Poseidon's Arrow

head over his shoulder briefly and spoke to Ann. “You are in love with me,” he said, grinning.

“What?”

“Yes, you must be in love with me. Why else do you keep turning up?”

“I didn’t ask to go on this trip,” she said. “Please, let me go.”

Pablo let out a deep laugh. “You are too smart to let go . . . and too pretty to kill.”

Ann felt instant revulsion but kept the conversation going. “Is that the Sea Arrow’s motor we’re hauling?”

“Perhaps.”

“Why did you kill the men who helped you steal it?”

“They served their usefulness, and they knew more than they needed to. I believe that is enough inquiry for now.” He turned on the radio and turned up the volume after finding a local bluegrass station.

They crossed the hills of western Kentucky, listening to the upbeat strains of Flatt and Scruggs. Four hours later, they pulled into Paducah. Pablo parked at a gas station on the outskirts of town and made a phone call. Within minutes, a rusty pickup appeared, driven by a tattoo-covered man, who then escorted the hay truck to the riverfront. A towboat and a barge loaded with shipping containers were moored at the weathered wooden dock. Pablo eased the truck alongside the darkened barge and stopped.

It was well after midnight, and the facility was eerily quiet. Pablo unhitched the flatbed trailer and drove the truck to an adjacent lot. By the time he returned, the tattooed man had strung lifting cables around the trailer and was hoisting it onto the barge with a dockside crane. Pablo jumped aboard the barge and helped secure the trailer to the deck, before returning to the cab for Ann.

She feigned drowsiness as he freed her from the seat frame and recuffed her hands in front of her. She noticed for the first time that the cuffs had a sensor device built into them. Pablo pulled her from the truck and led her to the dock.

The lights of Paducah twinkled to her right along the bank as the Ohio River slid past like a dark current of molasses. Pablo kept a tight grip on her arm as he led her toward the towboat. The weathered boat was secured to the center stern of the barge, ready to guide it down the river. Access to the towboat was by a thin gangplank that stretched over the water. Ann hesitated crossing until Pablo gave her a gentle nudge.

She actually didn’t fear crossing the thin gangplank but what lay ahead. First chained to a truck, next chained to a towboat, then who knows what? Wherever she was taken, it was when the handcuffs were removed that she’d have the most to fear. It was this fear that drove her to act.

She mentally braced herself and took a deep breath as Pablo prodded her a second time. Pretending to stagger, she took two steps onto the gangplank and compressed her knees. Springing forward, she took a leaping step up. The gangplank flexed, giving her extra lift, and she bounded easily over the side handrail.

Pablo reached for her, but could only graze a passing ankle. As she stretched her arms before her, Ann plunged into the river, trailing just a small splash and vanishing into the dark muddy water.

41

THE ADELAIDE’S AUXILIARY STORAGE LOCKER WAS a dim, steamy oven befitting the devil. Pitt could smell decaying flesh mixed with sweat when the bolted door was flung open and he and Giordino were shoved inside at gunpoint. He had struggled to bear the weight of his wounded friend down to the main deck and tried not to collapse under him. He noticed a canvas tarp in the locker and gently laid Giordino on it as the door was slammed and locked behind them.

“Is there a medic among you?” Pitt said. He glanced toward the Coast Guard team he saw huddled nearby.

A young man stood up and slowly made his way to Pitt’s side.

“Simpson, isn’t it?” Pitt said.

“Yes, sir. I can help.” He knelt over Giordino, quickly noting the spreading pool of blood beneath his right leg. “Has he been shot?”

“Yes.” Pitt ripped away a torn section of Giordino’s pants. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”

Simpson located the blood-soaked wound on Giordino’s outer thigh and applied pressure with his palm. “I need something for a bandage.”

Pitt removed his shirt and ripped off the sleeves, tearing them into long strips. Someone passed over a bottle of water, which the medic used to clean the wound. He took one of the strips and folded it into a pad. Applying it to the wound, he bound it with the remaining strips.

Giordino opened his eyes and looked up. “Where we headed?”

“To get some beer,” Pitt said. “Take a nap, and I’ll wake you when it’s on ice.”

Giordino gave him a crooked grin, then drifted off a few seconds later.

Simpson pulled a section of tarp over him and motioned Pitt aside. “He’s lucky. There were two wounds, indicating the bullet went clean through. Most likely, it missed the bone. But it must have nicked his femoral artery, hence all the blood. He may go into shock with that much blood loss, so we’ll need to keep an eye on him.”

“He’s a tough old goat,” Pitt said.

“He should be fine for now. His biggest problem will be avoiding infection in this stink hole.”

Pitt saw in the dim light that Simpson had a bruise on his cheekbone. “What happened to you?”

“Got jumped in the corridor on my way to watch. Bugger hit me with a chain. I was luckier than some of the guys.”

Pitt looked around the bay, which was lit by a single flickering overhead lamp. The Coast Guard team sat nearby, while another group, members of the Adelaide’s real crew, was sprinkled about the rear of the compartment. Two oblong shapes, wrapped in canvas and positioned off to one side, were responsible for the horrible odor.

“The captain and another man,” Simpson said. “Killed in the assault before we came along.”

Pitt nodded, then turned his attention to the Coast Guard team. They all bore wounds and bruises. Plugrad sat among the men with his back to a bulkhead, a vacant look in his eye.

“How’s Plugrad?”

“They knocked the lieutenant upside the head pretty good,” Simpson said. “He’s got a concussion but otherwise appears okay.”

Pitt stepped across the bay to the other group. They appeared weary but unhurt. A broad-shouldered man with a thick gray mustache rose and introduced himself.

“Frank Livingston, executive officer,” he said with a thick Australian accent. “How’s your comrade?”

“Gunshot wound to the leg. Lost some blood, but the medic thinks he’ll be okay.”

“Sorry I couldn’t help. Our chief bosun was the ship’s medic. He’s over there with the captain.” He pointed toward the canvas-covered bodies.

“How’d they take the ship?”

“A fast freighter came alongside on the evening watch three nights ago. Pulled right alongside our beam, scaring the dickens out of the helmsman. When they didn’t respond on the radio, the captain went on deck with the chief bosun. The vessel fired up some sort of radar device amidships that killed them both.” His mouth tightening into a grimace. “Never seen anything like it. Almost as if they were cooked alive. The freighter sent over an armed boarding party shortly after. There wasn’t much we could do. We’ve been cooped up in here ever since.”

“I’m sorry we were late to the scene,” Pitt said. “I guess they were tipped off to our arrival and came after you early.”

Livingston’s tired eyes flared with vengeance. “Who are they?”

Pitt shook his head. “They’re part of a ring we believe has hijacked a number of bulk carriers transporting rare earth elements.”

“We’re loaded with something called monazite,” Livingston said. “Guess they got what they came for. Any idea where we’re headed?”

Pitt looked around to make sure none of the other men were listening. “We think they usually transfer the cargo at sea, then scuttle the ships. At least two other carriers were sunk in these waters.”