Clive Cussler - Pirate

Remi hit the gas. The tires screeched as she backed perilously close to the edge of the dock.

“Remi!” he snapped, bracing himself.

“I see it.” She turned the wheel, braking hard as she threw it into drive.

Sam looked back. The second man was aiming at them. Sam shot first and saw the third man fall and clutch his left knee.

Remi jabbed the gas pedal to a stop. The sharp report of bullets hitting metal pierced their eardrums. “Come on,” she said as though urging the SUV to move faster.

The tailgate window shattered. “Stay down.” He fired through the broken rear window. The two men dove for cover.

Remi slid as low as she could, not slowing until she reached the end of the street. She turned the corner, racing down the same road they’d arrived on, the first, fat drops of rain splatting against the windshield.

In the distance, they saw the flashing lights of the deputy’s patrol car, then heard the faint sound of the siren as he sped toward them.

Remi pulled over, and they got out of the SUV, waving at the deputy.

He stopped beside them, cutting his siren.

“We found our friend,” Remi said, then opened the passenger door.

The deputy looked in, saw Bree still tied up, his mouth dropping open slightly. Then, recovering, asked, “Anyone hurt?”

Remi removed the gag from Bree’s mouth. “How are you?” she asked.

“Fi—” Bree stopped, took a deep breath. “Fine. My cousin? Where is she? Is she okay?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said.

Remi used Sam’s pocketknife to cut her ties as the deputy drew Sam to the back of the car out of the roadway. “What’s going on?”

He gave a brief explanation, showing him the video on Remi’s phone, shielding the screen from the scattered rain.

“Where did this happen?”

Sam pointed north. “About five miles up. Some old warehouses on that first street near the docks. Second warehouse in.”

The deputy glanced at the bullet holes along the right rear fender of the SUV and the missing rear window, then keyed his radio, reporting shots fired at one of the abandoned warehouses outside Beaufort. “Three suspects. Description: white male adults, dark clothing.”

The dispatcher copied.

The deputy started for his car, but Bree called out, “What about my cousin?”

“What about her?” he asked.

“Did you talk to her?”

“At the house?”

She nodded.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. No one answered the door. It was locked.”

Bree turned toward Remi, her face pale. “We have to go there and check! What if something’s happened to her?”

Bree grasped Remi’s arm. “Please. Larayne might be in trouble.”

“She’s right,” Sam said. “We have to check on her.”

“Sir,” Deputy Wagner said to Sam. “I’m going to have to trust you know what you’re doing. I have no idea what sort of backup Beaufort’s sending, and I’ve just sent the only other deputy within driving distance to deal with three armed men. I’m not about to leave him without backup.”

“We understand.”

The deputy turned a stern gaze to Bree. “I want the three of you — four, if your cousin is there — at the sheriff’s office for statements when this is done.”

He hurried to his patrol car, then sped off, the engine roaring.

“Let’s go,” Sam said, opening the driver’s door.

“What about our car?” Remi asked, climbing in the front passenger seat.

“We can pick it up on the way back,” Sam said.

Bree slid into the seat behind Remi, telling Sam, “Please hurry.”

“Buckle up,” Sam said as he took off toward Harlowe, turning on the windshield wipers. Wind roared through the shattered back window, and rain sluiced in through the driver’s window, striking him in the face and shoulder. Even Remi felt it in the passenger seat. She turned to check on Bree. The young woman looking shell-shocked. “I’m so sorry about your uncle,” Remi called out over the rush of wind.

“I know. I–I can’t believe this all happened.” After a moment, Bree leaned forward, placing her hand on Remi’s shoulder. “Thank you for coming.”

Sam leaned in toward the center of the car as he drove, the rain coming down harder. He looked back at Bree. “We’re just glad you’re okay,” he said, before turning his attention back to the road.

Remi said, “Last we heard, you were on your way to the airport. We assumed to San Francisco.”

“I was. They ran my car off the road and I never made it.”

“Selma called us,” Remi said. “The police found your car. I was beside myself until your call.”

“They were holding a gun to me. I never would have put you in danger.”

The wind and rain rushing through the broken windows made it difficult to carry on a conversation. “Let’s check on your cousin and we’ll talk after.”

It took about ten minutes to reach the farmhouse. The moment Sam pulled to a stop, Bree dashed out of the SUV, then up the front steps. She tried to open the door, then started pounding on it, crying, “Larayne! Larayne!”

Remi and Sam followed. At the steps, Sam said, “I’ll see if there’s any other way in.”

Remi and Bree dashed through the rain to follow him around to the back.

Sam tried that door, also locked, and Bree asked, “Can’t you kick it in?”

“Might not need to,” he said, eyeing the lock. Slipping his wallet from his pocket, he removed a credit card, then shoved it between the doorframe and the lock, jiggling until it popped open. “Your cousin should get a dead bolt for this thing,” he said, opening the door.

Bree rushed past him, through the kitchen. “Larayne! Where are you?”

Remi and Sam hurried after her as she ran down the hallway opening doors, looking behind them.

Remi, brushing the wet hair from her face, was just starting up the front stairs when she thought she heard something beneath them. She stopped and listened. Sure enough, there was a thump below her. “In here!” she called out, spying a storage door below the stairs. She opened it as Bree came running down the hall.

Bree almost dove inside to get her cousin out. “Larayne!” she said, helping her to her feet.

Like Bree, the woman had been bound and gagged. Bree yanked the gag from her mouth. “Are you okay?”

Larayne nodded.

Sam cut the ties around her hands and feet, then helped her to stand.

Bree wrapped her in a hug, then drew her to the couch. “I was so worried about you.”

“How’d you get here?” Larayne asked.

“My friends,” she said. “The Fargos. They’re the ones who brought the book.”

Larayne eyed them, saying, “I can’t believe this. I—” Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the sky let loose, rain drumming down on the rooftop. She stood suddenly, her hands shaking. “I need something to drink.”

“Sit,” Remi said. “I can get it. Water?”

“I think I need something stronger. But thanks.”

They followed her down the hall and into the kitchen. She took a glass from the dishwasher, then opened the freezer, pulled out a bottle of vodka, and poured several fingers into the glass.

Bree gave a tremulous smile. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? We still have to talk to the police.”

“It’s a very good idea. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be shoved in the cupboard and not know if anyone was going to come looking for you?”

Remi, acknowledging Bree’s discomfort, put her arm around her. “I can’t imagine what either of you must have been going through, not knowing where the other was. It must have been terrible.”

“It was,” Bree said, meeting her cousin’s gaze.

Larayne lowered her glass, seemingly surprised by that statement. “Oh, Bree… I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?”