Gale Force

36

The wind howled.

Christer Magnusson stood at the Salvation’s wheel. Bill Carew and his deckhand joined him in the wheelhouse. Foss and Ogilvy were in their bunks, resting. They’d drawn the night watch, and it had been a long night.

The other guy, Okura, was still on the ship somewhere. Refused to leave, the maniac. Magnusson studied the Lion’s stern, figured the guy would probably wind up dead, decided he was glad he’d asked for that twenty-five thousand up front.

Behind the Salvation, the Lion dragged at the towline, the wind catching the freighter’s hull and shoving it off course, threatening to pull the smaller boat with it. Bill Carew had the Salvation’s engines revving high, almost at their limits, but the force of the wind was nearly overpowering the ship, and that, Magnusson knew, was a very bad sign.

Bill Carew met his eyes. “You want to have your men slacken off that winch and we’ll release the tow?”

Magnusson didn’t answer. The correct thing to do in this circumstance—the seas getting bigger, the wind moaning through the rigging, foam and salt spray everywhere, an underpowered boat, and a heavy, wallowing tow—was as Carew suggested: slacken off the towline, untether the Salvation from the wreck, and turn around, with tail between legs, head back to home base.

But Magnusson hadn’t built his career on giving up early. If that woman on the Gale Force wanted to take the Lion from him, she was damn well going to earn it.

“Slacken the winch?” Magnusson said. “What the hell for?”

Carew opened his mouth to answer. Magnusson cut him off. “Give me more power,” he told the captain. “Damned if we’re giving up without a fight.”

THE BRIEFCASE, at last.

Okura’s muscles screamed as he balanced on the windshield of the sports car, clutching the briefcase like a trophy. The ship swayed and rolled. The cars groaned against their fastenings.

Okura didn’t care. He was fifty million dollars richer.

He timed his movements carefully. Clambered off the Nissan and onto its neighbor, aiming his headlamp in the direction he’d come. Four cars away, his rope dangled in space. All that remained was to reach that rope and to climb it to safety.

Fifty million dollars. Okura crawled across the front end of the next Nissan. Thank you, Tomio.

ABOARD THE MUNRO, Captain Geoffries watched the Pacific Lion swing on the end of the Salvation’s towline, waves crashing against her exposed hull. He checked the GPS screen in front of him: forty-five nautical miles to landfall, the south shore of Umnak Island. Despite the Salvation’s efforts, the freighter continued to drift north.

“Raise the Salvation,” Geoffries told his radio operator. “Ask them what the hell they’re doing over there.”

THE SALVATION’S RADIO CRACKLED to life. The Munro. “Requesting an update on the status of your operation,” the radio operator told Magnusson. “It looks like you’re into some difficulty over there.”

Magnusson studied the Munro. It jogged in the swell, steady and silent and ever-present. Behind the cutter, a half mile away, the Gale Force waited her turn.

Magnusson picked up the radio. “No difficulty,” he told the Munro. He motioned to Carew, who pushed the Salvation’s throttles, the twin Caterpillars roaring with the strain. “Everything is proceeding as planned.”