Chapter Fourteen #5
“If you have a map, I’d gladly show you your coordinates,” the admiral offers.
But my body is now vibrating, and Clay must sense my unease, because he shakes his head. “Kind of ye to offer, but it winnae do us much good anyway.”
The admiral nods, finishes his tea. “I could use another cup before we set off.”
I look to the kettle. “The water’s cold,” I say, my voice shaking, wishing I could steady it.
The admiral makes a face, looking disappointed as he reaches into his coat pocket and produces a thinly rolled cigarette.
He touches it to his lips, and Bosch leans forward, striking a match on something in his hand I didn’t notice, then lights the admiral’s cigarette.
The earthy, sweet scent of tobacco fills the kitchen.
I feel frozen, my legs locked in place, wishing these men would stand up and leave.
But Langston takes a step closer to me. “Heat some more,” he directs, tilting his chin down.
I swallow, hating the way he’s eyeing me, hating the flat shape of his mouth.
I want to snap back at him, tell him to get the hell out of my house.
But I retrieve the kettle, forcing a smile as I position it under the kitchen faucet, then start to crank the water.
Langston steps to within a foot of me, his right eye twitching, his shoulders rounding back—an ache, or sickness maybe.
Something is off about his movements. I try to ignore him, try to act as if my heart isn’t screaming inside my chest, but then I feel his hand on my arm.
I jerk away, taking a step back, but he mirrors me, then reaches out, grabbing me with both hands.
I drop the kettle to the floor with a loud crash.
Clay is up, chair hitting the floor before my eyes have even swung to him.
But Bosch is just as fast, and he’s already standing, gun pulled from his belt, pointed at Clay.
Clay stops, eyes piercing Bosch.
But it’s the admiral who speaks. “It really is a nice place you have here.” He taps his index finger against the table, still seated, puffing on his cigarette as if he hardly noticed the sudden rush of movement.
“But it seems wasted on just the two of you. That garden out there could feed a whole ship.”
Clay’s jaw clenches.
I flex my arms, trying to pry myself free, but Langston only grips me tighter.
“And that wife of yours…” He rocks back in the chair, balancing on the two back legs. “She is a sight for sea-weary eyes.”
“If ye hurt her, you won’t live long enough to regret it.” Clay’s tone is blunt, lacking all its usual curve and sway.
But the admiral grins, crushing the lit cigarette onto the table, burning a hole through the wood, then pushes himself up.
I realize what I didn’t before—his uniform is at least two sizes too small.
The pant legs stop short at his ankles. The jacket buttons bulge to the point of breaking. This is not his uniform.
And these men are not his officers.
Maybe they boarded the U.S. naval ship and took control. Or maybe it was a mutiny—they killed off the real admiral, or captain, and gave themselves whatever title they chose. Either way, they aren’t here to warn us of the dangers out at sea.
They are the danger.
Langston pushes me up against the kitchen counter and I let out a faint squeak. Clay’s eyes flinch to me, and I can see all the fury in them, the need to protect me. But there’s three of them, and only one of him.
“Let’s go outside, have a chat about what to do next,” the admiral—or simply Kotchek—suggests, blond eyebrows sloped down, looking docile, relaxed.
“A man like you could be useful; you’re strong, knowledgeable.
We’d be lucky to have you.” He moves toward Clay, clapping him on the shoulder. But Clay shoves him off.
Bosch reacts, pressing the gun to Clay’s temple.
“Easy, easy,” Kochek says to Bosch. “Let’s get some fresh air, talk this through.”
Bosch nods at Clay to move, and Clay takes a half step toward the doorway.
At the same moment, Langston flicks his eyes to me, dark, serpent-like, and he lowers his hand to my stomach, inching beneath my shirt to feel my skin.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” I bark, trying to push him back, but he thrusts his full weight against me, holding me in place.
Clay turns, starts moving toward me—fire in his eyes.
But Bosch steps in front of him, gun turned slightly in his hand, a smile in his eyes—like he’s daring Clay to take another step, to give him a reason to squeeze the trigger.
Clay stops.
“He’s just feeling a little protective,” Kochek explains, as if he were giving a lecture on male behavior.
“He’s had a wife all to himself, but just like the sea, things can change quickly.
I, myself, never had a wife,” he adds, the side of his mouth twitching.
“I think I might enjoy it.” He grins at me, and my stomach turns.
Langston makes a sound from the back of his throat, guttural, pleased, and his hand slides up my stomach. I clench my teeth and close my eyes. Whatever is about to happen, I will fight back, no matter what.
But when my eyes flip open, finding Clay, there is something in him—an intensity I’ve never seen before. Langston lays his mouth against my throat, kissing up to my ear. I am numb. All I can see is Clay. And I know he isn’t going to let this happen. We’ll both die first.
I breathe in—and everything stutters into slow motion.
Clay lunges. But not toward me. He dives through the open doorway into the living room.
I know what he’s doing, where he’s going. Bosch is so stunned, he doesn’t fire his gun. He flinches, then ducks behind the wall, as if he senses what’s coming.
I hear the closet door open, slamming back against the wall—the one below the stairs. I hear the ammunition hitting the wood floor, spilling from the small box, and the rapid click of the rifle being loaded.
“Shit,” Bosch sputters, his chest rising.
Kochek hasn’t moved; he looks defiant, a statue refusing to flinch. “Kill him,” he commands Bosch.
And Bosch, obeying, inches his body forward, peering around the doorway into the living room.
But that’s all it takes, the sound echoes through the house, the first shot piercing Bosch in the shoulder.
He staggers, points his gun through the doorway to fire back, but the second shot explodes, knocking him dead center in the chest. He falls back, like a tree tipping up from the roots, and his back hits the floor, an arm taking one of the kitchen chairs with him.
I let out a small cry, startled.
But in an instant, Kochek reaches for the handgun at his own waist and takes a step back, ready to fire as soon as Clay appears in the doorway.
Langston wraps his arms around me, yanking me to the back door. I scream, clawing at his arm, but it doesn’t slow him down. He fumbles for the doorknob, panicked, but manages to get it open, pulling me down the wooden steps.
I hear Clay shout my name from inside. But Langston keeps going, dragging me toward the shore. I yank an arm free, swinging it up to Langston’s face. But he grabs my wrist, contorting it back so hard I think it’s going to break.
“Bitch,” he barks, squeezing his elbow around my throat and dragging me away from the house, my feet making lines through the dirt.
“When we get you back to the ship, you’ll behave.
” The words are spit through clenched teeth, and my mind reels forward, knowing I can’t let him take me onto the boat.
If I leave the island, that will be the end. There’ll be no escape.
“Clay!” I shout, wanting him to know that I’m no longer inside.
But Langston grabs my face. “Shut up,” he hisses, then resumes pulling me toward shore.
Several seconds pass, the island quiet. The house quiet. Not a sound.
I can’t breathe, can’t think. Everything is happening too fast.
We’re halfway to the shore… when the gunshot pierces the air. And then, the sound of two men fighting from inside the house—struggling.
Tears blur my vision. I need to get back inside; I need to help him.
“Looks like I might be the new admiral,” Langston hisses in my ear.
“Fuck you!”
He laughs, then yanks a wad of my hair. I cry out, but we’ve reached the rocks, and I can see a small boat resting on the shore below, a motor at the back. Shit.
If he forces me off the island…
I’ll jump into the sea. I’ll drown first.
Another gunshot rings through the air.
And then silence.
Langston pauses, listening. But there’s no sound. No footsteps. No breathing.
“Looks like we’re both free,” he says against my ear. “And you might be in need of a new husband.”
“No—” The word is gravel against my lips, but tears slide down my cheeks.
He resumes dragging me, picking his way down the slick rocks. I want to fight, I want to scream, but the only thing I can feel is the pressure in my chest, and the damp sting of tears spilling from my chin.
No, no, no. If Clay is dead, then there’s nothing left.
My body goes limp, the sky gray and dismal. Heavy with rain. But the pain expands in my chest, my mind closing in on itself, shutting down, giving up.
We reach the bottom of the rocks, and he shoves me into the boat. I hit hard, the air knocked from my lungs. I gasp, trying to breathe, but everything is spinning.
He pushes the boat free from the rocks, and I can feel that we’re now floating. He climbs in, steps over me to sit beside the motor. “Stay down,” he barks.
I blink, blink, feeling so hollowed out, I’m certain I’m no longer awake. But I manage to lift my head, reach an arm up. I’m going to pull myself over the side, slip into the Atlantic, and let the water take me. I won’t fight it. I will open my mouth and drink down the sea.
I feel the cold water against my fingertips, I’m about to angle my body over the side, when his hand is on my head, forcing me back down. But this time he’s over top of me, and the boat has drifted a good several yards away from the island.
“Maybe I’ll make you my wife right now,” he growls, baring his awful teeth.