The Ocean Dark

71

The gas mask fit too snugly over Voss’s head, but she supposed snug was preferable to loose. The apparatus seemed heavier to her than the masks she had worn before during FBI operations, but maybe it was just a different manufacturer. The comm unit inside the mask had zero static, which made it almost spooky when anyone on her channel spoke, like the person had just snuck up behind her.

“Before we go in,” David Boudreau said, “I want to make sure we’re all on the same page.”

She turned to look at him, the sun’s glare forcing her to squint. It felt vaguely foolish to be parading around in these masks in broad daylight, under a perfect blue sky. But everything about this case had turned surreal. Half-sunken ships were burning in the shallow water off the island’s shores. Flesh-eating monsters — mermen or something equally whacked — were darting away from the flames, quick pale flashes under the water. They were also hiding in the quiet darkness of the Antoinette’s belly, waiting for nightfall.

Somehow, though, the conversation she’d had with Josh half an hour ago — just before the chopper had dropped her, Turcotte, and O’Connell onto the deck of the Antoinette, where Boudreau and a combined Navy and Coast Guard strike team awaited — seemed the most surreal of all. This man she thought she knew, her partner and best friend, maybe the only real friend in her life, had not only had sex with a suspect, but admitted to having feelings for her. What world had she woken up in this morning?

“What page is that?” Turcotte asked as he slid his own gas mask on, adjusting the straps behind his head.

“We search the ship. Our primary objective is bringing a siren back for Alena and Dr. Ernst to study, alive if possible. Only when we’ve done that do we move on to secondary objectives.”

Voss allowed herself a quiet chuckle, but apparently not quiet enough.

“What is it, Agent Voss?” David Boudreau asked. “Most people don’t think I’m all that funny.”

“I doubt that,” Voss replied. “I’d bet you can be very charming when you want to.”

She could see the comment threw him a little. That was good. She wanted to make sure he realized that his was not the only agenda at work here, no matter what orders he wanted to give. Not that the words had been a lie. The young professor, or whatever his title might be, was easy on the eyes. Good looks were part of it, but David also had what Voss and her college friends had always referred to as “Grrrr” back in the day — a certain confidence and sexual charisma.

“Are you flirting?” O’Connell asked. “Was that you flirting? Fucking pitiful.”

Voss glared at him, knowing that through the mask, the death glare would not be nearly as effective.

“I’m not flirting, Special Agent O’Connell,” she said, every word an icicle. “I made an observation because Dr. Boudreau Junior here is trying to be intimidating and I wish he’d get on with it so we can get this done before the damn gas wears off.”

Through her comm, she heard David sigh. “Whatever. Look, I don’t want to be an asshole, but the truth is you’re over here as a courtesy. If you don’t want to help, just stay out of the way until we’re finished and then you can do your own search.”

“And get eaten,” O’Connell muttered.

Turcotte turned toward him, but if he gave his partner a dirty look, his gas mask shielded it from view.

“We know the priorities, Doctor,” Turcotte said. “Let’s move.”

Voss had so many things she wanted to add. Did David Boudreau understand how much work they had put into the Viscaya investigation? Did he realize that the Antoinette could have helped them close the case and put dozens of people behind bars who were involved in drug and gun smuggling in the U.S.? Did he know they would now have to make their case without Gabe Rio and the Antoinette?

Probably he does, Voss thought. But why should he care?

And that was the crux of it. Eight FBI agents had boarded the freighter this morning, had gone below, and had not come out again. Voss figured some of them had walked over the same patch of deck where she now stood, and now they were dead, somewhere inside the ship.

He wanted to bring one of these sirens back alive, but all Voss and Turcotte and O’Connell wanted was to kill every last one of them.

“After you,” she said, smiling at David through her gas mask.

The gas canisters had been fired into every open doorway and window and down stairwells. The strike team had done an admirable job, first scaling the accommodations block and clearing every room. David expressed little surprise that they had not encountered any of the sirens on those upper levels. The creatures would seek the darkest places, and perhaps also those below sea level, or so the young scientist believed.

Now, with wisps of gas snaking out from the open door ahead of them, Voss watched David hesitate. She did not blame him. Nor did she blame him when he raised the assault rifle he wore on a strap over his shoulder.

“Want me to go first, Doctor?” Turcotte asked, making the last word into an insult.

To his credit, David ignored the question. A pair of Coast Guard seamen, both armed with assault rifles, stood just inside the door, there to make certain a retreat — if necessary — could not be blocked off. They nodded to David as he stepped through into the interior.

O’Connell drew his sidearm. Voss and Turcotte followed suit.

“This level has already been cleared,” David said, as he led them into a low, drifting mist that represented what remained of the gas. It wouldn’t be long before the Caribbean breeze swept it all away, but hopefully it had done its job. If not … Voss hesitated to think about it.

“Lieutenant Cryan, this is David Boudreau. Are you monitoring this channel?”

Voss heard a click on the comm and then a low hiss that hadn’t been there before, followed by the lieutenant’s voice. “I read you, Dr. Boudreau.”

“Special Agent Turcotte and two of his people have arrived. We’ve entered the accommodations block on the deck level, port side. Where can we be most useful?”

“I’m right underneath you, Doctor—”

Over the comm, Voss heard a soft double thump followed by a hiss and realized they were still firing gas canisters into rooms down there. She faltered a little. Fresh canisters meant they were finding enclosed spaces where the sirens might be hiding. The things might well be conscious and waiting in the dark below.

“—if you want to take the aft stairs, I’ll have someone waiting, and we’ll put you all to work.”

The lieutenant was as good as his word. When they reached the next level down, where pipes hissed and gas had gathered at the ceiling like a yellow-tinged cloud, a sailor awaited them. He gestured for them to follow and they did so, but Voss glanced warily through every doorway they passed — mostly storage and some electrical systems — and she noticed Turcotte and O’Connell and David himself doing the same.

Her own breath sounded much too loud inside the mask and her pulse throbbed in her temples.

And then they were at the top of another set of metal stairs in an open area where Lieutenant Cryan and three other men waited. Perfunctory introductions were made, and then the lieutenant gestured toward the metal stairs.

“Dr. Boudreau—”

“David.”

Voss rolled her eyes in the gloom of the ship’s innards. First name basis during a government operation? Maybe she had been wrong about him having charisma when he wasn’t being in charge. Or he thinks of his grandmother as Dr. Boudreau and wants to leave the name to her, she thought, and hoped that was the answer.

“David,” the lieutenant confirmed, “we’re headed down to the engine rooms. I’ve got a team of four sailors on deck, searching for open containers and checking any that are unlocked. The Coast Guard detachment — twelve seamen — are searching the forward holds. You’re welcome to join either of those groups, or head down with us.”

“We’re with you, Lieutenant. The sirens’ natural habitats are dormant volcanic islands. They’re going to seek out heat, and the engine rooms are probably where they would find it.”

The Navy officer glanced at the nine-millimeter pistols the FBI agents carried.

“Then maybe you’d better take up the rear.”

Turcotte started to argue, but he was interrupted by the appearance of a gas-masked head popping up from the stairwell. Voss and the others weren’t on the same channel, but she heard the man’s muffled voice through his mask.

“Lieutenant, we’ve got a trail of blood down here.”

Cryan glanced at David, then at Voss and the other two FBI agents. “Switch your comms to channel three.”

Then the lieutenant started for the stairs, following the sailor down into the gloom. So far, everywhere they had walked, the interior lights still worked. But as Voss looked deep into the deck below them, she realized that most of the lights down there were out — and if the electricity still worked, that meant they had been broken in order to make it darker down there.

“Any bodies, Mr. Stone?” Lieutenant Cryan asked.

Voss followed Turcotte down, with O’Connell behind her. She saw the Counter-Terrorism agent stiffen at the mention of bodies.

“A little respect,” Turcotte said. “These people were my squad.”

“No disrespect intended,” the lieutenant replied. “You didn’t answer my question, Mr. Stone.”

At the bottom of the stairs, they gathered in a pool of wan light that came down from above, surrounded by shadows. Voices and footfalls echoed from farther forward, the rest of the lieutenant’s team.

“No bodies, sir,” Stone said.

“But you found something?”

“Yes, sir. Bones, sir.”