Yuki reached around her husband and gripped his chest.
He patted her hand and said beneath the sound of the water lapping the hull, “We’re going to be okay. I mean it.”
Brady would protect them if he could, but what chance would he have? Jackhammer’s crew had already shot six people she knew about, and maybe dozens of crew had been gunned down when he and his gang had first boarded the ship.
If he didn’t get his money, he might have himself a real party and shoot every passenger on board. A bloodbath. A massacre.
Jackhammer spoke from the across the pool. “Guess what, everyone? We got an e-mail from your cruise line. They say they’re going to be transferring money soon. Won’t that be great? We’re standing by for our bank’s confirmation of the wire transfer from Finlandia. Okay? Didn’t I tell you I had good news?”
There was a sprinkling of applause from the captives who were bunched, crouched, sick with fear.
Jackhammer said, “Hey. Let’s hear it for money coming, all right?”
The faint applause increased. Whatever it took to mollify the monster.
Jackhammer said in his most mocking ringmaster voice, “And now, let’s have some music.”
Chapter 78
After the high-pitched feedback squeal from the sound system just about uncorked the top of Brady’s head, salsa music jumped out of the speakers on the Pool Deck bar. The dance-y Latin music was incongruous, crazy, and from Brady’s perspective a good thing.
The music seemed to change the mood of the terrorists. He hoped it might make them a touch complacent. Dance fever covered low conversation.
Brady said to Yuki, “What a mindfucker that guy is. He could write a book on it. Don’t believe a word he said.”
Brady knew that crowd control was one of the terrorists’ biggest problems. The nineteen shooters were overwhelmingly outnumbered by the combined thousand passengers and crew. But Jackhammer’s brutal, successive, random killings had created paranoia, enforced compliance, and put thoughts of rebellion down cold. He’d overwhelmed their ability to fight back. He’d undermined their sanity.
Brady wrapped both his arms around his wife and held her tightly. Yuki was a strong person, but the direct threat to her life had shaken her hard and he wasn’t sure how much more mind control and terror she could take.
A lot of pictures came into his mind, and not the kind of thoughts he usually had. He thought about grabbing one of those AK-47s and just going Rambo.
Yuki squeezed his hand.
“I’m okay,” he said.
No, he wasn’t. He was a cop. He couldn’t let these guys keep shooting people while he just hoped that the accountants and bankers would come through for a bunch of people they didn’t know.
Brady had to do something about this. He was fatter now. Years of smoking had cut his wind. But he still had a strategic mind and the will to kill. He would protect Yuki.
What he had to do was stay focused, look for an opportunity, have a workable plan ready to go. And pray for the physical strength and the reflexes to carry it out.
Chapter 79
Brady was trying on ideas about how to take back the FinStar when there was a light tug on his sleeve. He started, almost lashing out with the edge of his hand, but he paused long enough to see the face of the man who had crawled over to him on his elbows.
It was Lyle, their cabin steward, and he was wearing a blue spa robe over his whites.
Lyle was overheated, breathing through his mouth. He dropped to his stomach, turned his head so that his cheek was flat on the deck, and spoke through the raucous Latin beat.
“Mr. Brady. You’re military?”
“No. I’m a homicide cop. What do you know, Lyle?”
“There’s a citadel amidships. Somewhere near the officers’ quarters.”
“A citadel. You mean there are guns?”
“I heard there were guns and maybe a radio.”
“And the officers? They’re alive?”
With one of the gunmen close by, Lyle didn’t reply. He dropped his head and wept into the inside elbow of his robed arm. Yuki also cried softly, but none of the pirates noticed. So many people were crying.
Yuki hugged Brady from behind and he patted her little hand. The first time she’d taken his big rough hand in both of hers, her touch had gone all the way through him. He’d felt sure of her. He’d known that he was in the presence of good.
It had been his idea to take this cruise. He’d never been much of a romantic, but this trip had seemed like a really good idea—the sea, magnificent scenery, a luxury liner taking care of everything so they could start their marriage in a beautiful way.
Now fucking this.
Brady waited until the masked goon with the running shoes had finished padding between and around the passengers and run up the metal stairs to the track.
When Brady was sure the gunman was out of earshot, he said, “Lyle, what about the officers?”
Eventually Lyle said, “These guys killed everyone on the bridge when they boarded. That’s what I heard. It wasn’t the captain’s watch. He was sleeping in his quarters. He made an announcement after that, so he could still be alive.
“And the third mate. He was asleep in the officers’ quarters across from the captain. He’s probably alive. Chief Engineer. Master of the hotel. They’re also alive as far as I know. So a few of the senior men are in their quarters. Probably. I can’t speak for the hundreds of waiters and cabin boys and laundry crew, guys like that. I think they’re locked in the hold.”
Brady said, “But the citadel is near the officers’ quarters. You could take me there.”
“There are guys with guns in front of the door, don’t you get it? I’m not a fighter,” Lyle said. He plucked at his robe. “I put this on so they wouldn’t know I was crew.”
“You found a way to survive,” said Brady. “We need the officers and we have to get weapons. You have to want that, too, right? You’ve heard the expression ‘like shooting fish in a barrel’? Christ! That’s what this is. That’s what we are. You like being a fish, Lyle?”
The cabin steward shook his head madly, desperately.
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen. I’m going to be nineteen. Maybe.”
“Do you want to be a nineteen-year-old who helped put down a stinking paramilitary platoon of fucking crazy killers?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Brady grinned.
“You’re going to like it better than you think.”
Part Four. Where’s the Beef?
Chapter 80
Conklin and I were in Michael Jansing’s office with his dogged assistant, Caroline, who was plumbing Jansing’s computer for Chuck’s Prime’s personnel records. After a global search, the computer flagged a Walter Brenner, thirty-nine, truck driver, living in El Cerrito, just north of West Berkeley and Albany.
He’d been working at Chuck’s for about three years. He had gotten a two-dollar raise each year. There were no comments in the spaces provided for them, just check marks to show that he’d had satisfactory performance evaluations.
“Is there anything you can tell us about him?” I asked Caroline. “Anything at all?”
She shrugged. “I’m still pretty new here.” She printed out Brenner’s contact info, including his address, and also sent the file to my phone.
I thanked Caroline and bid her a fond adieu, and Conklin and I left the building. We boarded my antique Explorer and, setting out at warp speed, arrived at Belmont Avenue, a quiet street at the foot of Albany Hill Park, at just about 7:45 p.m.
The 1920s Craftsman-style homes in this residential street were garnished with a fringe of trees out front and had good-size backyards with gardens and swing sets and occasional shade trees. Although the homes were cute and folksy, the freeway provided a persistent industrial undertone.