Ghosting: A Novel by David Poyer

Author:David Poyer [Poyer, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2010-11-09T00:00:00+00:00

Arlen couldn’t quite grasp it, couldn’t take it in. It had happened so suddenly. One moment she was below, trying to corral up some of the Giant Pile of Crap. She’d gotten most of it off the deck, hung up to dry. Stuffed what was ruined, wet, torn, or stale into bulging trash bags to dump when they got in. Put tools, dishes, silverware back in the lockers they’d burst out of. Wiped down surfaces fuzzy black with mold. Then gone to the companionway to call up, It’s done, come and see what I did.

To find their reality altered. The man they’d picked up had brought them to a new world. One where she stood frozen as two strangers stalked through the salon, pushed their heads into the master cabin, the galley, forward berthing, the heads. Snatching open lockers and drawers she’d just stowed, clawing items out and holding them up, jabbering to each other. They looked like twins, swarthy, hair in ponytails, save that the heavyset one smiled at her while the other scowled and did not meet her eyes.

Loftiss let himself down the companionway, pushing her son ahead. Her eyes met Ric’s but his slid aside. Loftiss halted under the skylight, watching them with arms folded. The little gun still visible, though. Whistling to himself. Jack came down behind him, but stood on the ladder, halfway between salon and cockpit. She summoned courage. “Who are these men, Cam?”

“This is Diego, our always cheerful mate. And Alejandro. His temper’s a little shorter. Just so you know.” Loftiss smiled. “The fella still aboard is Xaviero. He’s our good-luck piece. Or so the owner says. You don’t want to get on his bad side, know what I mean? So we treat him right.”

“Owner of what?” Arlen said, but Loftiss waved it aside, as if it wasn’t important, or that he’d said more than he meant to.

Cheerful Diego disappeared aft. A crash echoed from the master cabin. She shuddered, closing her eyes. She knew just from the sound what it was. The gimbaled lamp she’d found while Jack was prowling a marine supply store. More crashing followed. Then he came out. He held the pointed tip of the machete angled up, scraping a deep ragged gouge out of the polished teak paneling of the passageway as he came. Watching her, still smiling that wide-faced, good-natured grin.

After jerking the grid off the stove and throwing it into the spice rack, Alejandro headed for the navigation station. The short Colombian grabbed the radio out of its mounting, tore it free, cables snapping, and threw it to the deck. Plastic shattered and pinged. He grabbed a chart and tore it across. Paper fluttered down like dismembered moths. He spotted the emergency beacon on the bulkhead and smashed it into fragments with his hammer.

He pulled out a mahogany box with a brass catch and lifted the sextant out of its felt nest. She caught the flash of brass, of mirrors, of still-sharp engraving, as he lifted

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