looking every partygoer up and down, checking names against a list. They didn’t leer at the young women in their bikinis, didn’t try to outmacho the muscle-bound guys in their Speedos. The soldiers had a job to do, and they were being consummate professionals. Not what Chapel had expected at all.
He came up to a broad archway that led to the main deck. He would walk out there, he thought, walk out calling his own name and apologizing profusely. He would claim that he’d been stuck in the head and couldn’t get up top until just now. Maybe, just maybe, the Cubans would buy it.
He took a step toward the deck, but his foot never came down.
Instead a bright blossom of pure red agony burst inside his knee, and his leg bent under him until he was standing like a flamingo. A flamingo that very much wanted to die.
“Christ,” Chapel said, biting off the word so he didn’t shout it. The pain was incredible. He’d been shot before, several times in fact, but even that didn’t hurt like this. Nothing ever had.
At least, not until his good shoulder started up, too. It felt like his arm was being cut off, like he was going to lose that one too. Like there was a knife inside his arm, ripping away at his muscles, grating against his bones. He reached over with the artificial arm to grab the flesh there, to squeeze it even though he knew that wouldn’t help at all.
Standing on one foot, suddenly off balance, he couldn’t stay upright anymore. He crashed to the floor, his head thudding on the polished wood of the deck. He could only hope the Cubans hadn’t heard him fall.
Out by the pool they were nearly done with their inspection. One of the Cubans, a young guy wearing round glasses, looked down at a piece of paper in his hand. He smacked it with the back of his fingers, and it made a noise like a snare drum.
Chapel brought his head up so he could watch. He didn’t need to—he knew what was going to happen next. The young guy was clearly the commanding officer of the Cuban patrol. He strode up to Donny and got way too close to his face.
“¿ Dónde está Chapel, James?” the Cuban demanded.
OFF CAY SAL BANK: JUNE 11, 01:21
Chapel curled up into a ball on the carpeted floor of the stairway landing. He couldn’t get up, could barely breathe. The pain had spread to every joint in his body, and it was only getting worse. He could hear people moving out on the deck, but his eyes were clamped tightly shut and he knew he wouldn’t be able to get away, wouldn’t be able to move from the spot where he lay. At any moment the Cubans would start searching the yacht and they would find him—there was no chance of his even rolling into the shadows, must less finding a place to hide.
Once they found him the questions would begin. They would want to know what was wrong with him. It wouldn’t take long for them to figure out that he was suffering from decompression sickness, and then they would want to know why he was diving in Cuban waters. They would find the little black book and he would be arrested, dragged back to Cuba, and thrown into a bottomless pit of a jail and never heard from again.
And there was nothing he could do to stop them. He couldn’t fight like this, and he couldn’t run. He tried desperately to move, to use his artificial arm—which at least didn’t hurt—to drag himself farther down the corridor, back to the top of the stairs. If he could push himself down those steps, and if he didn’t break his neck, maybe, just maybe—
Soft hands touched his head and shoulders. Fingers slipped under his chin and took his pulse. “You smell of brine,” a woman said. “We have to fix that somehow. Can you walk?”
He tried to open his eyes. Found he could just barely crack one eyelid. He saw dark hair and nothing else—he couldn’t turn his head to get a better look.
“I take it that means no,” the woman said.
The voice—he remembered it, the accent he couldn’t place. The woman in the sundress,
He came up to a broad archway that led to the main deck. He would walk out there, he thought, walk out calling his own name and apologizing profusely. He would claim that he’d been stuck in the head and couldn’t get up top until just now. Maybe, just maybe, the Cubans would buy it.
He took a step toward the deck, but his foot never came down.
Instead a bright blossom of pure red agony burst inside his knee, and his leg bent under him until he was standing like a flamingo. A flamingo that very much wanted to die.
“Christ,” Chapel said, biting off the word so he didn’t shout it. The pain was incredible. He’d been shot before, several times in fact, but even that didn’t hurt like this. Nothing ever had.
At least, not until his good shoulder started up, too. It felt like his arm was being cut off, like he was going to lose that one too. Like there was a knife inside his arm, ripping away at his muscles, grating against his bones. He reached over with the artificial arm to grab the flesh there, to squeeze it even though he knew that wouldn’t help at all.
Standing on one foot, suddenly off balance, he couldn’t stay upright anymore. He crashed to the floor, his head thudding on the polished wood of the deck. He could only hope the Cubans hadn’t heard him fall.
Out by the pool they were nearly done with their inspection. One of the Cubans, a young guy wearing round glasses, looked down at a piece of paper in his hand. He smacked it with the back of his fingers, and it made a noise like a snare drum.
Chapel brought his head up so he could watch. He didn’t need to—he knew what was going to happen next. The young guy was clearly the commanding officer of the Cuban patrol. He strode up to Donny and got way too close to his face.
“¿ Dónde está Chapel, James?” the Cuban demanded.
OFF CAY SAL BANK: JUNE 11, 01:21
Chapel curled up into a ball on the carpeted floor of the stairway landing. He couldn’t get up, could barely breathe. The pain had spread to every joint in his body, and it was only getting worse. He could hear people moving out on the deck, but his eyes were clamped tightly shut and he knew he wouldn’t be able to get away, wouldn’t be able to move from the spot where he lay. At any moment the Cubans would start searching the yacht and they would find him—there was no chance of his even rolling into the shadows, must less finding a place to hide.
Once they found him the questions would begin. They would want to know what was wrong with him. It wouldn’t take long for them to figure out that he was suffering from decompression sickness, and then they would want to know why he was diving in Cuban waters. They would find the little black book and he would be arrested, dragged back to Cuba, and thrown into a bottomless pit of a jail and never heard from again.
And there was nothing he could do to stop them. He couldn’t fight like this, and he couldn’t run. He tried desperately to move, to use his artificial arm—which at least didn’t hurt—to drag himself farther down the corridor, back to the top of the stairs. If he could push himself down those steps, and if he didn’t break his neck, maybe, just maybe—
Soft hands touched his head and shoulders. Fingers slipped under his chin and took his pulse. “You smell of brine,” a woman said. “We have to fix that somehow. Can you walk?”
He tried to open his eyes. Found he could just barely crack one eyelid. He saw dark hair and nothing else—he couldn’t turn his head to get a better look.
“I take it that means no,” the woman said.
The voice—he remembered it, the accent he couldn’t place. The woman in the sundress,
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