Typhoon Fury (Oregon Files 12)

“Don’t kill us! Please!”

“We’re not going to kill you,” Linda called through the door. “We’re here to help.”

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” The woman inside translated for the man, who let out a cry of joy, then began speaking quickly in his native tongue.

“We saw some men killing other crew members, so we hid in here,” she translated. “Now we can’t get the door open, and water is seeping under it.”

MacD examined the door and said, “It opens out. There’s too much pressure on this side.”

“Then we need to equalize it,” Linda said. “I didn’t see any axes on the way down.”

“The door looks pretty flimsy. We’ll try it the old-fashioned way.” He reared back to give himself some room to kick. Though the water was above Linda’s waist, it wasn’t quite above his.

“Stand back from the door!” Linda shouted, and gave MacD space.

MacD lashed out with a hard kick, but the door held. He tried again, with the same result, but Linda thought she saw the door buckle a little at the jamb, so she said, “Keep going.”

He gave it three more kicks. On the third one, the door caved in. It happened so suddenly that it swept MacD and Linda inside with it.

Linda swirled around and finally came to rest against the far wall. She stood and wiped the oily water from her eyes. She saw the two crew members help each other to their feet while they spit out the nasty mixture.

“Are you all right?” Linda asked them.

They both nodded. Linda told them to join the rest of the passengers on the deck, where they could get more info about what was going on. The woman said, “Thank you,” again, and she took the crewman by the hand as they waded out of the room toward the relative safety of the upper decks.

Linda turned to see MacD kneeling, the water lapping at his chest and dripping from his head. He grimaced in pain.

She went over and helped him up. “What happened?”

“My ankle got twisted when the door gave way,” he said through gritted teeth. “Feels like it was cranked in a vise.”

“We need to get topside.”

Even though MacD towered over her, Linda put one of his arms on her shoulders so she could help him hobble to the stairs. When they got there, he hopped up to the next landing with her assistance, then stopped so Linda could radio the situation to Max.

“Linda, give me good news,” he said.

“Wish I had something nice to say,” Linda replied, “but MacD injured his ankle saving a couple of the crew. And there’s no way to get to the valves. They’re underwater, maybe a deck below us, so we’re on our way up to you. Can you do anything from the bridge?”

“Not a chance.”

“How bad does it look up there?”

“Really bad.”

• • •

MAX STOOD in a slaughterhouse.

The ferry’s bridge was littered with half a dozen corpses, all of them shot and left where they dropped. Footprints of Locsin’s killers were stamped into the blood that was already congealing on the linoleum. The distinctive coppery smell was nearly overpowering.

The crew wasn’t the only thing that had been laid to waste. All of the instrumentation was blown to bits. Radio, helm, engines, ballast control—all of it was completely destroyed. They had made sure that no one would be able to save this ferry, condemning twelve hundred people to their doom if the Oregon couldn’t save them.

To the south, Max could see the fleet of fishing boats chugging along as they headed west toward their home port. They’d soon be out of view, shielded by the peninsula jutting from Negros Island. Max knew that just as soon as the ferry was safe, Juan would chase the boats down and carry out his plan to board each and every one of them to find Locsin.

He stepped out onto the flying bridge to get some fresh air. Passengers milled about on deck below, but the information that Linc and Eddie were passing along to those who spoke English had seemed to quell the panic.

He looked at the Oregon, its stern frothing with white water as it dragged the ferry toward the safety of Negros Island. Eric was doing an admirable job keeping the trajectory steady in seas that were getting choppier by the minute.