Chapter 8
Eight
A rainstorm raged overhead, and a tall, angry wave barreled in, the gangway shaking beneath Angie’s feet.
She pulled the hood on her rain jacket over her head and stepped forward to keep her balance, her other arm tight against the clipboard with the incoming ship’s inventory.
She wiped away rainwater clouding her vision, and her work boots squished into puddles on the ground.
Thankfully, she wore brand-new, expensive water repellent work boots today, a college graduation splurge. If there was one thing she despised, it was the feeling of wet socks.
What she would do to get back the pleasant, cloudy skies of the last three days.
Damn weather app had lied. It had forecasted moderate rainfall, not a raging thunderstorm. She set her jaw, turning away from a gust of wind threatening to blow her over.
Her gaze trailed out to the sea, where fierce currents rose and fell.
If only the employee break house was within sight of the dock, where she could shelter from the storm. For now, she was stuck outdoors until the ship came in, her misery compounded by the unrelenting storm. A globe of rainwater from her hood plunged down her throat, and she coughed.
Ten more minutes passed, and the MV Castaway hadn’t appeared yet, not even as an amorphous shadow on the fog and mists which crushed the ocean’s surface.
They had radioed in earlier that they were returning early because of unusually rough seas.
She put her hands on her hips and lifted one foot at a time to stretch out her tight calves from standing so long on her feet, then walked to the edge of the gangway and back.
Anything to take her mind off how cold and drenched she was.
Still no ship another ten minutes later. They were thirty minutes late.
It was the ship Luke was on. If something had happened to the Castaway, to Luke and the crew…
No. She refused to think of negative possibilities.
Angie smoothed out the stack of paper on her clipboard, original copies of inventory from the past week. As per Bàba’s instructions, she had to keep these papers until they input the numbers into their systems tomorrow. The aforementioned papers were sopping wet.
Why did she have to be the one who got stuck out here in inclement weather?
Still, she sucked it up, already having waited this long. Angie yawned, not bothering to cover her mouth since she was alone. Time slowed to a crawl, and walking in aimless circles was the only way to keep somewhat warm in the torrential rain. The time on her phone read six-thirty p.m.
Another overtime day, her fourth in a row, taking over the missing workers’ duties. She was running on five hours of restful sleep, where she normally needed at least seven to function properly.
The holstered gun at her hip created extra weight with each step. After they started losing dock workers, Bàba insisted everyone carry their guns to shoot at any mer who dared come near.
Stay patient. Once the ship arrived, she could leave.
Any minute now.
Any.
Minute.
Another breaker rattled the gangway, and Angie lost her footing, catching herself before tumbling headfirst into the waves below. She fell onto her buttocks.
The clipboard rolled over the edge and landed with a splat into the water.
“Oh no. No, no, no! Shit!” Grumbling to herself, she climbed back to her feet and lowered herself off the gangway and onto the shoreline below.
She raced to the clipboard, retrieving it with a sigh of relief once it was safely in her arms, and stepped out of the water line with one foot.
Before she recovered her balance, another wave came, this one nearly as tall as her five-foot five height.
Moving into a guarded position, Angie ducked and put one arm over her head, a futile shield against the wave’s weight as it bore down on her.
She fell to her stomach with a gasp, the wind knocked out of her once her body met the sandy ground.
Pointy pebbles dug into her chest and legs, and she grimaced at the sharp pain.
She groped in front of her, pulling herself onto the clumpy, rain-drenched sand.
Icy seawater rushed into her mouth, tasting of liquid salt and grime from whatever junk the wave dredged up.
Angie gagged.
The winds accelerated. Hands grabbed her ankles, pulling her deeper, deeper, the cold wrapping her in a chilly embrace.
Mer hands.
She jerked her foot away, but the grasp remained. Her heart was a flying fish desperate to escape her chest.
Angie yelled, the sound an unintelligible gurgle as soon as her head dunked beneath the roaring surface. Salt stung her eyes. Her legs flailed and kicked behind her, and another pair of hands gripped at her ankles, one pushing, one pulling. Her hands fumbled to her sides.
Her mind raced. Think fast, Angie. Or you’re a dead woman. She was descending lower, lower. Light began to fade, her head and ears thrumming with pain and pressure.
Her Glock was still intact and sealed in its holster. After unbuttoning it with quaking fingers, she whipped it out, aiming behind her and firing a shot when the barrel pressed into flesh.
A muffled boom made the water ripple behind her.