Chapter 39
THIRTY-NINE
Jaz couldn’t take his eyes off the sight.
The yacht on the horizon, its running lights bright against the star-scattered sky. It wasn’t moving unusually fast. Henry, Magras…whoever was on it seemed confident they’d escaped St. Martin without being followed.
Martinez maneuvered the boat beside the other one.
Jaz met Wright’s eyes, saw the man’s fear. They weren’t close enough to speak, but they all knew their parts. Jaz nodded, and Wright returned it.
Martinez shot the black-hulled craft forward, aiming to get past the yacht, keeping enough distance that they wouldn’t be spotted. They were dressed in black, faces smeared with camouflage paint that made them shadows against the night water.
Who’s the ghost now, Henry?
Jaz scanned the yacht’s starboard side through night-vision binoculars—also supplied by Laguerre.
The fisherman had said Kenzie mentioned a starboard cabin. She was smart—she’d found a way to communicate even as a prisoner. Maybe she’d signal again. Let them know where she was.
He studied each window carefully. Some were dark, some bright. No signals that he could see.
“Anything?” Duck asked.
“Nope.” Jaz lowered the binoculars.
“We’ll find her.” Duck was already putting on his scuba gear.
When they moved ahead of the yacht, Jaz gave the NVGs to Auggie and strapped on his oxygen tank. He’d learned to scuba dive years before, when he’d first come to the Caribbean and life was all fun and games. He was no pro, but he could keep himself alive.
He’d never used an underwater scooter, but he’d figure it out. How hard could it be?
He checked and rechecked his equipment. Mask. Regulator. He put on his flippers and secured his goggles. He checked the holster and the pack around his waist. Gun. Check. Extra clips. Check.
He was ready.
Martinez positioned them ahead of the yacht, matching its speed. Splat and Wright would swing around the port side. They’d flip on their running lights and draw attention to themselves.
A few minutes passed, and then Wright’s voice sounded through the speakers. “Vessel on our starboard side, please respond.”
A few seconds passed, and then a man responded. “This is Le Pari. Go ahead.”
“Requesting you throttle down.”
A pause. “Negative. State your purpose.”
“Are you aware you’re holding a woman aboard your vessel against her will?”
Wright’s question was met with silence.
The yacht’s engines roared louder.
Answer enough.
Martinez pushed the throttle to maintain their position.
“Marcus.” Wright’s voice was measured over the radio. “I know you’re there, hiding behind your captain like the coward you are.”
That was their signal.
Jaz moved to the stern, Duck beside him. They both held their scooters to their chests.
“I know everything.” Wright’s voice was strong, fearless over the radio.
“Every shell company. Every shipment. Every life you’ve destroyed.
Targeting my daughter was a fatal mistake.
All you’ve done is put yourself on my radar.
You think taking her gives you leverage?
You’re wrong. You’ve just guaranteed I’ll never stop coming for you. ”
Jaz met Duck’s eyes through their masks. The other man nodded once.
They fell backward into the black water.
Thanks to the wetsuit, he wasn’t as cold as he’s been earlier. The surface churned above as Martinez gunned the engines. He’d follow far enough behind that nobody on the bridge would see them.
Duck was already moving, his scooter humming to life.
Jaz gripped his own DPV and squeezed the trigger.
The machine lurched forward, pulling him with surprising force.
He fought to control it, angling his body to match Duck’s trajectory.
He failed, going off to one side, then overcorrected, going to the other.
Duck slowed, watching him. Jaz would swear the man was laughing at him.
He wrangled the DPV and nodded for Duck to lead the way.
Over the radio above, Wright would be appealing to the captain and crew, telling them a Coast Guard vessel was closing in, that they would all be arrested and tried for kidnapping.
He’d demand they stop.
They wouldn’t, of course. Nobody thought Henry and Magras were going to put up their hands in surrender—assuming the men were even on board. For all they knew, these were crew and hired hands. If so, maybe they would stop.
The plan was to convince whoever was on the yacht that this was Wright’s only play. Wright’s goal was distraction, not fear.
Underwater, the world was smudged ink. The flashlight strapped to Jaz’s head cut a weak beam, revealing nothing beyond Duck but endless black. No reef. No fish he could see. Just the void below and the distant thrum of the yacht’s propellers ahead.
Duck moved like he’d been born for this, his body streamlined, his scooter steady.
The scooter Jaz was using wasn’t so cooperative. He started to think it must work for the enemy because it wanted to plunge him to the bottom. His muscles burned as he fought the thing.
They made it look so easy on TV.
Finally, the hull emerged in the darkness, a massive shadow taking shape.
Duck angled upward toward the starboard quarter, where the side of the boat met the stern.
He reached out of the water and grabbed the rub rail—the bumper that protected it from scratches when it docked.
It wasn’t exactly an easy grip, but Duck was secure with one hand when he turned back to check on Jaz.
He was almost there.
Then he heard it—even in the water—a piercing, pulsing shriek that vibrated through his skull. It lasted two seconds, then stopped.
The sound came from something called an LRAD. A “sound cannon,” Martinez had called it.
Seriously, Laguerre had thought of everything.
Another pulse, just as loud. Two seconds on, two off.
Wright and Splat would be aiming that concentrated beam of sound directly at the yacht’s bridge.
The high-frequency chirp was meant to disorient and disable.
Hopefully, it was hitting the captain and crew like a physical blow.
Everyone in its path would suffer temporary hearing damage.
Nausea. Confusion. It would be the worst for those on the bridge, but nobody on that yacht would escape it.
The sound was impossible to ignore.
Even in the water, it was terrible. Jaz hoped Kenzie wasn’t suffering too much. At least the sound would alert her that she wasn’t alone.
The yacht’s engines stuttered and slowed.
The plan was working.
The rhythm kept up. Two seconds of torture, two seconds of silence.
Duck dropped the scooter, then stripped out of his scuba gear and dropped it too.
Jaz watched the equipment sink until it was out of sight.
If this didn’t work… Well, it had to work. They were burning the proverbial ships.
The sound pulses continued as Duck moved hand-over-hand toward the stern. Most modern yachts had a retractable ladder for man-overboard situations. Duck was looking for it now.
Jaz propelled himself out of the water and grabbed the rail, letting the scooter fall. He unclipped the tank and let it follow.
Another piercing sound. Two seconds on, then off. But this time, it didn’t sound again. Their thirty seconds were up.
What was going on overhead?
Impossible to know until they got on the boat.
Jaz shimmied on the rail until he reached Duck, popping his head up only when he needed air.
Duck ran his gloved hand along the smooth fiberglass. He stopped, did something Jaz couldn’t see, but he must’ve found the release because the ladder dropped.
Duck hauled himself up and moved out of sight.
Jaz followed. He gripped the rungs tightly, knowing that if he fell off the ship now, with the boat still moving, he’d never be able to catch it. He’d be out of the fight, and Kenzie would have one fewer person to rescue her and get her to safety.
He climbed the ladder, his arms shaking as he lifted his weight out of the water. The swim platform had been folded up against the stern, leaving a thin strip of fiberglass, much narrower than Jaz had anticipated. He hauled himself onto it.
But the wetsuit was slick.
He slipped, flailed, nearly fell. But his hand connected with a chrome railing, and he held on.
Breathed for a couple of beats.
When his heart rate was as calm as it would get, he stripped off his mask and fins, letting them splash into the water, and met Duck’s eyes.
Duck mouthed, “Ready?”
He nodded.
Now for the hard part.