Without A Trace. Sandra Moore K.

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СКАЧАТЬ hard hat and carrying a clipboard emerged from the bridge tower, shouted something to the workers, then headed down the boarding plank for the dock.

      Getting aboard that vessel wouldn’t be anywhere as easy as getting into the terminal.

      It would have helped if she’d been able to find Johnny Zhao, but he either wasn’t around or he was a ghost. She just hoped he wasn’t the kind of ghost who started out alive but was now dead. Or the kind of ghost who turned on his employer, killed her and then faded away.

      Anger mingled with fear trickled through her muscles. If he’d killed Regina Woo—and if she could find him—she’d have his hide.

      Nikki waited until she counted eight men leaving the vessel. If whatever was on board was important, it’d likely have security teams crawling all over it. She saw only one man still on deck, a pistol holstered at his belt, so perhaps the ship was running a skeleton crew.

      The terminal’s security guard made another pass through the stacked containers. Nikki checked her watch. His schedule gave her about ten minutes to get up and out of sight.

      She shimmied through shadows until she crouched next to the bow mooring cleat. The huge dock line arced gracefully up to the vessel’s scupper; the nearest big floodlight pointed away from the bow. Perhaps her unorthodox entrance would go unnoticed. Either that or everyone would see her grappling for purchase on the way up. Not pretty.

      Nikki hopped onto the cleat and tested her footing on the dock line. Her soft shoe soles gripped the rough, twisted line, and its texture gave her plenty of purchase. The good news was that it wasn’t anywhere as difficult as dragging herself up a Coast Guard cutter’s wave-washed deck in high seas. In moments she had inched her way up to the scupper and hoisted herself over the rail and onto the deck.

      Another minute of sticking close to shadows and moving silently had her sequestered near the containers still stacked aboard the ship. Above her, a crane’s giant hook hung in the air, abandoned, as if the five o’clock whistle had just blown. On the ship, the containers sat bunched together and tied down by massive cables, with little space for a smallish woman to slide between them. Still, she managed to squeeze in.

      Hard-soled boots clanged on the steel deck, driving her deeper into the shadows. While she waited for the deckhand to pass by, she scanned the containers that hid her. Nothing out of the ordinary. She needed to get inside, where passengers—including Alexander Wryzynski—would be awaiting the captain’s permission to disembark.

      Out of the corner of her eye, she noted a blip of black between the metal containers—someone had passed the gap where she hid. The better place to evaluate the situation would be up top, she realized, and pressing her feet and hands on opposite containers, she crept up between them, using leverage to keep herself suspended. Another blip of movement. Nikki froze. When the person disappeared, she crab-walked the rest of the way to the top.

      Far enough from the ship’s deck lights to be in shadow even up here in the open, she could safely assess the situation.

      The ship’s five-story bridge gleamed like a Hong Kong skyscraper. She counted six men walking purposefully past windows that were probably crew quarters. Another two, judging from their footsteps far below, paced the deck. Might as well assume another two, maybe three, in the engine room.

      Were they all crew, or a security team, or what?

      And where the hell was Johnny Zhao? According to her last phone call with Regina, he was supposed to meet them here.

      Ten crewmen. One potential but notably absent ally. One unarmed woman.

      That sounded about right.

      Nikki stifled a snort and pulled her PDA from her gear bag. It fired up instantly.

      “Wireless signal, come to mama,” she mouthed as she launched the signal probe.

      The PDA registered two wireless signals: one from the terminal that looked like a wide area network, and one whose network name was complete gibberish. Not even random numbers and letters, but blocks, as if it used an alphabet unavailable to her PDA.

      Is that you, Diviner? she wondered.

      Her PDA faithfully monitored the signal without attempting to access the machine producing it. Dana had told her that Oracle believed the signal to be a sophisticated satellite hookup rather than part of a standard network. The gibberish seemed to confirm that.

      The mystery signal was pretty strong, seventy-four percent. Nikki scuttled aft, toward the bridge, then paused. The signal strengthened a fraction to seventy-six.

      Nikki stowed the PDA back in her gear bag. There was little chance she’d manage to get onto the bridge or into the hold unnoticed. Maybe she should try to arm herself first.

      She slipped back between the containers and shimmied down to the deck. Moments of darting between big metal boxes, pausing to check for guards and sprinting across the occasional open area put her beneath the overhang of the bridge’s house and once more out of the light. She was ready to go inside, and the starboard door sat invitingly open about six feet away.

      Shouts drove her to drop to her knees. A split second later, a bullet pinged off one of the containers. She lunged for the bridge door and spun around it—

      And stopped short.

      The guard’s eyes widened. Without thinking, Nikki swept her right arm down to block the gun hand he was raising, then snapped a front kick to his kneecap. It crunched. He went down. She snatched the firearm from his loosened grip, then threw all of her one hundred and twenty-five pounds behind a left cross to his cheek.

      This guy weighs more than he looks, she thought as she dragged his unconscious body behind a mess of old tarps. She checked the weapon. A semiautomatic of undetermined make, though she suspected it might be a bootleg QSZ-92 liberated from the People’s Liberation Army. Eleven rounds out of fifteen.

      The room was a storeroom from the looks of the gear thrown every which way. A single door led deeper into the bridge. She listened hard, but when she heard nothing on the other side, she opened it.

      The scent hit her hard, the wet-penny smell of anger, the burnt coffee of terror. Concentrated, it nearly exploded in her nostrils, cloying and acidic.

      What had happened here?

      Nikki suppressed a cough and breathed through her mouth. The scent was concentrated from the small, dimly lit space, but several days old. Had it been fresh it would have put her on her ass for sure.

      She’d ponder this one later, when she had time. Heart pounding from adrenaline rush, she slammed the door shut.

      Outside, a man’s panicked cry was cut short.

      Nikki thumbed the safety off the 9 mm and slipped back outside. It was a regular pattern: men would yell, go quiet, then guns armed with silencers would spit. Almost like they were hunting someone.

      Or someone was hunting them.

      The coffee smell was starting to be so strong, she thought a pot was brewing under her nose. No time to be scared, she reminded herself.

      Nikki ran back to the stern and nearly tripped over a wounded crewman lying half-in, half-out of a pool of deck light. He screamed, shielding his head with his hands. Nikki quickly frisked him but СКАЧАТЬ