Read Online Hurricane Fever by Tobias S. Buckell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tobias S. Buckell
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sun. A sort of twilight filled the main cabin. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“You’re sorry,” Kit said in a monotone. “The CDC was sorry. Everyone’s sorry. Do you know what I do for a living, Mr. Jones?”
Roo stopped and looked at her. “What do you do for a living?”
“I work for an insurance company in Boca Raton. Do you know what the statistical chances of a fit male in Florida dying of hemorrhagic fever are?”
The bench had a small catch. Roo unsnapped it and opened the lid. The bin under the seat bench was full of emergency supplies. Medical kits, water filtration straws, rope, expanding foam, and whatever else Roo thought might come in handy. “I don’t know,” Roo said.
“Zachariah traveled a lot. I know he worked, sometimes, for the Caribbean Studies Institute doing research all over … but … he told me once he really worked for the Caribbean Intelligence Group. Mr. Jones, what are you looking for there?”
Roo pulled out the bright orange revolver, and three cartridges. “Flare gun,” he said mildly.
“A flare gun?”
“I don’t usually keep firearms on board. Got a teenager living with me.” He cracked it open and slid a flare in, much like loading a shotgun. “But this’ll have to do.”
He snapped it back shut, pocketed the other two flare shells, and turned back toward the door.
8
Roo glanced out past the cockpit by the door. He couldn’t see the Viking’s long blond hair out there anymore. Nor Mr. Motorcycle and his tattoos.
Not a good sign.
“Are you worried about my bodyguards, Mr. Jones?” Kit asked.
Roo retreated farther back into the dark cabin. “Your brother and I used to work together a long time ago.” He slid over to one of the windows and peeked through a gap in the curtains to scan the yard. “With the CIG. He was calling in a favor. He talk to you much about what-all he used to do for CIG?”
“No,” Kit said. “He kept me out of it. But … one has imagination.”
The reason people at CIG recruited agents with no families, or desperate to walk away from their own.
“We used to work together, a while back.” Roo pulled out his phone and took a quick shot of her face. He set it to run facial analysis, curious to see what it showed up on the public record. “Was a good man.”
Kit was a pale blob in the darkness of the main cabin out of the corner of his eye. She shifted uncomfortably, but he had her covered just slightly with the flare gun, though it wasn’t too overt. He was still trying to get a good scan of the boatyard.
Was she a lure? Or an unsuspecting lure? Was this a setup? She sounded, and looked, genuinely upset and curious.
“Why did you lie to me about the extra bodyguards?” Roo asked.
“What?”
“There are four people out there. The two you introduced to me as bodyguards, and two others a few hundred feet back under nearby boats watching us. Who are the other two?” Roo looked at her, the flare gun pointed down at the floor but ready to come up when needed.
But Kit shook her head, and Roo looked into widening eyes the same color as the varnished teak trim in the cabin.
Not lying. Or a damn good actress.
Either way. “Call out to your two bodyguards, let’s get them up in the cockpit,” he decided. “But stay right where you are.”
She squinted, looking a bit dubious. But she leaned forward a little and called out. “Olafson? Brewer?”
They didn’t reply.
She opened her mouth again, but Roo grabbed her arm and pulled her with him. “Follow me,” he whispered.
He pulled her with him down the stairs into the port hull, past the chart table and Roo’s old flatscreens on hinged arms. “Is it safer here?” Kit asked in a frightened whisper.
“Nah,” Roo said, shaking his head, dreadlocks tapping the back of his neck. “Hull’s just fiberglass. Won’t stop a bullet. But we’re harder to spot.”
He walked her back to his cabin and, very, very carefully, shut the wooden door behind them. There
“You’re sorry,” Kit said in a monotone. “The CDC was sorry. Everyone’s sorry. Do you know what I do for a living, Mr. Jones?”
Roo stopped and looked at her. “What do you do for a living?”
“I work for an insurance company in Boca Raton. Do you know what the statistical chances of a fit male in Florida dying of hemorrhagic fever are?”
The bench had a small catch. Roo unsnapped it and opened the lid. The bin under the seat bench was full of emergency supplies. Medical kits, water filtration straws, rope, expanding foam, and whatever else Roo thought might come in handy. “I don’t know,” Roo said.
“Zachariah traveled a lot. I know he worked, sometimes, for the Caribbean Studies Institute doing research all over … but … he told me once he really worked for the Caribbean Intelligence Group. Mr. Jones, what are you looking for there?”
Roo pulled out the bright orange revolver, and three cartridges. “Flare gun,” he said mildly.
“A flare gun?”
“I don’t usually keep firearms on board. Got a teenager living with me.” He cracked it open and slid a flare in, much like loading a shotgun. “But this’ll have to do.”
He snapped it back shut, pocketed the other two flare shells, and turned back toward the door.
8
Roo glanced out past the cockpit by the door. He couldn’t see the Viking’s long blond hair out there anymore. Nor Mr. Motorcycle and his tattoos.
Not a good sign.
“Are you worried about my bodyguards, Mr. Jones?” Kit asked.
Roo retreated farther back into the dark cabin. “Your brother and I used to work together a long time ago.” He slid over to one of the windows and peeked through a gap in the curtains to scan the yard. “With the CIG. He was calling in a favor. He talk to you much about what-all he used to do for CIG?”
“No,” Kit said. “He kept me out of it. But … one has imagination.”
The reason people at CIG recruited agents with no families, or desperate to walk away from their own.
“We used to work together, a while back.” Roo pulled out his phone and took a quick shot of her face. He set it to run facial analysis, curious to see what it showed up on the public record. “Was a good man.”
Kit was a pale blob in the darkness of the main cabin out of the corner of his eye. She shifted uncomfortably, but he had her covered just slightly with the flare gun, though it wasn’t too overt. He was still trying to get a good scan of the boatyard.
Was she a lure? Or an unsuspecting lure? Was this a setup? She sounded, and looked, genuinely upset and curious.
“Why did you lie to me about the extra bodyguards?” Roo asked.
“What?”
“There are four people out there. The two you introduced to me as bodyguards, and two others a few hundred feet back under nearby boats watching us. Who are the other two?” Roo looked at her, the flare gun pointed down at the floor but ready to come up when needed.
But Kit shook her head, and Roo looked into widening eyes the same color as the varnished teak trim in the cabin.
Not lying. Or a damn good actress.
Either way. “Call out to your two bodyguards, let’s get them up in the cockpit,” he decided. “But stay right where you are.”
She squinted, looking a bit dubious. But she leaned forward a little and called out. “Olafson? Brewer?”
They didn’t reply.
She opened her mouth again, but Roo grabbed her arm and pulled her with him. “Follow me,” he whispered.
He pulled her with him down the stairs into the port hull, past the chart table and Roo’s old flatscreens on hinged arms. “Is it safer here?” Kit asked in a frightened whisper.
“Nah,” Roo said, shaking his head, dreadlocks tapping the back of his neck. “Hull’s just fiberglass. Won’t stop a bullet. But we’re harder to spot.”
He walked her back to his cabin and, very, very carefully, shut the wooden door behind them. There
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