“Keep your head down, sir,” the officer shouted, “and follow me.”
Free from his tether, Tom ducked beneath the downdraft of the rotors, glancing up as he felt the pressure ease to see the winking lights on the belly of the chopper disappearing into the night sky. He stumbled and decided to pay attention to where he was going, looking for the line his host was taking. Just ahead, a crew member manned a heavy metal door and swung it open for them. Inside, the hulking officer turned and shook Tom’s hand.
“Welcome to the Queen Mary II, sir, I’m Staff Captain Lawrence Nicoletti. People say I don’t look like a Lawrence, though, so just call me Nick.” An American, which surprised Tom.
“Thanks, Nick. Tom Green.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take you to Captain McBride, he’s a little curious as to why you’re here.”
“Don’t get too many late-night visitors coming in by helicopter?”
“Not too many, sir. This way.”
Captain McBride worked out. A lot. That was the first thing Tom thought when he saw the man, his white shirt crisp against a broad chest and tucked in around a waist Tom had owned in his teens. A firm handshake emphasized the man’s physique, and his buzz cut and square jaw screamed marine British Royal Marine, in this case. On the flight over, Tom had taken the time to read the man’s bio, learning that McBride was born in the small northern city of Shreveport and spent more than thirteen years in the navy’s Fleet Protection Group before leaving the military. Oddly, he’d tried his hand at acting, landing roles in London as Peter Pan before returning to the sea. He’d joined Cunard Cruise Line, working his way up the ranks in the organization. He was impressive in more ways than just physical, with intelligent, watchful eyes, and a calm demeanor that came from years of facing crises at sea and dealing with them. After the handshake and name-swap, McBride waited for Tom to explain his presence on the ship.
“One of your passengers may need a friend,” Tom started. He handed the captain his credentials, the ones for today anyway, that put him in military intelligence. It was an in-joke in the Company that the only time you used CIA credentials was to get into one of their buildings for a staff meeting. In the field, you either acted like a civilian or had some fake identification related to your mission. Tom had a box full to choose from, and this had fit perfectly.
“Yes, sir,” McBride said. He took his time looking at the name, photograph, and seal on the ID card. “Mind if I ask a couple of questions, sir? I have a boat full of passengers I’m responsible for.”
“Ask away, and I’ll answer if I can.”
“Very good, sir. Can you tell me who this person is?”
“His name is Lake.”
“Who is he?” McBride asked. “Is there someone out to hurt him?”
Tom ignored the first question. “Ah, you want to know if there’s a maniac or terrorist on the ship who might be here to hurt other people, am I right?”
“Correct.”
“Not that I’m aware of.” Tom held up a hand as Captain McBride furrowed his brow. “Look, I’m acting on pieces of information, I don’t have the full picture myself.” Thanks to fucking Hugo, Tom thought. “My understanding is, there’s only one person at risk. You have the passenger manifest?”
“Yes, sir, I pulled it up on my computer.”
Tom stood behind the captain who perched on a high seat and adjusted the screen of his laptop. The truth was, Tom didn’t know what to tell this man. Going into a life-and-death situation was not unusual for Tom, and going into it with minimal information was common enough. What chapped his hide, though he’d not admit it, was that Hugo almost certainly knew exactly what was going on and declined to share. There was, quite simply, no more irritating man on the planet than Hugo Marston, particularly when the shit was starting to fly and you only had seconds to decide which way to dive for cover. Where Tom would inevitably dive head-first into a pile of deeper shit, Hugo always managed to find safety and come out smelling like roses. And the most irritating thing of all was that it wasn’t luck, it was the cool head Hugo kept no matter what, and the big fucking brain that kept ticking away inside that cool head every moment the man was awake.
Tom knew that his own brain was pretty efficient in a crunch, and the truth was that Hugo had been one of the first guys he’d known to keep up with him on that score. And Tom was fine with having an intellectual equal. What he wasn’t fine with was the fact that this particular equal looked like Cary Grant and acted like James Bond, but didn’t know how to be anything but modest. Very fucking annoying, and a complete waste of chick magnetism, as far as Tom was concerned.
And here he was, the chubby wingman swooping onto the deck of the fanciest ship in the world on the say-so of a dude who wouldn’t tell him the whole story. Here, in the dark and dangerous sea with fake credentials in his pocket and making shit up to save a man’s life. Maybe.
“Last name, Lake,” Tom said, “first name, Charles.”
McBride directed the cursor to a search box in the top right corner of the screen and began to type. “Charles. Lake.” He twisted in his seat. “Wait, this isn’t the Charles Lake? The politician?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”
“I’m smart like that, it’s why they made me the captain.” He smiled and looked back at the computer. “Balcony stateroom, number 4081. Last-minute reservation.”
“Rooms like that are available last-minute?” Tom asked.
“Sometimes, but usually not. I imagine he just got lucky. He certainly didn’t tell anyone who he was when he called, even though that can sometimes help.”
“How do you know?”
“Trust me, if a Yank senator was on board several people would have taken the trouble to tell me. And cruise liner captains, me included, get a list of, shall we say, notable people on board. Writers, actors, politicians, sports stars. He’d definitely qualify and would be receiving an invitation to dine at the captain’s table, at least one night and probably two.”
“Makes sense.”
“Which makes me wonder why he’s playing it so low-key.”
“I’ll ask him and let you know.”
“I’d prefer to escort you down there. I’ve seen your credentials and don’t doubt your intentions, but he’s my passenger and I could probably hold you up for hours arguing about jurisdiction.” The captain’s tone was friendly, but Tom knew he meant every word.
“I probably don’t have any,” Tom said. “I rarely do. I also don’t have very much time so if you insist, then come with me. But just you. I don’t want a cavalcade of civilians thumping down the hallway letting everyone and their granny know we’re coming.”
“Just me is fine. And maybe on the way down you can explain a little more about what’s going on.”
They walked, Tom on the shoulder of the big captain who led him out of the bridge and along a succession of short hallways to an elevator. “I appreciate the cooperation, captain. Are you armed?”
“Do I need to be?” Captain McBride pressed the down button.
“Nope.” Tom smiled innocently. “I am, so we’re golden.”
“Yeah, had a row with my superiors over that. They told me you would be and I’m not wild about the idea of an American whatever-you-are carrying a gun on my ship.”
“I’m not planning to use it, don’t worry. My mouth is bigger than my gun, and usually better at getting people to surrender.”
“Wait, are you here to protect Lake or arrest him?”
“Precisely,” Tom said. He checked his phone but saw no message. Fucking Hugo.