He was about four hundred yards away when the ferry seemed to pick up speed. At first he thought maybe he’d been spotted, but the increase wasn’t much, and there seemed to be no change in the activity on the lower level.
A hundred and fifty yards out, it happened again. Reflexively, he eased off the throttle and let the skiff fall back a bit. He scanned the boat, but still picked up no movement indicating he’d been seen.
He increased his speed again, moving past the resort’s speedboat that still trailed the ferry, and then eased back a little on the throttle as he inched his way along the towline. When he was only a few feet from the stern of the larger boat, he matched its speed and locked the motor in place to keep his boat from veering off to the side.
Knowing things could go haywire at any moment, he rushed forward, snatched up the line that was secured to the skiff’s bow, and jumped over several feet of open water onto the ferry, grabbing tight to one of the posts on the low wall that encircled the stern. He stayed there, crouched on the very edge of the boat, sure that someone would come to see what was going on, but all he could hear was the rumble of the Albino Mer’s engine.
Satisfied that he was at least momentarily safe, he pulled the skiff in close, tied it off, and hopped back on board to kill the motor. He then opened the canvas bag. In the hours he’d spent following the ferry, he’d figured out how to load the guns. He stuck one in the waist of his pants in back, and set another on the deck beside him. Next, he pulled out the flare gun, loaded it, and picked up his pistol from the deck before moving back onto the ferry.
The Albino Mer had been designed to comfortably hold a hundred and fifty passengers, and could cram in as many as two hundred in a pinch. The boat had three distinct areas — the main cabin level in the middle, an additional passenger level in the hull below that could be closed off when not needed, and a top deck that went all the way to the pilothouse at the front of the vessel. With the strong breeze helped along by the movement of the ferry, Robert thought it unlikely anyone would be up top.
He carefully scaled the side of the ferry until he could peek onto the upper level. The light leaking out of the side windows of the pilot cabin provided more than enough illumination for him to see he was right. The area was deserted. There were no windows along the back of the cabin, though, so he couldn’t see who was inside, but it wasn’t a stretch to guess that was where Pax was. At least one of the kidnappers would likely be with him.
Robert set the flare gun on the deck, jamming it between the railing and a box that held life preservers, and lowered himself back down to the main level. Starting only a few feet from where he was and extending three quarters of the way to the front were rows of padded benches. Beyond them was the structure that held the boat’s toilets and two sets of stairs — a private one that led up to the pilothouse, and a passenger one that went down to the lower deck. Passengers accessed the top deck via stairways on both sides of the boat.
Painfully aware of every creaking board, Robert moved down the central aisle between the benches until he reached the back wall of the toilets. He took a few deep breaths and brought his gun up to his chest, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it.
Sticking tight to the wall, he moved to the corner and peeked around. The bathrooms section blocked much of his view of the bow, but not enough to prevent him from seeing the back of a man standing at the front rail, looking out at the water.
Robert moved over to the other corner and looked around. He could see no one at the bow from this angle.
Five people had taken Pax. One was now at the bow. At least one other would be in the pilothouse. What about the rest? Were they all in the lower passenger area? That would make things a lot easier. All he would have to do was—
A toilet flushed.
Robert pulled back out of sight just as the door nearest him swung open. He heard someone clear his throat and head toward the bow.
“Where’s that beer?” a man said.
“Haven’t brought it up yet.” A different man.
“Hey!” the first one yelled. “Thought you were going to bring up some Coronas!”
“Can’t find a bottle opener,” a woman answered, her voice coming from the passenger area below.
“Jesus, I got one up here. Come on.”
Clop-clops up the stairs, accompanied by the clinking of bottles being carried together.
“Here,” the woman said.
“What about Kat?”
“I didn’t ask her.”
A snicker and the sound of bottle caps being removed.
“Cheers,” one of the men said.
So much for most of them being below. Plan B, then.
Quietly, Robert slinked back to the stern and climbed to the upper deck, this time pulling himself all the way up. He retrieved the flare gun and crept over to the pilothouse.
Eyes closed, he tried to remember the layout of the room on the other side of the wall. Carlos Guzman, the Albino Mer’s captain, had always invited Robert up anytime he was making the trip between the island and the mainland. But it had been several months since the last time Robert was on board.
The boat’s controls, he recalled, were located along a counter that ran across the front of the cabin. There was a stool bolted to the floor in front of the wheel, where Carlos would sit. Behind this was an area big enough for three or four people to stand in. To the right side was the door to the top deck.
No. That wasn’t correct.
The door was on the left, while the stairway leading down was on the right. There were some cabinets, a counter, and the boat’s controls, but that was about it, he thought. So if Pax was at the wheel, then whoever was with him would be standing in the area behind him.
Robert stepped over to the left corner, crouched, and moved around it. The window in the top half of the door was open. He started to rise so he could peek inside, but stopped before he reached the lower edge when he realized the front window was reflecting an image of the cabin’s interior.
He repositioned himself until he had a good view of the reflection. Pax was right where Robert expected to find him, and behind him was the third man of the group. The guy was holding a rifle and leaning against the back wall, looking bored. So that meant the final person, the other woman — Kat, perhaps? — was the only one in the lower deck.
Robert moved behind the pilothouse, aimed the flare gun, and pulled the trigger.
A flash of red light filled the cabin.
“Shit!” Luke said, surprised.
The glow quickly dimmed as a flare flew over the bow and out to sea. As Luke took a step toward the window, something thudded on the top deck outside the cabin door. In the reflection, Pax saw Luke change direction toward the noise.
“What was that?”
“Don’t know,” Pax said. “One of your friends playing with flares, I guess.”
The man pulled the door open. “Who the hell’s screwing around out there? You scared the crap out of…” His words faded as his gaze fixed on the deck toward the back of the pilothouse. “What is that?”
He stepped through the doorway. The moment he was out of sight, Pax hurried over to the trap door above the stairs, dropped it shut, and rammed the locking bolt into place, sealing the cabin off from below.
As soon as Robert fired off the flare, he tossed the flare gun down on the deck near the back corner of the pilothouse. He had to wait only a few seconds before he heard the door open.