Jack Rogan - The Ocean Dark

Bal Harbour had a huge population of retirees, but the Royal Floridian skewed younger, and a great deal of business got done in the bar and restaurant — not all of it legal. The concierge, Paolo, could get hotel clientele anything they desired, with drugs and girls at the top of that list. Tori thought he was kind of sweet for such a shady character. Paolo never tried to sell her drugs and never tried to get her to sell herself to any of his clients — though he did tell her several had asked.

Tori steered customers his way, took messages for him, even hung out sometimes with Paolo and his friends after work. They’d flirted with her, of course, but they’d treated her with respect. The one time she’d slept with Paolo, she’d been the one to initiate it, and he hadn’t expected anything afterward.

Paolo had introduced her to Frank Esper, explaining that she needed to stay off the books, that anonymity kept her safe from bad men. Those were his words. Bad men. She’d laughed at the time, wondering what Paolo would have said if she’d asked him to define the phrase. But Frank had understood, and a couple of days later, he’d offered her a job at Viscaya, under the table, no reporting to the IRS.

She couldn’t help feeling a little guilty now that she planned to leave Viscaya behind, but Frank couldn’t have expected she would stay there forever.

The radio squawked, shaking her from her reverie. She glanced at Suarez, who seemed about to tell her to answer, but obviously he thought better of it.

“Fetch the captain, please,” he said.

Tori nodded, heading for the door. The bridge smelled of industrial cleaners and mildew, like whoever washed it down every few nights just kept mopping with the same filthy water. When she pulled the door open, she got a refreshing blast of sweet Caribbean air, but on her second breath it was tainted with the other scents of their journey — the oil of the engines and the acrid odor of rusting metal.

Gabe and Hank Boggs halted their conversation the second the door opened, looking at her curiously. The engineer’s lips were a thin line of annoyance.

“The radio,” she said without being asked.

The captain nodded and turned to Hank. “Whatever they come back with, I want only my people there when they come aboard.”

“I’ll make sure,” the engineer replied, and then he started down the metal steps.

Tori held the door for Captain Rio as he hustled onto the bridge and over to the radio. Miguel’s voice crackled on the speakers. “Come in, Donald, this is Mickey.”

“Mickey, this is Donald. Over,” Gabe replied.

“We’ve got one, Donald. I repeat, one, and the clock is ticking.”

From the look on Captain Rio’s face, Tori didn’t need to ask, “One what?” One survivor, wounded somehow and failing fast.

“Shit,” Gabe snapped. He blew out a breath and visibly steeled himself.

“What about the cargo, Mickey?”

“No sign, but we’re searching.”

“Every inch, Mickey. Radio with an update ASAP.”

“Will do. And, Donald?”

There’d been a pause and now Miguel Rio’s tone had shifted. Tori frowned, glanced over at the captain. Gabe had noticed it, too, and a look of concern revealed lines on his face.

“What is it?”

On the radio, Miguel launched into a flood of unfamiliar language, inflection rising and falling, rapid-fire words to which Tori listened closely. Some she thought she understood. It was like listening to a song she was sure she knew but being unable to remember its name or how the chorus went. She assumed it was some variant Romance language — Catalan or Portuguese. In the gloomy artificial light on the bridge, she watched Gabe’s expression twist and darken with anger.

He signed off, then turned to cast a baleful look at Suarez. The old sailor must have understood, for he nodded slowly.

“What language was that?” Tori ventured. “You guys are from Mexico, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Gabe said as he turned grim eyes upon her. He seemed to be weighing her, trying to decide how much he trusted her, how much he needed her — there was a lot of that going on.

“I have a job for you, Tori.”

His expression was so contorted with anger that she only nodded. Captain Rio took a key ring out of his pocket, chose a long key and removed it from the ring, and then handed it over to her.

“This will open all of the crew cabins. Go down and search Josh’s quarters, now, before they get back. Then come see me.”

Her stomach tightened, giving a sour twist. She could taste rust on her lips, the scent of it still in her mouth from being outside, even briefly.

Her pulse raced.

“What am I looking for?” she asked, wondering if Gabe saw the regret in her face.

His eyes were hard. “Anything he shouldn’t have. Weapons. Radios. A fucking badge.”

“A badge?” She stared at him, mouth agape, then shook her head. “No way. Not Josh. Where the hell are you getting this?”

Gabe scowled. “Turns out our cook isn’t who he says he is. And he couldn’t wait to go with Miguel, get a firsthand look at what’s going down out there. I thought he was a little too eager, but I didn’t figure him for a Fed.”

“How do you know?” Tori demanded, refusing to believe it.

“That story about him sharing a cell with Jorge Guarino? It’s bullshit. People who lie about prison usually do it to hide the fact they served time. The only people who lie about doing time they never did are cops working undercover.”

Tori blanched, and a rush of anger replaced the last traces of the pleasure Josh had given her earlier. She wondered if she would survive prison.

Wondered if it could cure her of her love for men with secrets.

“You’re really sure?” she asked.

“Ninety-nine percent. And that’s why you need to hustle your ass down to his quarters before they come back.”

She swore as she rushed from the bridge. The people at Viscaya had put their trust in her, put their secrets in her hands. With the exception of Ted and his sleazy friends, bad men had always been honest with her. It turned out that the good guys were the liars.

And Tori hated being lied to.

Josh stared at the fisherman who lay dying on the floor of the Mariposa ’s cabin. His breathing was a shallow, ragged wheeze, and wet with the sound of something torn and leaking deep inside him. Where his hands were pressed over the wound in his abdomen, less and less blood seeped around his fingers, his body winding down, heart slowly ticking away the last of his life.

“Open your eyes, asshole. Stay with me!” Miguel shouted, slapping the man’s cheeks.

“Come on, man,” Josh said.

Miguel whipped his head around and glared. “Come on, what? You wanted to help, right? Help by shutting your mouth.”

“Leave the guy alone. He’s almost gone, for Christ’s sake.”

Miguel pressed his eyes tightly closed, like he was trying to shut Josh’s words out, then opened them again and stared down at the fisherman.

“Where is everyone?” he shouted, spittle flying from his lips.

Josh gritted his teeth. At least Miguel hadn’t hit the man again. If he tried, Josh might have to step in, and that would only get ugly. A fight was not what they needed right now and when Dwyer came back up from searching the hold, there would be no doubt whose side he would be on. The Irishman took orders, and he’d already shown how comfortable he was with a gun in his hand.

“Open your eyes!” Miguel shouted, and he reached out and pressed down on the man’s hands, putting new pressure on the hole in his abdomen.

Josh started forward, but the fisherman’s eyes snapped open and he drew in a wet, shuddery breath.