Gale Force

105

“Well, we have to open it now, don’t we?”

Another storm was brewing. McKenna and the crew of the Gale Force had lingered off the coast of Tofino long enough to reel in the Pacific Lion again and clean up the tow. They waited as more Coast Guard and Canadian military arrived on scene, as the weather picked up, and the ocean swell increased, as the wind began to hum through the Gale Force’s rigging.

By morning, the weather service was predicting a gale. McKenna consulted with the Coast Guard, the Canadian Navy, the crew of the Sea King helicopter that circled above them. The Sea King lowered a man to the tug’s deck to have a look around. He surveyed the pitted steel on the rear of the wheelhouse, took McKenna’s shotgun as evidence, and returned to the afterdeck to winch back up to the helicopter.

“Too rough to do the investigation out here,” he told McKenna. “We’ll escort you into the Strait, get you to Seattle. Send our guys to take a look at the freighter once you’re in calmer waters.”

“Sounds good to me,” McKenna replied. “I’d like to get some ground covered before this weather kicks up.”

“Happy sailing,” the Navy airman said, and he gave the thumbs-up to his winch man and ascended back to the Sea King.

NOW McKENNA AND NELSON RIDLEY stood with Jason and Al Parent in the wheelhouse, studying the briefcase on the chart table in front of them, trying to figure out what to do.

Outside, the Sea King was gone, headed back to Victoria to refuel, replaced by a bright yellow Royal Canadian Air Force Cormorant search-and-rescue helicopter, which had followed the Gale Force and her tow down the coast of Vancouver Island and into the Strait of Juan de Fuca, where the Royal Canadian Navy’s HMCS Nanaimo picked up the escort.

The Nanaimo was a short, kind of stubby vessel. Painted a flat naval gray, she lingered off of the Lion’s portside quarter, blending in with the dull sky and slate ocean. Apart from a perfunctory introduction by her radio operator, the Nanaimo stayed quiet, a constant, silent presence, always visible through the aft windows of the Gale Force’s wheelhouse.

McKenna didn’t mind. She was still rattled. Thirty-plus years around the water and she’d never been fired on before, didn’t think her dad had been, either. The rest of the crew felt it, too, she could tell; they lingered in the wheelhouse, Nelson and Jason and Al, eating snacks and not saying much, everyone jumpy, everyone wired. Jason had called home, Nelson, too, and McKenna listened as both men assured their wives they were okay, nothing serious, that the news reports they’d been watching were way overblown.

“Just Hollywood stuff,” Nelson told Carly. “These American news guys always have to make it sensational, you know?”

But he didn’t sound quite nearly as unflappable as normal, and he listened more than he talked, reassured Carly he’d be home soon, safe and sound. When he’d ended the call, he’d mopped sweat from his brow.

Even the ship’s cat could tell something was up. Spike had climbed into McKenna’s lap in the skipper’s chair, purred once, turned around twice, then sat and quickly fell asleep. McKenna knew she should have been flattered by the cat’s attention, but instead she was worried. If the cat was willing to forgive such a well-established grudge, well, something must really be wrong. And it gnawed at her, as the Gale Force beat eastward, between the remote Vancouver Island shore and the high peaks of the Olympic Peninsula. She wondered what would be waiting for her crew when the tug arrived in Seattle.

And then Ridley had shifted his weight as the Gale Force plowed a wave, caught McKenna’s eye. “Well,” he’d said. “We have to open it now, don’t we?”

And now, here they were, the briefcase before them, Ridley armed with every tool and drill he could carry up from his workshop. Al and Jason weren’t saying much, weren’t showing their hands, but McKenna could see how they looked at the case. They were intrigued, too.

She wasn’t sure, though. She’d been thinking about ditching the thing, chucking it off the boat and being done with it.

“Aren’t you curious?” Ridley asked her. “I mean, those assholes were ready to kill us all. Gotta be something important, right? They’ll probably send more guys to try and take it from us.”

McKenna nodded. “Probably.”

“So? You going to let me do this, or what?”

She looked at Al and Jason again. Jason avoided her eyes, kept stealing glances at the briefcase. Al shrugged. “Would be kind of interested to know,” he said.

This isn’t a democracy, girl. You’re the captain here.

But McKenna realized she wanted to know, too. Figured she deserved to know; she’d sure been shot at enough.

So she lifted her hands, let them fall. “Go for it,” she told Ridley. “You want to take a look, be my guest.”

TEN MINUTES AND NEARLY thirty new swear words later, Ridley stepped back, wiped his brow. “But damn it,” he said. “That was some kind of lock.”

The briefcase had given a good fight. But Ridley, assisted by an assortment of power tools, and a helping of brute force, had finally cracked it. And now the crew crowded around what remained, eager for a look inside.

By rights, Matt and Stacey would be here, too. Seeing how they nearly died for this thing just like the rest of us.

But the Jonases were on the Pacific Lion, and McKenna was reluctant to do any more broadcasting over the radio, given the Royal Canadian Navy presence nearby. No sense arousing any suspicion—and you never could be totally sure who was listening in.

Ridley caught her eye. Gestured to the briefcase. “I think the honor is yours, Captain Rhodes.”

“Better not be a bomb,” McKenna replied. She stepped to the table. Took hold of the briefcase, counted to three in her head. Then she lifted it open. And saw—

Paper.

“What is it?” Jason Parent asked, craning for a look.

McKenna leaned closer. She’d been expecting money, maybe, stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Diamonds, perhaps. Or some kind of cutting-edge technological advancement, the likes of which would make the bearer wealthy beyond her wildest dreams. Instead, paper?

But as she looked closer, she could see that inside the briefcase wasn’t just any paper. They looked like certificates.

“Bonds,” Ridley breathed out, beside her. “Thundering Jonas.”

He was right. They were certificates, all right, stock certificates, each carrying a value of five hundred thousand—what, she thought, squinting, reading. Euros?

Each piece of paper was supposed to be worth half a million euros. And there were stacks of them.

“Ho-lee,” Al said, leaning closer. “Are these—these are good as cash, right? As long as we hold them, they’re ours?”

McKenna snapped the lid closed. “If you can find someone to buy them,” she said. “And judging by the character of those guys who just tried to kill us back there, I’d say these belong to someone we really don’t want to mess with.”

She looked at Al Parent. “You know what happens if we try to sell these? Some more men with guns track us down, take them from us, probably kill us for good measure.” She shook her head. “No way, boys. These are bad freaking news.”

Ridley had a look on his face like he’d just found the mother lode. “Okay, skipper, you’re probably right. but just in case, don’t you think we should at least figure out how many of those bonds we’re dealing with here?”

No, McKenna thought, but she knew she was outvoted. She sighed, and opened the case. “Soon as we hit Seattle, we’re turning these in to the authorities, understand?”

“Sure,” Ridley said. “Of course. Let’s just count them first.”

So they counted. McKenna opened the briefcase, and they each took a stack of bonds, and by the time they were through, they’d piled ninety of the certificates on the wheelhouse table.

“Ninety times five hundred thousand,” Jason Parent said. “Shoot, that’s like…”

“Forty-five million euros,” his father finished.

“Right. And how much is a euro worth again?”

Ridley was typing something on his phone. “A euro is equal to approximately a dollar and a nickel. So that puts us—”

“Close to fifty million dollars,” McKenna said. “My god.”

“That’s more than we made for the Lion,” Jason said. “Holy shit.”

Holy shit is right. McKenna was glad suddenly that she knew these men, that her father had hired good crew, that even fifty million dollars piled on her wheelhouse table did nothing to diminish her trust in them.

Still, though, this was a heck of a lot of money.

Ridley was the first to step back from the table. “That’s a hell of a score, lads,” he said, “but it’s the skipper’s call.” He turned to McKenna. “Whatever you decide, this crew will follow, McKenna. You have my word.”

“Thank you.” McKenna knew he wasn’t lying. Still, she could see the conflict on her men’s faces, knew she would hurt a few feelings if she just gave the money away.

Ridley gathered up the bonds. Tucked them back into the briefcase. Rummaged in a locker and came out with a roll of duct tape, taped the briefcase closed. Then he handed it to McKenna.

“All yours,” he told her. “Go with your gut.”

The briefcase felt heavier now, impossibly so, now that McKenna knew the contents within. The weight seemed almost too much to lift.

“We’ve still got a long run to Seattle,” she told the men. “Let me think on this.”