And now, here they were, the briefcase before them, Ridley armed with every tool and drill he could carry up from his workshop. Al and Jason weren’t saying much, weren’t showing their hands, but McKenna could see how they looked at the case. They were intrigued, too.
She wasn’t sure, though. She’d been thinking about ditching the thing, chucking it off the boat and being done with it.
“Aren’t you curious?” Ridley asked her. “I mean, those assholes were ready to kill us all. Gotta be something important, right? They’ll probably send more guys to try and take it from us.”
McKenna nodded. “Probably.”
“So? You going to let me do this, or what?”
She looked at Al and Jason again. Jason avoided her eyes, kept stealing glances at the briefcase. Al shrugged. “Would be kind of interested to know,” he said.
This isn’t a democracy, girl. You’re the captain here.
But McKenna realized she wanted to know, too. Figured she deserved to know; she’d sure been shot at enough.
So she lifted her hands, let them fall. “Go for it,” she told Ridley. “You want to take a look, be my guest.”
TEN MINUTES AND NEARLY thirty new swear words later, Ridley stepped back, wiped his brow. “But damn it,” he said. “That was some kind of lock.”
The briefcase had given a good fight. But Ridley, assisted by an assortment of power tools, and a helping of brute force, had finally cracked it. And now the crew crowded around what remained, eager for a look inside.
By rights, Matt and Stacey would be here, too. Seeing how they nearly died for this thing just like the rest of us.
But the Jonases were on the Pacific Lion, and McKenna was reluctant to do any more broadcasting over the radio, given the Royal Canadian Navy presence nearby. No sense arousing any suspicion—and you never could be totally sure who was listening in.
Ridley caught her eye. Gestured to the briefcase. “I think the honor is yours, Captain Rhodes.”
“Better not be a bomb,” McKenna replied. She stepped to the table. Took hold of the briefcase, counted to three in her head. Then she lifted it open. And saw—
Paper.
“What is it?” Jason Parent asked, craning for a look.
McKenna leaned closer. She’d been expecting money, maybe, stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Diamonds, perhaps. Or some kind of cutting-edge technological advancement, the likes of which would make the bearer wealthy beyond her wildest dreams. Instead, paper?
But as she looked closer, she could see that inside the briefcase wasn’t just any paper. They looked like certificates.
“Bonds,” Ridley breathed out, beside her. “Thundering Jonas.”
He was right. They were certificates, all right, stock certificates, each carrying a value of five hundred thousand—what, she thought, squinting, reading. Euros?
Each piece of paper was supposed to be worth half a million euros. And there were stacks of them.
“Ho-lee,” Al said, leaning closer. “Are these—these are good as cash, right? As long as we hold them, they’re ours?”
McKenna snapped the lid closed. “If you can find someone to buy them,” she said. “And judging by the character of those guys who just tried to kill us back there, I’d say these belong to someone we really don’t want to mess with.”
She looked at Al Parent. “You know what happens if we try to sell these? Some more men with guns track us down, take them from us, probably kill us for good measure.” She shook her head. “No way, boys. These are bad freaking news.”
Ridley had a look on his face like he’d just found the mother lode. “Okay, skipper, you’re probably right. but just in case, don’t you think we should at least figure out how many of those bonds we’re dealing with here?”
No, McKenna thought, but she knew she was outvoted. She sighed, and opened the case. “Soon as we hit Seattle, we’re turning these in to the authorities, understand?”
“Sure,” Ridley said. “Of course. Let’s just count them first.”
So they counted. McKenna opened the briefcase, and they each took a stack of bonds, and by the time they were through, they’d piled ninety of the certificates on the wheelhouse table.
“Ninety times five hundred thousand,” Jason Parent said. “Shoot, that’s like…”
“Forty-five million euros,” his father finished.
“Right. And how much is a euro worth again?”
Ridley was typing something on his phone. “A euro is equal to approximately a dollar and a nickel. So that puts us—”
“Close to fifty million dollars,” McKenna said. “My god.”
“That’s more than we made for the Lion,” Jason said. “Holy shit.”
Holy shit is right. McKenna was glad suddenly that she knew these men, that her father had hired good crew, that even fifty million dollars piled on her wheelhouse table did nothing to diminish her trust in them.
Still, though, this was a heck of a lot of money.
Ridley was the first to step back from the table. “That’s a hell of a score, lads,” he said, “but it’s the skipper’s call.” He turned to McKenna. “Whatever you decide, this crew will follow, McKenna. You have my word.”
“Thank you.” McKenna knew he wasn’t lying. Still, she could see the conflict on her men’s faces, knew she would hurt a few feelings if she just gave the money away.
Ridley gathered up the bonds. Tucked them back into the briefcase. Rummaged in a locker and came out with a roll of duct tape, taped the briefcase closed. Then he handed it to McKenna.
“All yours,” he told her. “Go with your gut.”
The briefcase felt heavier now, impossibly so, now that McKenna knew the contents within. The weight seemed almost too much to lift.
“We’ve still got a long run to Seattle,” she told the men. “Let me think on this.”
106
Fifty million dollars.
The HMCS Nanaimo shadowed the Gale Force through the day and into the night. At Port Angeles, across the water from the very bottom of Vancouver Island, McKenna and her crew towed the Pacific Lion back into American waters, and the Nanaimo ducked away, replaced by a bigger—and heavily armed—Coast Guard cutter.
By morning, the Gale Force and her entourage were sailing south down Puget Sound, back into the tugboat’s home waters. There was something calming about the familiar scenery, the blue sea and green forest, the white, double-ended Washington State ferries trundling across the Sound. McKenna supervised the crew as they shortened the towline, increasing maneuverability in the Sound’s tight confines, and she knew she should feel relaxed now, money in the bank, and the boat almost home.
But there was the briefcase to deal with. Fifty million dollars, or thereabouts. And McKenna knew she should just hand it over to the police, the Coast Guard, the Canadian Navy, whoever. But she was still a Rhodes, wasn’t she? Still Riptide’s daughter, descended from gamblers and thrill-seekers. The smart thing would be to surrender the briefcase to the authorities, she knew. But nobody in McKenna’s family had ever been accused of being smart.
Wait until we tie up in Seattle. Then give it to the cops, and forget about it.
Yeah, she thought. Maybe.