past their line of defense.

Nothing stood between them and the lead ship of the fleet.

It was a fast-response-class cutter, typically holding a crew of twenty, painted stark white. And, like most modern patrol vessels, it featured a stern launch-and-recovery ramp, made for deploying pursuit boats, even while under way.

That was their target.

The ramp was currently empty, as the entire fleet had been called to duty to build the blockade around the island.

Gray aimed for that ramp with the last of his fuel and opened the throttle.

Crew members ran to the stern of the ship, flanking the ramp. Automatic weapons pointed. On deck, a 25 mm stabilized caliber gun mount swung toward them. Additionally, a patrol guard manned the round black disk of an LRAD-long-range acoustic device, used as a sonic nonlethal shield against pirates, a useful tool in these waters.

There was no way to assault that ship.

They had only one choice.

“Ready?” he asked.

“I’m out of bullets anyway,” Seichan said.

Gray throttled down, killing the engines-then stood up, joining her. He laced his fingers atop his head. She made a broad display of tossing her pistols overboard, then took the same position, hands on head.