But then he spied the twin propellers—state-of-the-art and brand-spanking-new. He’d lay odds the engines turning those babies were in similar shape. The bastards knew where to put their ill-gotten money.
He knifed upward directly underneath the pirate boat. With one hand on the hull to steady himself, he pulled out the tracking device and pondered where to put it. A powerful magnet would hold it in place, but he had to find something metal to attach it to. He eased back toward the propellers, which were idling at the moment.
It would be dangerous, but if he could get his arm past the blades and stick this thing inside the hull, the odds of it being discovered anytime soon were nil. He approached the props cautiously. He happened to love his fingers—his entire arm, in fact. As long as the boat didn’t move while he did this, he should be fine.
He reached past the nearest prop carefully. There were only about six inches to spare between the turning blades and his biceps. He felt around with his fingertips and found a flat metal plate that was probably part of the engine mount. He slapped the tracker down onto the plate and then gave it a good tug. It didn’t budge.
He eased his arm out of the narrow opening. If he were above water, he’d breathe a big sigh of relief. Now that it was done, he had to admit it had probably been a stupid maneuver to attempt. But all was well that ended well.
A massive explosion of turbulence slammed into him as the engines on the pirate vessel were abruptly jammed into gear.
Crap! He pulled back against the suction of the props with all his might but couldn’t resist the force of hundreds of horsepower drawing him in. He got an arm against the hull a foot above the props, and then a foot on the other side of the twin blades. He gave a mighty shove and flung himself to the side.
Clear.
He swam down and away from the vessel as fast as he could go. Damn, that had been close. He searched in the gloom behind him for the white bulk of the Sea Nymph, but visibility was too poor to see it from here. He probably ought to head back to her before Steig got any bright ideas about giving chase to the pirates and accidentally left him behind. He hadn’t had time to tell the captain he’d gone overboard in the moments before the attack. Until Steig went looking for Sunny and she told the captain he’d jumped, he was on his own.
He estimated he had another two minutes worth of air. He swam for the Nymph, angling deep to avoid any stray bullets. Sure enough, as he drew close to the yacht, occasional white tracks zinged into the water where bullets penetrated the sea.
He surfaced on the far side of the yacht from the pirate boat. The smooth white curve of the Nymph’s hull loomed over him as he breathed deeply. How to get back on board? The ship would be in full security lockdown, which meant the swimming deck would be retracted and locked that way. Unless the crew deployed a ladder or rope down to him, he was pretty much out of luck. He could shout, but over the cacophony of the gunfight still in full swing, no one would hear him. Besides, he didn’t need to draw the attention of any armed pirates.
And then something alarming dawned on him. All the gunfire he was hearing was automatic. Since when did the local pirates carry heavy artillery like that? They usually used crappy World War II surplus M-1s and their ilk. A few pirates on any given crew would have modern weapons that could lay down a lot of lead fast, but it sounded as if they all were carrying AK-47’s or better up there.
What was happening? Was Sunny okay? Had she done like he’d told her and gone to her cabin to hide? Somehow, he doubted she would follow his orders. A bit of a … nonconformist streak clung to her. Darned hippie.
He swam around to the rear of the ship, tested the slit where the swim deck was stowed and was able to wedge his fingers in it. He pulled himself partially out of the water and reached up for a ring that a waterskiing line would normally be routed through. He hauled himself out of the water and got his toes in the slit. It was painstaking work finding finger and toe holds, and he had a few tense moments when he nearly lost his grip. But finally, he managed to pull himself onto the lower aft deck, where he lay panting for a moment.
No time to rest and recuperate, though. He had to join the fight. The crew would no doubt mount a pitched defense of the bridge and the engine room. He could hook up with Steig’s guys in the engine compartment, assuming they didn’t shoot him as he approached.
He pressed to his feet and moved cautiously toward the passage that would take him belowdecks. Nothing like strolling into a war zone armed with a Speedo and an attitude. This might possibly be dumber than sticking his arm past that propeller. Why was it he’d volunteered to become a superhero, anyway?
Quiet footsteps slid across the carpet, drawing near. Sunny tensed, waiting in an agony of impatience. And then a leg came into view. Clothed in ragged denim and terminating in scratched and unpolished combat boots. No way would any member of Steig Carlson’s crew get away with a crappy shoe shine like that. She swung the bottle with all her might, smashing it into the guy’s knee. The bottle shattered and glass and booze sprayed everywhere. The pirate collapsed, shouting, his weapon discharging wildly at the ceiling.
She pounced out from behind the bar, shifting her spare bottle to her right hand. She brought it down over the guy’s head fast and hard. It, too, smashed into smithereens with a satisfying thud.
The pirate lay still and unmoving, drenched in vodka. God bless those heavy Russian bottles. She didn’t stick around to see if she’d killed the guy. Not when she heard shouting and running feet headed her way.
She looked around the salon in panic and on a hunch raced for the built-in sofa under a picture window. A yank at the seat cushion and, sure enough, it lifted to reveal a storage compartment. She shoved aside a pile of blankets, climbed inside and was encased in stuffy blackness. Feet and voices came into the salon. But they were muffled enough that she couldn’t tell if they belonged to good guys or bad guys.
Frankly, she didn’t care. She wanted no part of this fight whatsoever. She just wanted to curl up and jam her fists over her ears until it all went away.
Aiden ducked back around the corner just in time to avoid a barrage of bullets flying out of the engine room. “Hold your fire!” he shouted. “It’s me. Aiden McKay.”
“Cease fire!” someone bellowed.
He poked his head around the corner cautiously, prepared to yank back again fast. But this time no rain of bullets peppered the wall above his head. He moved forward into the engine room quickly. Someone pressed an assault rifle into his hand and he slung the shoulder strap over his head.
“Is that your formal combat attire?” someone asked drily.
He grimaced and started to make a snappy retort, but incoming gunfire silenced him. Apparently, he was just in time for a breakout from the engine room because the chief engineer, coincidentally a senior Special Forces man, hand signaled for them to move out.
For once, Steig’s obsession with good order and discipline paid off. They’d practiced this drill a dozen times and every crew member knew exactly what to do. Aiden counted his position in line. Number five. Which meant his field of fire would be to the extreme left and high. He pointed his weapon in that direction as they burst into the first stateroom to clear it. Cabin by cabin they cleared the deck, leaving men behind to ensure this deck stayed cleared and no pirates snuck in behind them to hide.
“How’s the fight going?” he asked the chief engineer during a break in the action while they waited on instructions from Steig on the bridge as to where to go next. Coordination was vital in a fight like this with multiple skirmishes in
