Read Online Midnight Sun by M. J. Fredrick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M. J. Fredrick
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her—that was out of the ordinary. As long as he was worried about her, he couldn’t make decisions.
Glancing around the corridor, he headed toward the door that led onto the deck on the third level. He exited on the opposite side from the other ship, afraid someone was watching from the pirates’ vessel and would see his movement. That would be bad. He slipped out, and the wind from the ocean almost stole his breath. Brylie was right. He wasn’t dressed for this. But he was going nuts locked up in there. He wedged the door open and kept it from closing again with a fire extinguisher. Then he crept along the edge of the ship—Jesus, it was cold—and rounded the corner to look at the other craft.
It was a third of the length of the Ice Queen, but an icebreaker as well, outfitted to go in any direction once they got away. He didn’t see anyone on board, but they might be more conscious of the cold. He should have tried to get to his own cabin for his gear before he came out here. He’d do so on the way back. He’d told Brylie to dress warm but didn’t remember to get her coat. He’d have to find a way to do that, too. No telling what measures they’d have to take to stay ahead of the pirates, and it was best to be prepared for anything.
He couldn't see a damn thing up here, but dared not get closer. He'd really hoped to learn how many men were on that ship, how many men he had to worry about. He cast a glance up at the helicopter pad, with the sightseeing helicopter, wishing he knew how to fly the thing, how to get help. Instead, he had to get back to Brylie.
He was gone too long. Brylie couldn't stand not knowing where he was, couldn't stand waiting. She hooked her walkie onto the waistband of her sweatpants, turned the volume down—no sense in getting caught if Marcus decided to bellow for her—and wished she had paper to leave him a note. She had to go back to the lounge, to see what was going on in there. If he was going off to be brave and foolish, well, at least she should have news for him when she returned. He would be pissed, but, well, he didn't know her if he thought she was just going to stay put because he told her to.
She entered the crawlspace and made her way in the direction of the lounge, moving carefully, worried about her boot hitting the side of the crawlway, or having to sneeze. But mostly worried about the others and what they were dealing with.
She reached the vent overlooking the lounge in time to hear one of the women ask for food. She peered through the vent and saw the older woman who had come here on an anniversary trip with her husband, fear etched clearly on her pale face. The fruit snack Brylie had eaten turned over in her stomach with guilt.
"No food yet, not until we get a response."
"I need to have food, my blood sugar is dropping," the woman pressed.
Brylie winced as a man stepped into view, looming over the woman threateningly. For a moment, Brylie thought he was going to hit her. The woman cowered, apparently fearing the same thing.
"I'm diabetic," the woman went on. "Please. I'm not asking for special favors. I could die."
"You take the insulin?"
"It's in my cabin. But if I eat something, just a little bit of cheese or fruit, I can manage without the insulin for a little bit. Please."
"Which of you is the cook?" He whirled on the group, and for a moment, Brylie thought he could see her through the grate.
Brylie's heart seized. Here it came—they would notice she was not among them and start searching. Where was Marcus? Was he safely back in their hiding place? If the terrorists started looking for them, how much longer could they hide?
"I'm the cook," Monica spoke up, and Brylie shifted to see her rise, her shoulders back, her head high. "Shall I bring in food for everyone? No one has had breakfast. I'm sure everyone could use the strength."
The terrorist hesitated. For a moment, Brylie was sure he'd refuse. "You may bring in only what you can carry. One of
Glancing around the corridor, he headed toward the door that led onto the deck on the third level. He exited on the opposite side from the other ship, afraid someone was watching from the pirates’ vessel and would see his movement. That would be bad. He slipped out, and the wind from the ocean almost stole his breath. Brylie was right. He wasn’t dressed for this. But he was going nuts locked up in there. He wedged the door open and kept it from closing again with a fire extinguisher. Then he crept along the edge of the ship—Jesus, it was cold—and rounded the corner to look at the other craft.
It was a third of the length of the Ice Queen, but an icebreaker as well, outfitted to go in any direction once they got away. He didn’t see anyone on board, but they might be more conscious of the cold. He should have tried to get to his own cabin for his gear before he came out here. He’d do so on the way back. He’d told Brylie to dress warm but didn’t remember to get her coat. He’d have to find a way to do that, too. No telling what measures they’d have to take to stay ahead of the pirates, and it was best to be prepared for anything.
He couldn't see a damn thing up here, but dared not get closer. He'd really hoped to learn how many men were on that ship, how many men he had to worry about. He cast a glance up at the helicopter pad, with the sightseeing helicopter, wishing he knew how to fly the thing, how to get help. Instead, he had to get back to Brylie.
He was gone too long. Brylie couldn't stand not knowing where he was, couldn't stand waiting. She hooked her walkie onto the waistband of her sweatpants, turned the volume down—no sense in getting caught if Marcus decided to bellow for her—and wished she had paper to leave him a note. She had to go back to the lounge, to see what was going on in there. If he was going off to be brave and foolish, well, at least she should have news for him when she returned. He would be pissed, but, well, he didn't know her if he thought she was just going to stay put because he told her to.
She entered the crawlspace and made her way in the direction of the lounge, moving carefully, worried about her boot hitting the side of the crawlway, or having to sneeze. But mostly worried about the others and what they were dealing with.
She reached the vent overlooking the lounge in time to hear one of the women ask for food. She peered through the vent and saw the older woman who had come here on an anniversary trip with her husband, fear etched clearly on her pale face. The fruit snack Brylie had eaten turned over in her stomach with guilt.
"No food yet, not until we get a response."
"I need to have food, my blood sugar is dropping," the woman pressed.
Brylie winced as a man stepped into view, looming over the woman threateningly. For a moment, Brylie thought he was going to hit her. The woman cowered, apparently fearing the same thing.
"I'm diabetic," the woman went on. "Please. I'm not asking for special favors. I could die."
"You take the insulin?"
"It's in my cabin. But if I eat something, just a little bit of cheese or fruit, I can manage without the insulin for a little bit. Please."
"Which of you is the cook?" He whirled on the group, and for a moment, Brylie thought he could see her through the grate.
Brylie's heart seized. Here it came—they would notice she was not among them and start searching. Where was Marcus? Was he safely back in their hiding place? If the terrorists started looking for them, how much longer could they hide?
"I'm the cook," Monica spoke up, and Brylie shifted to see her rise, her shoulders back, her head high. "Shall I bring in food for everyone? No one has had breakfast. I'm sure everyone could use the strength."
The terrorist hesitated. For a moment, Brylie was sure he'd refuse. "You may bring in only what you can carry. One of
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