Ghost Ship

It would be a lot of collateral deaths.

Not that he was squeamish about that — after all, he was first and foremost, a paid hitman… maybe with a better ID badge, and the pretense of a perfectly respectable job with Interpol, but none of that removed the simple fact that he was paid money in exchange for murdering people he knew nothing about.

The issue here, was that amount of collateral damage meant that there were bound to be consequences.

And for a man in his trade, that was unforgivable.

He frowned.

Still, he was out of options.

Andre climbed the stairs, through the hatch, and onto the deck.

He spotted a crew of detectives heading his way on an inflatable Zodiac at full speed. He waved his arms to them.

“Quick!” he shouted. “I need help!”

The person at the Zodiac’s controls steered straight for him.

Andre glanced at the clear water beneath the stern. He could see the sandy seabed thirty feet below as though he could touch it. There was a small ripple of movement. Nothing much, but whatever it was, it caught his eye.

He leaned over the gnarled web of rusty metal to get a better look.

And an instant later, the rusty deck began to vibrate. The deep gurgling sound of a high-powered engine came to life. The ripple of water behind the stern turned into a powerful twin waterjet.

Andre tried to grip something for balance, but the entire topside of the decrepit ghost ship was liquid rust, making it slippery.

As the ghost ship lurched forward, he slipped onto his back with a loud and painful thump.

The ship’s bow lifted up, and he rolled off the back of the stern, landing in the warm water below. He kicked hard to reach the surface. It was always harder to swim in boots. His head surfaced and he took a deep breath.

He squinted, but already, the fast-moving ghost ship was on the aquaplane, skimming the water at speeds in excess of seventy knots, and disappearing far beyond the breakwater, into the Tyrrhenian Sea.

Chapter Sixteen

Fifty-Six Hours

Sam Reilly woke up feeling content.

He opened his eyes. Catarina was there next to him. She wore a singlet without a bra, revealing her soft, voluptuous body, and the slight hint of her nipples. Her exotic face was set with a mischievous grin, and her beguiling gray eyes teased him, as she ran her fingers through his hair.

“Good morning,” he said, pleased to know he could still remember her. That meant his memory wasn’t completely damaged. It wasn’t like dementia which permanently altered the brain’s ability to catalogue memories.

“Good afternoon,” she replied.

“How long did I sleep?”

“About three hours.”

“That’s all?”

“Afraid so. We have things to do. How do you feel?”

“Good. I think.”

“What about your memory?”

“I remember meeting you this morning.”

She grinned. “I’m hard to forget.”

He nodded, pleasure and desire plastered on his face. “Yes, you most certainly are. I still can’t believe I can’t remember you from before.”

She smiled, her eyes fixed on him, with a curious and puzzling look, as her eyes traced his naked chest, her fingers running over his muscular physique, and array of scars.

Sam asked, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Seriously? What is it? Have I changed that much since…?”

“It has been at least fifteen years.”

“And?”

“You look exactly the same…”

“Except?”

“There’s a few more battle wounds. Jesus, it looks like you’ve been shot here on your shoulder, once or twice in your chest, and once in your abdomen.” Her hand moved delicately across his lower torso. “And what is this? A stab wound?”

Sam shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. My body is as new to me as it is to you.”

“You look like you haven’t treated it very well since I last saw you naked,” she chided, her voice set like a doctor disciplining a patient for smoking.

“Hey, it’s not like I can remember my mistakes!”

She stood up slowly out of the bed. She had a pair of black Italian knickers that covered her dark tanned skin. She was neither fat nor skinny. Her figure was perfectly proportioned.

Even after only three hours sleep, she was sexy.

Catarina caught him looking at her. She smiled. “And me… have I changed?”

He held her gaze. “I have no idea. Were you entirely perfect last time we met?”

“Yes.”

He laughed. “Then, I’d say you haven’t changed a bit.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear that.” Her lips parted in a lascivious smile. “Last night was nice by the way. It was exactly as I remember it.”

“I wish I could remember it. But all the same, I’m happy to make new memories.”

She held his gaze. “I’d like that to be true.”

“It is,” he said, his voice firm. “I just wish I could remember why I was angry with you all those years ago.”

She played with his thick brown hair, met his eyes, and kissed him. “Does it matter?”

Sam shrugged. “It might. Right now, I can’t imagine what you could have possibly done to make me so angry that I was willing to leave you.” He studied her response, hoping to see something in it. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me what it was, before I get in too deep?”