Sail by James Patterson Page B

opened the case and found it stuffed with bag after bag of snow-white powder, the third
click
scared the living shit out of her.
    That
click
was Sanz cocking his gun.
    Ellen quickly straightened up.
    “What the fuck are you doing?” Sanz demanded, standing in the doorway. His gun was aimed squarely at Ellen’s head.
    “I need more towels,” she said.
    “You
what?
”
    The answer made no sense to Sanz, but to the DEA guys stationed in the hallway, the message was loud and clear. Ellen was wired, and she needed help.
    Mayday! Mayday!
    Within seconds the front door to the room burst open and a horde of agents stormed in. As Sanz turned to fire at them, Ellen reached between the towels she’d placed on the bed. She grabbed her .-40-caliber Glock and pumped two rounds into Sanz. He collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud.
    Ellen stared for a moment, frozen, as the drug dealer’s robe soaked up his bright red blood. She was known for her droll sense of humor, but there were no quips to be made as her fellow agents spilled into the bedroom. No one-liners right now. This wasn’t the movies or some bullshit TV cop show.
    This was Ellen’s real-life job, and it had almost got her shot today. Not just that, she had killed another human being.
    Lowering her gun, she took a deep breath.
    And let it all out.
    Chapter 26
    BEFORE I LEFT on my so-called sailing sabbatical, there must have been at least ten people at the hospital who told me I should keep a diary while I was out at sea. Do my own
Two Years Before the Mast
kind of thing, give Sebastian Junger a run for his money. A fellow surgeon, two nurses, one of the night janitors, even a candy striper flashing braces on her teeth—they all thought it would be a great idea for me to record my thoughts about our trip on paper.
    To think I almost took their advice and started my own little record of our journey. Good thing I didn’t. I surely would’ve thrown the damn diary away by now. That, or burned it. After all, how many entries in a row can begin with
I want to kill my kids!
    We’ve been out to sea for six days now, our first port in the Bahamas is only a couple of days away, and it’s been nothing but SOS for the Dunne family.
    Same. Old. Shit.
    Carrie hasn’t tried to kill herself again, but she’s a long way from becoming Miss Sunshine. I suppose we’re not helping the situation, as we’re constantly watching over her. It’s no surprise she’s getting paranoid. Worse, she’s starting not to eat again, though she swears she’s okay.
    Mark, meanwhile, is his own brand of miserable. Clearly he misses his pot and is coming down from some kind of dependence. He hasn’t said anything—not that he ever would—but I can tell. Getting high was his only escape from this boat—and life itself—and now he just has this bug-eyed expression on his face day and night, as if he’s trapped. When he bothers to talk, it’s usually to lash out at either Carrie or me. I am well aware of the possible withdrawal symptoms—aggression, anxiety, stomach pain, decreased appetite. I’m watching Mark closely.
    As for Ernie, he seems caught in the middle of everything, poor kid. One minute he’s trying to play peacemaker, the next he’s whining like the little guy he is. Unfortunately, every minute he seems to be eating. He knows it, too. “I’m suffering from stress-related obesity,” he claims, his chubby index finger pointed up as if he’s some Ivy League professor. Sadly, he’s probably right. Maybe he’ll become a doctor when he grows up.
    Which leaves Jake.
    The poor man, he’s trying his best. He’s given all the kids chores to do, in an effort to instill some sense of responsibility in them—or at least some peace and quiet on the boat. I can only imagine how much he regrets saying yes to being our captain. If it’s not Carrie jumping ship again, I’m afraid it might be him.
    It’s enough to make me reach for the satellite phone. The thing is, I told Peter I