Sandstorm

2:45 A.M.

OMAHA CLUNGto the launch’s gunwale, rising and falling with the waves. He hated waiting in the dark. He heard the others’ breathing. No one spoke. All remained lost in their own worries.

His grip tightened on the aluminum frame as the launch climbed another wave, taking them all up with it.

All but one. Safia.

Why had he listened to Painter? He should have tried to commandeer the Jet Ski. To hell with what anyone thought. Pressure built in his throat, tightening his breath. He clamped it down, unsure if he let it loose whether it would come out as a sob or a scream. In the dark, the past came rolling up out of the depths of the sea.

He had walked away from her.

After Tel Aviv, something had died in Safia, taking all love with it. She had retreated to London. He had tried to stay with her, but his career, his passion, lay elsewhere. Each time he returned, more and more of her was gone. She was wasting away inside. He found himself dreading the return to London from the lost corners of the world. He felt trapped. Soon his visits grew fewer and fewer. She didn’t notice or complain. That hurt the most.

When did it end, when did love become dust and sand?

He couldn’t say. It was well before he finally admitted defeat and asked for his grandmother’s ring back. It had been over a long, cold dinner. Neither had spoken. Both knew. Their silence said more than his faltering attempt to explain.

Ultimately she had only nodded and removed the ring. It came off easily. She placed it in his palm, then looked into his eyes. There was no sorrow, only relief.

That’s when he walked away.

The others stirred as Painter splashed up to them. He rose among them with a sigh of breath. “I think we’re clear. There’s been no sign of the Jet Skis for the past ten minutes.”

Relief murmured among the others.

“We should strike for shore. We’re too exposed out here.”

In the dark, Omaha noted the man’s slight Brooklyn accent. He hadn’t noticed it before. It grated with each word now. Painter’s instructions sounded too much like commands. Military background. Officer training.

“There are two oars secured in oarlocks on either side of the boat. We’ll need them to overturn the launch.” He sidled among them and showed them how to free the oars.

Omaha found one oar shoved into his hand.

“We’ll need to split into two groups. One group to heave weight down on the port side, the others to use the oars to prop up the starboard. We should be able to flip it. But first I’m going to detach the outboard. It was strafed, shot, and now’s leaking oil.”

After a final few coordinations, everyone ducked down and out.

Rain spattered out of the dark skies. The winds had died to faltering gusts. After the time he’d spent hiding under the launch, the night seemed brighter to Omaha. Lightning flickered among the clouds, illuminating patches of ocean. A few fires still floated atop the water. There was no sign of the Shabab Oman.

Omaha spun around a bit, searching. Painter swam to the stern of the launch and fought to free the engine. Omaha considered going to help, but instead simply watched the man’s struggle with the locking pin.

After a few tugs, Painter finally freed the engine. It dropped into the sea. His eyes found Omaha. “Let’s get this baby flipped.”

It wasn’t as easy as Painter had described. It took four attempts until they put everyone on one side, leaning their weight down. Painter and Omaha, each armed with an oar, levered the starboard side up. They also timed the maneuver with the roll of a wave. But finally the launch flipped back upright, half filled with water.

They climbed aboard and bailed the craft. Omaha fit the oars into place.

“It’s still filling with water,” Kara said as the water level inside the launch began to rise again under all their weight.

“Bullet holes,” Danny said, feeling through the water.

“Keep bailing,” Painter said, again with that bite of command. “We’ll alternate between rowing and bailing. It’s a long haul to shore.”

“Be warned,” Captain al-Haffi said, bare-chested but unabashed. “The currents here are treacherous. We must watch for reefs and rocks.”

Painter nodded and waved Coral toward the prow.

Omaha stared at the few burning bits of flotsam, then back the other way. The coast was barely discernible, a slightly darker bank of cloud. Flashes of lightning revealed how far they had drifted.

Painter also stared around the boat. But it wasn’t sharks or coastline that concerned. The worry was plain in the set of his lips. Somewhere out there lurked the murderous men who had kidnapped Safia. But did he fear for her safety or his own skin?

Painter’s earlier words repeated in Omaha’s head.

I care for her…for Safia.

Omaha felt a burst of anger warm the chill from his wet clothes. Was he lying? Omaha clenched both fists on the two oars and set his back. He began to row. Painter, at the stern, glanced over to him. Cold eyes, the glass of the night-vision goggles, studied him. What did they know about the man? He had much to account for, much to explain.

The muscles of Omaha’s jaw ached from clenching too long.

I care for her.

As he rowed, Omaha wasn’t sure what made him more angry.

If the man was lying…or telling the truth.