Оуэн Локканен - Gale Force

Nakadate stared at his computer in disbelief.

A Google News alert: MORE DRAMA ON THE PACIFIC LION . Three Japanese nationals rescued from a sinking lifeboat. Firearms recovered in the wreck. Reports of an audacious attack on the Pacific Lion and her tugboat escort, the Gale Force , the same tug that had rescued the ship after her near-capsize in the North Pacific three weeks ago.

The three attackers were safe, Nakadate read, but were in Canadian custody. The Pacific Lion , meanwhile, would continue her voyage to Seattle—though from now on, with a military escort.

Nakadate read the article over again. Sato and his colleagues had failed. The Lion continued. There was nothing about a briefcase. No mention of his stolen property.

Perhaps there was no need. The scope of Sato’s failure was so vast that Nakadate could be sure the briefcase remained in the salvage crew’s possession. That was a problem, but it was not yet a disaster.

He picked up the phone. Placed a call to Masao Tanaka. The crew of the Gale Force retained the stolen bonds. Nakadate wondered how eager they would be to trade.

“THERE IS ONE THING I’ve been wondering,” Stacey Jonas told McKenna over the radio. She and her husband had emerged from their hiding place, called over to the Gale Force to check in on the crew. She and Matt were scared half to death, but otherwise they were fine.

“What’s that?” McKenna asked, watching the lights of the Lion inch closer to the stern of her tug, the winch drawing the big freighter back close again. Beyond the Lion ’s stern, the Canadian Coast Guard lifeboat had rescued the three shooters; above, a big Royal Canadian Air Force helicopter stood guard.

“It was like they knew something,” Stacey said. “Like, why would they even move on the Gale Force at all?”

“Maybe they talked to the sailor,” McKenna said. “The Coast Guard brought him to Dutch Harbor. Best I can tell, that’s where these three got on.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Stacey said. “That would put them on the ship, for sure. But there’s no way they could have checked out the whole freighter since we left Dutch, is there? I mean, they didn’t even bother to ask me and Matt if we knew anything.”

McKenna said nothing. Thought back to Dutch Harbor. Thought she might remember, vaguely, a man on the dock, a pickup truck. A man at the airport, Court’s flight.

Probably nothing. Just paranoia.

“Those guys were on a mission, McKenna,” Stacey continued. “They knew where to look. How do you figure they got that information?”

Damn it. McKenna stared out the window, the near-black night, the ocean.

“I’ll get back to you,” she told Stacey. “I’d better make a call.”

Court Harrington still hadn’t eaten his steak.

Oh, the nice Japanese man with the silencer on his pistol had allowed Harrington to order room service, sure; the men had to eat while they waited, after all. And they’d been waiting a long time already.

But there was something just wrong about eating a steak at gunpoint. How could a guy fully enjoy the meal, knowing some lunatic was one ill-timed sneeze from blowing your head off?

So he’d ordered hamburgers, chicken fingers. A turkey club sandwich. Soda, instead of beer, because damn it, he wanted to save that first ice-cold Budweiser for the celebration. And this, whatever it was, was far from a celebration.

They’d sat here all day and night and through the day again, Tanaka and Harrington. Tanaka didn’t sleep, best as Harrington could tell. He went to the john, sure, but he kept the door open—and he made sure that Harrington remembered that he knew his parents’ address every time he had to go.

Harrington was bored. He was worried. He wondered how much longer this would take, how it would end.

He hoped McKenna Rhodes was all right.

If she’s hurt, it’s on you, you asshole, he thought. One hundred percent, you screwed up. The thought kept Harrington awake through the night.

But he’d turned the TV on a few hours ago. Kept the volume low, just background noise, something to distract him while he waited. Didn’t even care what program, what channel, just wanted something to take his focus away.

Now, the news was playing. And Harrington heard something that made him reach for the remote.

“Another twist in the saga of the Pacific Lion ,” the anchor was saying. “The freighter that nearly sank three weeks ago in Alaska was involved in another high-drama, high-seas event, this time a foiled act of piracy.”

Foiled . Does that mean they’re okay?

Now Tanaka’s phone was ringing. The man stirred in his chair, removed the phone from his jacket with his free hand, brought it to his ear. Waved at the TV, at Harrington, Turn the volume down.

Harrington didn’t. Tanaka stopped waving. Pointed the gun at his forehead. Harrington reached for the remote. And then the room phone began to ring, too.

Tanaka turned away a split second, distracted. Accepted the call on his phone, brought his gun hand to his ear to block out the noise. And Harrington decided he’d had enough waiting around, figured he was about ready to eat that steak.

He leaped at Tanaka and knocked the man to the floor.

The hit man went down easy. Crashed to the carpet, Harrington on top of him. Had a moment while falling to choose what to hold, chose the phone. Chose wrong. His pistol flew sideways, landed under the couch.

A struggle ensued. Harrington pushed off of Tanaka. Dove for the couch, didn’t quite get there, felt the smaller man clawing at him. Prayed the guy didn’t have another gun hidden somewhere, kicked like swimming lessons until the guy let him free.

The hotel phone was still ringing. The TV was blaring. Harrington hardly heard it, leaped again for the gun.

This time, he got hold of it. Rolled on his back and aimed it at Tanaka, who’d climbed to his feet and was coming for Harrington. The hit man stopped when he saw the gun. Smiled a little bit.

The bastard was still holding the phone.

“Back,” Harrington told him, pushing off of his back and to a standing position. “Back way up, buddy.”

Tanaka did as instructed. Stood there, waiting. The hotel phone was still ringing, and then it stopped. The TV was still on. Harrington had a pistol, and he had no idea what he was supposed to do next.

He had an idea.

“Give me your phone,” he told Tanaka. “Toss it to me. Don’t move.”

Tanaka obeyed. Tossed the phone softly to Harrington, who managed to catch it, though not at all gracefully. Harrington kept the pistol trained at Tanaka, as he’d seen Tanaka do all night. With his other hand, he brought the phone to his ear.

“I’m going to make a few assumptions,” he told whoever was on the other end of the line. “I’m going to assume you’re involved in this scheme Mr. Tanaka is running, first off.”

Silence.

“Second, I’m going to assume that you’re calling because you just saw the same news story we did, and now you know your buddies were, you know, foiled in their little act of piracy.”

Silence, still.

“And I guess I’m going to assume you were calling to tell Tanaka what to do with me, because you still don’t have what you’re looking for.”

More silence. Harrington was out of assumptions. Fortunately, he didn’t need any more.

“Suppose you’re correct,” came the reply. The man on the other end of the line sounded measured, composed. He wasn’t nearly as riled up about this whole escapade as Harrington. “What is it you’d like to tell me?”