The evidence of someone being dragged was obvious. A victim’s handprints, like claw marks to keep from going over the side, smeared the passageway and rails. The chopper hovered overhead as Max lowered to the vessel, dropped and rolled. He hurried to Logan as Interpol’s Scarab pulled alongside. Logan let down the emergency rope ladder and agents boarded.
The two agents, Brewer and Medina from the South American offices, were chasing sea pirates when Dragon One asked for assistance. Three vessels had been attacked recently, so they were more than happy to lend a hand.
“I’m past the fail-safe mark,” Sebastian said over the radio. “I’ve got to return for fuel.”
Logan waved and Sebastian rocked the chopper before he headed toward land.
“We’ll take belowdecks. Crews’ quarters,” Medina said, handing a compact video camera to Max, then sighting through another, he made a general sweep of the area. After synchronizing radio frequencies, they moved off.
“It’s slippery, so watch it,” Logan said. “I didn’t notice blood belowdecks, but then, I wasn’t looking for it.”
Brewer nodded, his expression grim and angry.
In the aft of the ship were the staterooms, galley and dining/living room. Logan and Max circled the deck, sections of polished wood still gleaming with fresh wax, others stained red with blood. A massacre.
They entered the main stateroom. Long, wide doors were open to the elements, and Logan kicked aside towels and lotion bottles, ignoring the padded chaises about to topple into the sea. The sun brightened across the deep maroon sofas, the wood tables and a wet bar. In inclement weather, the doors would slide closed and seal the passengers in a warm cocoon. Not this time.
Logan and Max passed through the main cabin and headed toward the private staterooms as the agents scoured the belly of the craft into the engine rooms. Logan could hear them tearing open anything suspicious, the destruction rising through the dying ship. Max trailed him with a small video camera, his weapon drawn. But Logan knew there was no threat. No reason to hope. They cleared each cabin and were outside the main stateroom when the agents joined them.
“There’s no one here. They put up a fight. There’s a lot of that.” Medina gestured to the blood splatters.
Logan recognized the pattern. Point-blank range in the head. An execution. He nodded and entered the main cabin. His aim faltered, something inside him crushing his lungs when he saw the wedding gown hung on the door.
“Oh man.” His gaze snapped around the cabin. A bride’s frothy veil and a pair of man’s shoes and jacket lay tossed in the corner. The cabin was a shambles, yet like most ships, everything with weight was bolted down, including the bed, wide-screen TV and its components. The bed linens were tangled, body depressions still visible, a bottle of champagne up-ended into a silver bucket now tipped on its side on the floor.
“There’s still ice in it.” Max nudged the bucket, and watery ice melted into the carpet.
“The TV is still on,” Logan said. “I couldn’t cut the electricity.”
“They run on battery,” Max explained. “Separate from the engines.” He stepped to go look, but Medina stopped him.
“I’ll cut the power,” Medina said as Brewer spoke into the radio to his home base.
Logan scowled at him.
“It’s international waters, and now a mass murder.”
Logan nodded and moved around the large stateroom, searching for identification, careful not to disturb more than was necessary. Max picked up the TV remote and pushed PLAY, the screen blinked on, the video from the wedding playing. Logan heard him groan with sympathy and glanced briefly. The wedding videographer was going from table to table and recording best wishes from the guests. He looked away, his gaze traveling over the cabin. Why? Was there anything of value other than the ship itself?
“If it was pirates,” Logan said, “then why not keep the vessel? Why kill them all and crash the ship?”
“A cover-up?” Max asked, still watching the video. “Yachts aren’t built for speed, and you know how I like a good conspiracy theory.”
“Turn that off,” Logan snapped as he hunted for the passports.
“Not yet, look at this. I’d swear that was your dad.”
Logan turned sharply, his gaze narrowing on the screen. Max froze the frame, then backed it up. Logan moved closer, a hard chill pulling on his skin. His mom was there, laughing with his father. Instantly, he turned up the volume and heard his father say, “Like a daughter to me.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Logan whispered, then started rifling through the drawers like a wild man.
Medina reached to stop him, but Max stepped in the path. He rewound the DVD to visions of the bride just as Logan found the passports. For a heartbeat, he stared at the identification, then sank to the edge of the bed, his throat closing tightly.
Oh God, no. He handed over the passports to Brewer and muttered, “Cassandra Furman. Twenty-three.” He rubbed his face, then stared at the wedding video. “I remember when she was born.”
Logan let the memory slide through his mind; the little dark haired girl who lived up the road, pampered from the moment she arrived. A fiery temper and rebellious, Cassie was the belle of the county—and raised on a two hundred year old plantation. Just like him. About fifteen years senior to her, he’d left home when she was still a child, but remembered little Cassie sitting on the side of the long, oak-lined drive, waving a small flag, her face peering over a poster welcoming him back from Desert Storm. She had a crush on him then, and he’d adored her, but he hadn’t seen her much since she was in high school. His eyes burned as he looked at the dainty wedding gown, knowing this would destroy so many families.
“They’re from South Carolina. I’ll give you the information you’ll need for contact. No, when you do, call me, I’ll do it.” He shot off the bed, his fists clenched.
He wanted to pound something. Max went to pat his shoulder, then thought better of it.
A horn blasted, and they rushed to the side of the craft. The second Scarab pulled alongside, a body in a dive suit lay in the bottom of the speedboat. Riley pointed accusingly at the agents. There wasn’t much left of the diver. They’d apparently shot the dive tank and the body was a grisly mess, an arm missing. One down, one to go. He watched the horizon in the false hope that the diver would surface. If the bastard had a rebreather, no telling where he’d turn up. Logan never got a good look at the tanks, but that smile he’d remember until he died. Or till he killed him.
He pushed away from the rail.
“Logan, we need to split. Interpol has to handle it now. We can’t do anything more.”
He would, alone. “Board the Scarab, I’ll be right back.” Logan turned back into the luxurious cabin, and after he’d handed over the passports to Medina, he ejected the DVD out of the player and slipped it in his vest pocket. He held his hand over it for a moment, bitter rage welling inside him. Then just as quickly, he pushed it aside to search the cabin once more with Brewer. Mentally, Logan fitted the light dust rings to the bric-a-brac scattered on the floor. He picked up a couple of pieces, positioning them into place. The diver had something in his hand when he went
