A cap pulled low over his brow and a braided coil of cable slung over his shoulder, Greg shielded his features as he gave a short wave to the deckhands and crossed the vehicle ramp. Over his right chest pocket the name Simpson was stitched on the crew jacket he wore. The third engineer would be waking up soon, but wouldn’t be calling out to anyone with the duct tape over his mouth. It was shithouse luck the crewman was nearly his same height. Greg borrowed his pants, shirt, coat and cap, quickly changed, and made his way toward the ferry.
The deckhands didn’t give him a second look. By now, Captain Blackney, aka The Victoria Ripper, would be on the bridge preparing to depart. Although the captain always had his own quarters, most likely next to the bridge, he wouldn’t take a chance. One mistake, and Mattie would be screaming to high heaven, and he couldn’t risk the crew finding her.
Greg scanned the vehicle deck filled to three quarters capacity and with only a couple more cars to load, he had to think like a madman. Wasn’t difficult. His emotions were in chaos. He’d deployed on dangerous missions over the years where the outcome was critical. But none like this one.
Hang on, Mattie. I’m coming to get you, sweetheart.
On the ride over, Austen relayed what Kayla had said on the phone. She’d pieced together enough clues to identify Captain Brett Blackney as the Ripper. The ferry crossing from Victoria to Port Angeles took ninety minutes. The sonofabitch sailed to safety every time the ship transited into US waters.
Greg walked along the portside bulkhead, then cut through the vehicles toward midships, hoping to find access to a lower deck. The only place to hide Mattie would be away from the passengers. She had to be in or near the engine room.
He checked two hatchways, both padlocked. Passengers meandered between the cars, following the signs to the stairs which lead to the upper decks. While tourists politely waited for their turn to enter the hatchway, Greg turned to see another hatch, the one he wanted. A grate covered the entrance, but the door was open. He smiled, seeing a plastic twist tie secured the grate. Digging in the pocket of his pants, he found a small folded knife. With a swift look over his shoulder, he cut the tie. Relief washed through him. Passengers weren’t allowed to remain in their vehicles during the crossing, and no one paid attention to him, intent on getting upstairs where they could get a bite to eat and find a seat in one of the lounge areas.
When he’d boarded, the wind tugged at his clothes as a gale moved across the southern tip of Vancouver Island. It would be a bumpy crossing. Most folks would sit tight while they transited the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
With a quick survey, and no crew taking notice of his movements, Greg pushed the grate open and stepped onto the vibrating deck plates. Quickly, he moved down a tight corridor and descended the metal stairs. The temperature rose several degrees and the turbo-charged engines, exhaust fans and other machinery drowned his insertion with ambient noise.
The ship had been sailing between Port Angeles and Victoria for over fifty years. Almost unheard of in the ferry industry, but the owners had given her a refit in 2004, removing the old diesels. Taking care not to be seen by the engineers, he darted past the massive engines and through another hatchway at the opposite end of the room. Four doors, two on either side, lined the passageway. He checked each. When he came to the last door on the starboard side, he palmed the chain linked through the handle and secured with a combination lock. Fuck.
“Mattie.” He called out and hammered on the door, then pressed his ear to the warm steel.
“Greg! I’m in here. Get me out!”
The stress keeping him on a slippery slope of dread melted away with her words. “Hang on.” He could really use his team’s Lead Breacher right about now, but a pair of bolt cutters would do just as well.
He sensed someone behind him in the hallway at the same time the guy shouted, “Hey, what’re you doing?”
Greg turned to see the Chief Engineer and the confusion on his face as he read the name on Greg’s coat.
“You’re not Simpson.”
“I need bolt cutters.”
“Get the fuck outta my engine room.”
Greg lunged and grabbed the wiry man in his late fifties by the collar. “A woman is being held captive in that room.”
The guy’s eyes grew to twice their size. “What woman? I’m calling the bridge.”
“You’ve got a hostage secured in your engine room. You want to explain that to the cops? Find those cutters.”
“I didn’t put anyone in there.”
“No, but your captain did. See for yourself.” He shoved the guy against the door.
The engineer’s brow crushed together when he palmed the combination lock. “This shouldn’t be chained.” He pulled on the links and then yelled out. “Anyone in there?”
“Please, let me out,” Mattie screamed at the top of her lungs.
The engineer jerked back in surprise. “What the fuck is going on here?”
“Get—the—cutters.”
The engineer removed his cap, revealing a balding head. Sweat beaded on his brow and he swept it with a forearm. “Who is she?”
“Her name’s Mattie Bidault. She’s a journalist for the New Times Colonist.”
“The lady writing that Ripper story?”
“Your captain is under suspicion for murder.”
The guy shook his head. “You on fucking drugs? Captain Blackney has worked here for ten years. Best damn captain we’ve got.”
“Bolt cutters,” Greg demanded, losing his patience.
“Sir?” Another man appeared in the narrow passageway.
“Jesus!” The Chief Engineer took a second to decide, then said, “Jefferson, get the bolt cutters.”
“Sir?”
“Just get them.”
Within two minutes, Greg applied the blades of the cutter to the chain and snapped the links. When he opened the door, the engineer jumped into the room before him.
“Jesus, have mercy. What the hell are you doing here?” the Chief Engineer exclaimed.
Mattie blinked up at them. Tears streaked her cheeks. Her arms were restrained behind her back and her ankles tied with rope. “Please, take these off. We have to stop the ship and call the police.”
Just as she said that the engines changed pitch. Greg looked for the other engineer and realized what had happened. “You sent your second to the bridge, didn’t you?”
The Chief Engineer knelt to one knee and untied the rope around her ankles. “I don’t know you, but it’s the Captain’s ship.”
Greg used the cutters to break the chain on Mattie’s cuffs. She moaned and shook her arms out, the cuffs separated but still clamped around her wrists.
“Hurry!” She tossed the rope aside and stumbled to her feet.
He steadied her with a hand to her waist. “Easy, Mattie.” Fuck, he was so damn glad to see she was unharmed.
“He’s completely insane, Greg.”
“I’m taking you upstairs. Kayla’s onboard. Find her, I’ll take care of Blackney.”
She blinked. “You know he’s the Ripper?”
“Kayla figured it out. Let’s go.”
* * * *
Kayla needed access to the bridge, but couldn’t do it without a good excuse, so she’d approached the purser and asked for a tour. She explained she was employed by the American Navy and her husband was a retired SEAL. Any reason would serve her purpose and she had a lot more BS lined up but when she mentioned her husband, the woman’s eyes went all gooey.
“Your husband’s a SEAL?” Hero worship glinted in the purser’s eyes like a teenager catching wind of a rock star moving in next door.
If she knew the truth about life with a SEAL and how hard-assed they could be, the rose-colored glasses would come off pretty damn fast. “Twenty-some years. He’s the Admiral of the West Coast chain. I was—”
“Is he as hot and gorgeous as the books I read?” The purser’s cheeks blushed. “I’m sorry! That’s rude, isn’t it?”
“Books? Oh, um—yeah, totally.” Kayla refrained from rolling her eyes. “Think I could get that quick tour of the bridge?”
“Of course. I’ll take you up there myself. Follow me.”
Kayla gripped the railing and took the interior stairs leading to the bridge. The purser’s ample rear-end, covered in a dark blue polyester, led the way two steps in front of her.
When they reached the top of the stairs, they walked down a hallway ending at a locked door. The purser tapped on the metal hatch.
Not exactly high security.
Someone from inside answered with a curt response.
The purser raised her voice. “Have a passenger who’d like a tour.”
“Not now,” a male voice responded gruffly.
The engines slowed and the backward sway and shuddering beneath Kayla’s feet indicated someone had gone from full ahead to all stop.
No time to waste, Kayla gripped the handle and, praise be to God, it opened.
The purser yipped. “You can’t—”
“Just did.” She thrust her shoulder at the door and rammed the hatch open, vaulting inside to see four heads swivel at her invasion.
The Purser chased after. “You’re not allowed—”
Kayla scanned the wheelhouse. Darkened for the night crossing, the multi-colored indicator lights didn’t offer much illumination. The navigation officer sat in a raised chair surrounded by the command console. Three other crew stood behind him, but the captain’s chair was empty.
“Where’s Blackney?”
Mute, they stared at her.
“Where is the Captain?” Out the front window, three ships approached, their masthead lights showing a bright white light. Hopefully, one was a US Coast Guard cutter.
A cold woosh of wind rushed into the bridge through an open door to her left.
“What the hell is going on?” the Chief Mate barked.
The VHF radio crackled and a voice said, “MV Coho, this is the United States Coast Guard Cutter Swordfish. Prepare to be boarded. Have your crew open the vehicle hatch immediately.”
Captain Blackney’s reign of terror was over. He’d be apprehended and taken into custody for suspicion of murder. In Kayla’s mind there was no suspicion what-so-ever. Blackney was guilty!
She turned to address the Chief Officer. “Do as they ask. They have a murderer to apprehend.”
A collective intake of breath and shock streaked across four faces. The Chief Mate then asked, “A passenger?”
“No. Your captain. You’ll be bringing this ship alongside without him.” She shifted her attention to the open door. “Did he go that way?”
A woman, probably the second officer, confirmed Kayla’s guess with a nod.
“Lock down the bridge. Don’t let him back in here.”
The Chief Mate had doubt written all over his features. “It’s his ship.”
Kayla marched up to the Chief Officer, standing well over six feet, and glared up at him. “He doesn’t get a ship, he’s a fucking serial killer. Now lock the doors after I leave, and don’t open them until the authorities tell you to.”
A cold slap of wind struck her face as she exited the bridge. With a screech of steel hinges, the door closed behind her. Taking the stairs and gripping the wet railing, her fingers ached from the frigid temperatures, but she didn’t dare let go. The ship yawed heavily in the high seas.
Running along the main deck, she saw the passengers clustered inside. Heads turned to watch her through the windows from inside the small restaurant. Instinct lit a fire under her ass to run toward the stern of the ship. She blinked against the icy wind making her eyes tear.
She hoped Greg had found Mattie. The ship wasn’t that big, and there were only so many places Blackney could have hidden her. The stern was very small in comparison to the bow, and the captain wasn’t hiding in the shadows. Kayla backtracked until she came to a set of stairs leading to a small upper deck. A chain strung across the handrails stopped visitors from accessing the steps. She crossed over the chain and hurried up the stairs.
Careful not to slip, she turned the corner at the top and slammed straight into a wall of man concealed by the dark night.
His stainless steel grip sunk through her thin jacket into her upper arms. Waiting would be a mistake, and she thrust her fist upward into his chin. He grunted but didn’t let go.
Powerful fingers bit into her throat, choking her, and yanked her close.
“Bitch!”
Blackney gripped a fistful of her hair and yarded her head back. She gritted her teeth against the pain. Neck exposed, not strong enough to overwhelm him, she was at his mercy.
“Blackney, you’re going to prison.” Handsome and deadly at the same time she looked into his eyes. The eyes of a killer.
His green gaze scoured her face. He wasn’t scared!
But Kayla was terrified.
* * * *
Mattie watched the swirl of muddy coffee she stirred with detached deference. Her thoughts reeled and opposed Greg’s forceful order to remain with the other passengers when he deposited her at the entrance to the snack bar and told her to wait for him.
With a blink, the muted sounds of conversations became excited and elevated when the ferry stopped. The lights of smaller crafts bobbed off the port bow, drawing her attention.
She tossed the stir stick into the garbage and wandered closer for a look. A woman ran past the bank of glass windows, her dark curls flattened with rain and a determined look on her expression.
She shouted. “Kayla!”
Passengers’ heads swiveled in her direction as she dropped her coffee on the nearest table and sprinted for the exit.
The one-way swinging metal gate snapped at her hips as she charged through and hung a sharp left to follow the Admiral’s wife. Gripping the handle, she shoved hard against the backlash of wind, Mattie’s skin shriveled with the bitter bite of December’s gale. With the deck wet and slippery, her feet lost traction, and she fell. Pushing up, she caught sight of Kayla stomping up the stairs to the top deck and disappearing from her view.
Mattie followed and took the stairs two at a time.
“No, Mattie,” Kayla shouted. “Run!”
Mattie gripped the stair rail for balance when she reached the upper deck. Brett had one thick arm around Kayla’s shoulders and his other hand held a knife to her throat.
“Get on the zodiak,” he ordered.
She took a tentative step backward until Brett pressed the knife into Kayla’s skin.
“Okay.” Mattie raised a hand in surrender. “Put the knife down.”
She edged her way toward the orange RHIB Rigid Hulled Inflatable suspended over the water as if Brett had been in the process of trying to escape. Gripping the edge of the rocking boat, she propped her knee on the passenger protection rail of the ship and pulled herself onto the rubber cover strung across the top of the fifteen-foot craft. It held her weight but sagged beneath her.
Blackney muscled Kayla over to the boat and pushed her roughly into the railing.
“You, too.”
Kayla scrambled, and Mattie helped her to shimmy up beside her.
Did Brett think he’d escape with the Coast Guard so close? He sure as hell couldn’t row fast enough to get away and the seas churned with a frothy swell forty feet below them.
With stealth, using the darkness for cover, a shadow emerged. The figure rammed Brett, sending both men to the ground with harsh grunts.
Mattie’s heart beat a thunderous chorus when the knife clattered across the rain soaked deck.
Greg hammered Brett’s face three times in quick succession, but it didn’t slow the Ripper. Both men’s adrenaline pinned to overload. They exchanged blows, equally matched in strength.
Brett gained his footing and rose; using the power of his leg, he kicked at Greg, but only made contact with his shoulder. The Ripper scuttled backward to gain some space, but Greg charged and both men toppled. Brett’s hand shot out to stop his fall, and came down on the manual control lever where the cables of the rescue boat could be lowered by hand.
The line attached to one end of the lifeboat slipped, both she and Kayla screamed. In a tumble of arms and legs, she grappled for something to hang on to and Kayla did too, both gripping the edge of the deck.
The lifeboat tipped and dangled from one end.
“I can’t hold on!” Mattie yelled. Her arms shrieked with the weight of her body. Gravity pulled her toward the ocean; her fingers barely crimped over the ledge. Kayla wasn’t doing much better.
She squeezed her eyes shut as if that would do anything for her. They were both going to fall—the dark angry sea ready to consume them with a frigid cold gulp.