Anchor

Chapter 6

Gabriel

The hostages down below are huddled together in small groups, head's bowed and arms wrapped around each other. They take no notice when I climb up the back along the rope and peer around the railing. They're too busy listening to the man with the radio dictating rules.

But the woman at the wheel isn't.

On one glance toward the front and her pale, over-wrought face finds mine. Her mouth gapes open and her wide eyes flicker toward the man brandishing a gun.

I don't move—I can't. Any quick movements might draw the eyes of any hostage and throw down a storm of unneeded and unnecessary attention. I've already lost one life today; I don't want to risk any more. She looks away for a second and I heft myself up the rest of the way and duck behind the first car.

Aches and pains make themselves known as I crouch behind an old beat up truck with chipped red paint, but push those to the back of my mind.

All of my gear sunk to the bottom of the ocean. I'm unarmed and I'm surrounded by who knows how many explosives ready to go off at the whim of a psychopath.

I'd like to chance looking in each of the cars for a through-and-through American with a glove box stuffed with a semi-automatic, but each one I try is locked.

Threads of conversation carry over the air. From a rough count, I estimate a couple dozen hostages on this floor. Maybe a captain and an attendant up top, plus my girl and their captor.

Despite their outrage, those on this floor keep themselves contained. The show of force the low-life was no doubt counting on with the explosion, is as effective at corralling these people as the bombs strapped to their bodies.

His reminders over the intercom don't hurt, either.

From my vantage point behind a rusted sedan, I can see through one roundish window into the main seating area on the first floor of the ferry. No one else seems to be hurt, but there are plenty crying hysterically and a few who look like they're about to hurl all over the floor.

The stairs leading up to the top, where the woman and captor are, run through the right side of the room, in full few of the rest of the hostages. Walking right out in front of them may do more harm than good, so the stairs are out.

I inch around a couple more cars until I reach the front railing. The ramp drops off directly in front of me and to my right is a chained off area that will almost guarantee a dip back in the ocean, but it's the only way for me to climb up to listen in on what the bastard's saying.

The deck hangs out over the water so I climb up the railing and feel around for a foothold above me. My fingers clamp down on a notch of wood about an inch thick. It's not much, but it will have to do.

Setting my jaw, I pull myself up by sheer strength of will, my biceps and shoulders burning with the effort. Above me is a rung for the second story railing and I swing one hand up to grasp it, but sweat slicking my palm weakens my grip and I damn near fall right back into the water below.

A growl tears its way through my chest and I surge upward, wrapping my hand around the rail and pulling myself up. I reach my other hand to the next one and keep going until I put a foot on the floor to boost myself the rest of the way over.

There's no opening in the rail on this side, but there is one on the other. I can't stand up here and vault over the rail, because the windows are about waist high, and I don't want to announce my presence before I've had a chance to see what this guy wants.