The Devil's Waters (15 page)

LB dashed into the dark and slanting companionway, dodging the many steel pillars, ladders, hydrants, and lashings in the way. While not nimble, LB was faster than the Serb with the heavy Zastava bouncing against his chest. He did not slow for the full length of the
Valnea
, did not look back at Bojan or over the night sea. LB ran flat out
until he popped from beneath the long overhang, onto the bow, and under the first stars.

Weaving quickly between fat hawsers, he rushed to the tip of the bow. Leaning out with the glowing flashlight in hand, LB found what he’d come looking for.

Bojan grabbed him by the collar to yank him backward.

“Before you say anything”—LB held the flashlight out to the panting Serb—“take a look.”

“I will”—Bojan mustered the breath to finish his threat—”put you in brig.”

“Look first. Then brig.”

Bojan slung the Zastava over his heaving shoulders. LB bent over the rail to watch him train the flashlight on the rope looped around the
Valnea
’s nose above her giant bow bulb. The Serb played the beam left and right, following the cord along both sides until it disappeared into the breaking water.

“Impossible.”

LB patted the big guard on the back to return standing on the deck.

“You get it now? That’s why they were waiting in front of us. One skiff on each side—they let us go right between them. They strung that rope around the ship’s nose. Drozdov is zigzagging, but all he’s doing is flinging them around. We’re not gonna shake these guys.”

“We are towing them.” The Serb bared his teeth. “
Sranje
,” he cursed, then lifted his chin to LB to say, Go a head, speak.

“They’re not trying to climb up. They’re not shooting. Those two pirate skiffs are keeping our attention on them, that’s all. There’s another boat.“

Bojan curled his upper lip, an angry, sour face. He thrust LB the flashlight, burdened enough with the Zastava. “Sergeant, come.” Bojan rammed a finger toward the port corridor. “The stern.”

Bojan took off barreling through the narrow companionway, twisting his shoulders to fit. LB reached instinctively for the M4 that was not strapped across his shoulder.

The two bolted single file. The unlit passage tilted more with Drozdov’s useless evasion, making both men balance against the rail as they ran. Bojan jangled with weapons, LB’s jump boots clomped.

Somali pirates. LB had always considered them the same way Bojan described them, as ignorant and rash, not much more than simpleton villagers with guns. He had to rethink that now. From the look of things, these guys were clever. And no question, they had balls. But what were they after—why so much trouble and violence? What was inside this damned ship?

LB had no time to mull this over, darting behind Bojan down the hard corridor. The big Serb, already winded from chasing LB to the bow, couldn’t keep the pace for long. He reached the ladder below the forward crane before slowing to a jogging walk.

“I’ll meet you there.”

With that, LB dodged around Bojan, who did not move to stop him. He ran the rest of the way to the stern, rounding the last steel corner to the fantail. He bent over the rail, catching his breath. The wake behind the
Valnea
was intense, choppy, ghostly. One black-painted skiff crowded with dark men joggled on the foam.

Bojan skidded to a stop beside him. He looked, then spat over the rail at the pirates.

“So. No brig for you, Sergeant.”

Two thin men wearing loose white tunics and Kalashnikovs across their backs worked their way up a pair of rope ladders strung from grapnels. The hooks had been flung over the rail of the mooring deck below, fifteen feet closer to the water. The Somalis were only a few rungs from boarding the freighter.

Bojan braced the stock of the Zastava under his armpit.

“You have knife?”

LB was already on the move. He sprang for the down staircase, hopping for a moment to grab the four-inch blade out of the sheath around his calf. Behind him, Bojan ran uphill to the center of the rail, directly above the rope ladders. He halted and fired a burst. LB couldn’t gauge the result, already lunging the first steps down to the mooring deck to slash away the ropes. This close, the Serb had to hit somebody. The answering blast of bullets halted LB on the stairs. Bojan stood as if in the center of fireworks, sparks and ricochets in the steel all around him. He jerked, raked by many rounds. Bojan staggered from the rail, then stepped up to fire another volley. More bullets answered from below, another corona of sparks lit him up. Bojan stumbled backward, the Zastava too high when he pulled the trigger again. He fired uselessly over the gulf, then collapsed against the wall.

LB reversed, vaulting back to Bojan. The slumped Serb held up a shaking hand to stop him. LB ignored it. He skidded to his knees at the guard’s side.

Blood dribbled from the corners of the big man’s mouth. Pale skin and wet wounds peeked through a half-dozen rips in his sweater. He breathed with a grating noise, the holes in his chest burbling. One squeeze of his hand in LB’s came strong and pained.

“Uh-oh,” Bojan wheezed.

“We gotta get you out of here.”

“Too late. Here.” Bojan unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt. He handed it quavering to LB. “Warn Drozdov.”

LB stuffed the radio in his vest, then lifted the Zastava’s strap from around Bojan’s shoulders to loop it over his own. He raced through his options. He could trade shots with the pirates scrambling on board, probably take a few rounds himself, and die next to Bojan. He could run for the other two guards or wait to see if they heard the gunfire and ran this way. In either case, by the time LB managed to mount any kind of defense, a dozen pirates would already be over the rail below and spreading over the ship. This would become a running firefight against superior numbers on a roller-coaster deck. Or he could get Bojan to safety, warn the captain, and rescue the wounded, plus maybe his own neck.

Gripping the Serb by the wrist, he dug his other arm between the man’s splayed legs. He drew his knees in close for the fireman’s carry.

“Never too late, pal. This is gonna hurt.”

Bojan hissed when LB hoisted him. The Serb lay on his wounds across LB’s shoulders. Standing under the weight, LB broke into a jog. Each step drew another Serbian curse. Below, one Somali had already cleared the grappling hook and dropped to the mooring deck. The other rope ladder had no barefoot pirate on it. Bojan must have taken that one out. Two more climbed onto the first rungs. The others in the skiff held the ropes taut or kept gun barrels searching over their heads. The
Valnea
’s dodging did nothing to dislodge them. They, too, were being towed.

LB freed a hand for the walkie-talkie. He hit the talk button.

“Drozdov, DiNardo. Copy?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“A couple dozen pirates at the stern. At least one already on board, the rest on their way.”

“What about the guards?”

“Bojan’s down. The other two are watching the skiffs. Get your people to the engine room.”

“
Yebanat
.”

“I know. Get moving.”

“Where are you going?”

“The infirmary.”

“I have not heard from Iris Cherlina.”

“Shit.”

“Yes, I know. Out.”

LB crab-walked down the skinny passageway with Bojan astride his shoulders, careful not to bang the Serb’s head. The deck leveled out and did not swing the other direction. LB pictured no one at the wheel now.

He prickled with the advent of action. This was a container ship; not a jungle, desert, or ice storm, it was unfamiliar territory. One man had already been shot. The warship’s helicopter was going to arrive too late. LB didn’t know the protocols of the
Valnea
, barely knew her layout. He had no plan. All he could do was protect the injured, kick himself for giving up his weapon, then letting Jamie go home on the chopper, lock himself in the engine room with Drozdov and the crew, then leave the rest to the cavalry.

He made it through the passageway, figuring he was no more than a minute ahead of the pirates. He reached the guard stationed on port. The Serb fumbled his weapon, alarmed at the sight of Bojan across LB’s shoulders.

“What has happened?”

“There’s pirates on board. We gotta move. Now.”

“Bojan.”

“He’s been shot. There’s no time. Go get the other guard. Meet me in the infirmary. Fast.”

“Is he dead?”

“Not yet. But we’re all gonna be if you don’t hump it. Move.” The Serb tore across the ship to the starboard rail to collect the other guard. LB ducked Bojan into the superstructure, bumping him on the steel portal. Bojan grunted, “Sergeant, I hurt enough. Really.”

LB lurched past the infirmary, running out of steam nearing the elevator. He stabbed the down indicator, then shed Bojan to the floor.

Lighter by two hundred pounds, Serbian blood on his shoulders, LB raced back to the infirmary. Nikita, unable to turn his strapped head toward LB bursting in, reached wildly.

“What is going on? I heard general alarm.”

LB pushed down the engineer’s hands. “Listen. We’re gonna move you to the engine room. Pirates are on the ship.”

LB ignored the engineer’s spurt of questions. The man’s feet quivered while he fought down his shock. LB unclipped Nikita’s bag of anti-inflammatory, then stacked three more on his chest. He loaded the engineer with two boxes of bandage wraps for Bojan and four bags of fluids. The last thing he slapped on Nikita was the half-filled catheter bag. “Hang on to these, buddy.”

The two black-garbed guards surged in. LB was glad to see both keeping their composure. He instructed them: “Lift this one outta here. Get him to the elevator. Take Bojan and him down to the engine room. Stay with the crew. Protect them. Got it?”

Both nodded. One asked, pointing to the unconscious, bandaged cadet, “What about him?”

LB held open the infirmary door, hitching a thumb down the hall at the elevator and the sagging Bojan. “I’ll bring him. You go. Go. Send the elevator back to A deck.”

The guards lugged Nikita on his board, trailing the sheet that covered him. LB shut the infirmary door. By now, pirates were definitely crawling over the mooring deck and headed up the stairs.

With no time to be gentle, LB stacked the remaining bags of saline and fentanyl on the cadet’s bandaged chest. The kid seemed unaware except for a flinch of the fingers. Unclipping the catheter bag from the bed, he noted that the cadet’s urine remained brownish, a sign of continued dehydration. He might not survive a long siege in the engine room, the hottest and least antiseptic place on the ship.

LB rolled the cadet and the medical supplies in the blanket. The boy stiffened against LB’s arms sliding under him. A deep groan crossed his rounded lips.

LB lifted the kid. He turned for the door to see it opening, with no hand free to reach for his gun or knife. He could not drop the cadet.

Drozdov flew into the infirmary, leaving the door open.

“Put him down, Sergeant.”

“What?”

“I will take him to engine room. You must go.”

“Go where?”

“Iris Cherlina is missing. If they find her, they will have their hostage. She is not in her room, not in accommodation. She may be again on the bow. I don’t know. But find her. Hide her. You are not on ship’s manifest. Pirates will not look for you.”

The captain dug fast hands into the cadet’s clothes hanging on a hook. He dug out a key on a ring. He slapped this on the cot where the cadet had lain.

“This is master key. Every lock on the ship. If you must hide, this will take you places. Now.”

Drozdov stepped forward to extend his arms next to LB’s beneath the wrapped cadet. Tugging the cadet out of LB’s arms, he held the boy well enough, though he turned red with the burden.

“I must speak quickly, Sergeant.”

“Go.”

“I do not know the secrets on this ship,” the Russian urged. “I do not know the lies of Iris Cherlina.
Wed’ma
, she is not just passenger. You have guessed this?”

“It wasn’t tough.”

“I was told, no questions.”

“Maybe you should’ve asked a few.”

“Too late for that. Now listen to me. The people who put her here, and Bojan, me, all the bullshit on this ship, are not going to let it stay hijacked. They will come. You have radios. You have gun. Help them. And remember.”

“What?”

“Someone has sabotaged the
Valnea
. Trust no one. They may do same to you.”

“All right. Get bandages on Bojan fast. And make sure the kid—”

“Grisha knows.”

“All right, all right. Be safe.”

“
Otyebis
safe. Run.”

LB swept the master key off the cot, pocketed it, and flew out of the infirmary. He lapped his finger over the Zastava’s trigger. The elevator waited at the long end of the hall for Drozdov. Bojan, the guards, Nikita, were gone. Behind him, the captain staggered under the cadet. LB wished them all luck, and himself.

He moved to the door leading out to the main deck. He swung the heavy portal as quickly as he dared, judging time more important than stealth. Outside, LB flattened his back to the wall, listening. High-pitched voices flitted over the ship’s hum.

He squatted to present the smallest profile. Stepping onto the open deck, LB swerved eyes and gun together, left and right. In the narrow, dark passageway, men crept his way, Kalashnikovs at their hips. LB could take a knee and drop the first two or three, framed in the passage with nowhere to hide. That would leave a dozen more flowing up both sides of the
Valnea
. In a gunfight, he’d be flanked and finished in seconds. Somali pirates weren’t soldiers, but they weren’t known as cowards, despite Bojan’s disregard. The big Serb’s blood on his shoulders told him the Somalis would shoot back.

Iris Cherlina. Where was she that she didn’t hear the alarms? Had the woman gone to the bow, like Drozdov said, or had she been on the stern for some reason? Did the pirates already have her—was that why she’d gone missing?

There wasn’t time to figure any of that out now. He had to keep himself on the loose, or he’d be no help to Iris or Drozdov.