30
959 Words
THIRTEEN
NAZ
We’re waiting inside a frigid hangar at the Canadian Forces Base Halifax for the C-130 to fuel up when Connor gets a phone call from Tabby.
“Princess,” he says, picking up. He listens for a moment. Whatever she says in response makes him say, “Hold on. I’m putting you on speaker.” He taps a button. “Say that again so Nasir can hear.”
Tinny but clear, her voice comes through the phone’s speaker. “Hi, Nasir.”
“Tabby. What’s happening?”
“What’s happening is that the Silver Shadow sent out a call to the coast guard over channel sixteen.”
Channel sixteen is a marine VHF radio frequency designated as an international distress frequency. Ships use it in Mayday situations when serious threats to life and safety occur.
Like, for instance, when the ship is sinking and everyone on board is about to die.
“Oh fuck.”
“Well said. The good news is that now we’ve got their exact coordinates.”
“What’s the bad news?”
There’s a short pause. “Their coordinates don’t matter anymore, because according to the person who placed the call, the pirate who commandeered the ship—”
“Pirate!”
“—is no longer aboard.”
“The mysterious Killian,” muses Connor.
I demand, “Where did he go?”
“You’re not going to believe this, but apparently he was picked up by a US Navy frigate.”
“What? The navy? How is the navy involved in this?”
“I don’t know yet, but I’m afraid there’s more, Naz.” Tabby takes a breath. “He killed Bergé and all the crew except the girl who made the call. When he left the ship, he didn’t leave alone. And the woman he took with him was unconscious.”
Eva. It becomes impossible to breathe.
“But I do have something we can work with.”
“Tell me.”
“The caller said she overheard the pirate on a phone call mentioning Angra do Heroísmo. She believes that’s his final destination.”
Connor says, “Where the hell is that?”
“The Azores.” I recall a trip to Portugal I took long ago. “If memory serves, Angra do Heroísmo is the capital of Terceira Island, one of the ancient volcanic islands that compose the archipelago.”
Connor and I look at each other.
Into the silence, Tabby says, “I’ll hack into everything I can to see if a navy frigate shows up anywhere near there. But it will take days for them to cross the Atlantic from the last position we had for the Silver Shadow.”
“Good,” I say, energy thrumming through my body. “By that time we’ll already be there waiting.”
FOURTEEN
EVA
I’m in his arms again. I have no sense of how much time has passed, if any. I’m thirsty, groggy, and as weak as a foal, but the nausea is gone and the fever that once was a forest fire has burned down to a few glowing embers.
“Hmm. Back from the dead, I see. Maybe your God has some use after all.”
I force my lids open, though it feels as if they’re weighed down with lead. I see a hard jawline covered in scruff and a thick masculine throat with tattoos peeking above the collar of a white T-shirt.
“Killian,” I whisper, disoriented.
“At your service.”
Beyond his face is blue, blue sky edged in palm trees. Below is a hill forested with white houses with red-tiled roofs and a small, charming marina dotted with boats. We’re moving along a tree-lined path in the golden glow of a humid afternoon, and I have no idea what’s happening or where I am.
“Naz—”
“Christ, woman, is he all you can think about? I told you, I took care of it. Now be quiet before you piss me off and I throw you over the cliff.”
I close my eyes and let my head rest against the broad expanse of his chest. “You’re not going to throw me over the cliff.”
A grunt is my only answer.
In short order we arrive at a white stucco bungalow sitting alone at the end of a lane. Killian punches in a series of numbers on a keypad hidden behind a giant Monstera bush, then we go inside.
“Is this a safe house?”
He slants me a look, his brow c****d. “What do you know about safe houses?”
“More than you’d think. I’m full of surprises.”
He mutters, “I know.” It doesn’t sound like a compliment.
He kicks the door shut behind him and carries me over to a sofa that’s as soft as a cloud. He arranges my head on a pillow and tucks the blanket in under my feet. Then he points at me and orders, “Stay here.”
I gaze up at him. It’s like looking up at a skyscraper. “Shoot, and I was just thinking of going on a nice jog.”
His look is disapproving. He props his hands on his hips. “Careful with that smart mouth, bhrèagha.”
I smile drowsily. “Or what, you’ll put a knife in Raphael’s thorax? Oops. Too late.”
He mutters something, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re still loopy from the pain meds.”
“What’s that thing you keep calling me? That Gaelic word.”
His expression sours. “Witch. It means mouthy, troublesome, pain-in-the-ass witch.”
“Okay. May I please have some water?”
- Writer
