Anchor

Chapter 8

Gabriel

Recognizing the rock and its bitch, the hard place, I relent. "What do you want to know?" I ask.

There's a fanatic gleam in Jones' eyes now. One that tells me whatever fucked up finale he's twisting around in that brain of his will happen—soon. So the best I can do for Chloe and me is stall him for time until the badges on shore can figure out a plan B. One that ends with the two of us alive.

If not, then I need to figure out an end game of my own.

Jones smiles. "Why don't you start with your daughter?"

There's a strangled sound from the captain and all of our eyes go to his limp body. When he doesn't rouse, the attention swings back in my direction.

The question twists itself in my chest like a pissed-off pit of vipers. Jones seems positively beside himself with glee. The maniacal smile that's more of a grimace draws his pale face taut in the moonlight.

When I say nothing, Jones jabs Chloe in the ribs with the muzzle of the gun. He turns and lifts a brow.

I'm not the kind of man who enjoys death. There are some who find a small measure of sick satisfaction when they take a life. A lot of men I've worked with over the years find it a sense of relief when they rid the world of bad men, but I've taken no pleasure in it.

But, for this man, I'd be willing to make an exception.

"Why her?" I ask instead of answering. "Why not just come to me? If you have a problem, you come to me. You don't go after my kid. You don't kill a bunch of people like a toddler on a power trip. Be a man. Confront me."

Jones cocks his head to the side and studies me. It's disconcerting, even to someone like me, having faced war for years on end, to stare into the face of an evil man.

"I'll be asking the questions," he says, after a time. "Yours will be answered. Eventually."

Chloe is as still as a statue, except for her hands. They're clasped behind her back and completely bleached of any color because she's holding them so tightly. Her fingers twitch in their restrained position and it undoes me.

"What do you want to know?" I ask Jones.

The gun eases off of her ribs and he rests his hands on the table. "Her name is Emily, right?" And I know when his face twitches he already knows her name. He'd have to. I offer a fervent prayer of thanks that my baby girl is far, far away from here thanks to Chloe.

"Yes," I say, and my voice sounds like it's being filtered through gravel. I wince and clear my throat. "Yes, her name's Emily." This time, her name is a whisper.

"Do you love your daughter, Gabriel?" Jones asks.

"Of course I do."

"How much do you love her?"

"What kind of question is that?" I ask between gritted teeth. "I love her very much."

Jones just smiles his creepy-ass psychopath smile and labors across the room to the dashboard where he checks the digital GPS. "We're here," he says as he turns back to us. "Don't you move now."

He disappears down the stairs again, his boots thudding heavily in retreat.

"What's he doing now?" Chloe whispers.

I shake my head. "I have no fuckin' idea."

"Any bright ideas?" she asks.

"I'll figure something out," I tell her.