The Ocean Dark

81

Angie poured herself a mug of coffee and forced her shaking hands to be still. She wondered if Agent Plausky could see in her eyes or hear in her voice just how freaked out she was to be on board the Hillstrom, knowing one of them was out on the deck. It took an effort to keep her breathing even. At first, she hadn’t even been able to do that. What were they thinking, trying to keep one of the monsters alive? They’d even brought it onto the ship, where there were people.

Her hand shook again and a bit of coffee spilled over the edge of the mug. She set the pot down and took a steadying breath. A chill spider-walked up her spine but she refused to let Plausky see it. Images crowded her mind of the night before, the things crawling up the hull, slithering over the railing … Sense memories exploded in her mind — the smell of cordite from gunshots, the sound of screams, the sickening noise of the sirens’ teeth tearing at Dwyer’s body …

Angie hated them even more than she feared them. To bring one on board, to keep it alive … what would they do, study it? Breed more? Use it as a weapon?

Hatred and fear were crowded out of her mind by panic. Her thoughts were out of control and she knew it, but she could not rein them in. Her mind would not settle down. Her pulse would not stop racing. She turned to Plausky and smiled, wondering if the grin looked crazy to him, if her eyes were too wide, if he could see that she was breaking into tiny, sharp pieces inside.

“You want another cup?” she asked.

Plausky sat at a small table, like in some tiny apartment kitchen. But this was no kitchen or galley. He had brought her to a small common room — maybe a kind of rec room — on the Navy ship, with chairs and a TV screen and a DVD player, and several game tables scattered around. A bookshelf against one wall was stacked with all kinds of board games and there were racks of DVDs.

The FBI agent looked up, coffee mug in his hand. He raised it in a little salute, like some 1950s husband in a TV ad. “Sure. A top-up would be great, thanks.”

Her chest felt tight, her heart racing so fast that she would have done anything to make it slow down. Far away, muffled by walls and corridors, she could make out the sound of helicopters — maybe the fool that had brought that rusty container over from the Antoinette was making another run.

Angie tried to smile but only one corner of her mouth lifted, forming a weird, lopsided grimace. Plausky didn’t seem to notice. Why would he? He was just a guy doing his job, waiting until he could hand her over into somebody else’s custody so that she wouldn’t be his problem anymore. Getting assigned to watch out for her was just luck of the draw.

Which made Plausky one unlucky son of a bitch.

She threw her coffee in his face. He shouted and raised his hands to try to keep the hot liquid from scalding him, and she took the opportunity to smash him in the temple with the metal coffeepot, hard enough that she heard something crack. The sound scared her — God, she didn’t want to hurt him that badly — but even as he fell out of his chair, moaning in pain, she saw that his arms were still moving. His eyes were rolling back, but she saw no blood. He’d live. She hadn’t killed him.

Before she slipped from the room into the corridor, Angie took his gun. She liked the weight in her hand. It gave her focus.