Grave Phantoms
Page 75
Max coughed again, this time into a dirty handkerchief that was splattered with dried blood. “If it were that easy, I would have taken it back when the bastard here shot me, wouldn’t I?”
He hobbled a step, and now Astrid could see that he was still having trouble with his leg. She hoped the bullet festered.
“My doubloon,” Max demanded, waving forward one of the men, who stuck the pistol against Bo’s head. Bo hesitated for a moment and started to reach inside his jacket, but one of Max’s goons stopped him and began searching for the gold himself.
Astrid’s heart raced. Two guns, but one of the men was busy patting Bo down. Could she do something to give Bo time enough to get to his own gun before they took it away? Her mind flipped through possibilities—anything at all. A distraction. A scream. A kick in the balls. But before she could decide, a chill slid down her neck.
Someone was behind her.
She spun around to find Mad Hammett smiling darkly beneath his heavy mustache. He was holding something over her head. As her eyes rotated upward, his hands came down like the blade of a guillotine, fast and unavoidable, sheathing her body. Dark. Rough cloth. Loose weave. Strong, earthy scent . . .
Visions of the sacrificial victims in burlap sacks floated inside her head as she screamed and flailed. Arms like steel bands wrapped around hers. She kicked. Struggled. Heard chaotic shouts around her right before an explosion went off, so loud it made her ears ring. The scent of gunpowder drifted through the rough cloth that smothered her.
“ASTRID!”
She tried to answer, tried to shout back, but a pain shot through her legs—so sudden and forceful, her knees buckled.
And then everything turned upside down.
TWENTY-SIX
Bo smelled the ocean before they pushed him out of the car. They’d blindfolded him, and whoever had brained him with the pistol had knocked him hard enough to make the world go sideways. Blood had begun to crust over his ear, and he winced as they jostled him onto his feet and shoved him forward.
He did his best to fight the throbbing headache that threatened to obliterate rational thought and concentrated on his surroundings. Traffic in the distance, and a lot of it, but the sound was muffled by . . . buildings, perhaps? And boats. He heard rigging and groaning hulls and mooring ropes. They were at a pier, but it wasn’t his pier. He could tell by the feel of the boards upon which they were now shuffling. Too much bounce.
“Where’s Astrid?” he said, his voice sounding weak and not quite right. His lip was split. It hurt like hell to talk.
The two thugs who were shoving him along, hands gripping his arms, guns pointed into his back, didn’t answer. But when he asked again, louder, one of them punched him on the back of his head, and somewhere under the fresh jolt of pain, he heard Max’s coughing.
“You do what I say, you just might get to see her again,” the man said. “Can’t promise what condition she’ll be in, though.”
“You fucking piece of garbage—”
“Save your breath,” Max said. “I need you cognizant, and if the boys have to hit you again, I’m afraid they may cause permanent damage.”
Cold Pacific air howled in his ear and whipped though his clothes as Bo was hustled up a gangway and shoved onto the deck of a boat. He smelled a particular bright cedar scent and had a good idea they’d boarded the Plumed Serpent. While they crossed the deck, he wondered if Mr. Haig at the radio station had anything to do with him and Astrid getting captured, or if someone at the dance hall had recognized them. Maybe Max himself had been upstairs, looking down the peephole, when they’d visited the carousel booth. That thought made him feel a little sick . . . or perhaps that was only his head injury.
“Step up,” one of the thugs told him, but not soon enough.
He stumbled up several stairs, crossed a threshold, and was pushed into a cabin.
His arms were wrenched back painfully. Hands bound with rope. And then he was tied to what felt like a pipe on the wall and left in silence. Bo tried to pull himself loose, blindly feeling out his environment with his knees, feet, elbows, searching for anything. All he found were a couple of walls, a chair bolted to the floor a few feet in front of him, and the boat rocking beneath him. They hadn’t left port, and from the layout of the cabin—a small room, up a set of stairs—he was almost certain they’d stuck him in the boat’s pilothouse.
He ignored his instinct to call out for Astrid. Never show weakness around people who can hurt you. That’s what Winter had taught him. Bo didn’t want them torturing Astrid to get a rise out of him. And he couldn’t let his brain think about what they might do—what they could be doing to her right now!—or he’d go mad. He felt the raving panic battering his mind already. Sweat bloomed across his back and beaded his forehead. He wouldn’t be any good to her if he allowed himself to crack.
She would fight back, he told himself. That wasn’t much, but it was something. She was smart and savvy, and she didn’t fall apart under pressure. He heard her voice saying I am a Magnusson, chin high, foxlike eyes narrowed, and willed her to summon that defiance now.
The only thing that gave him peace was the dark confidence that he would kill every last one of these people the second he got free. Bo was not clean of spirit. He’d taken life before, twice, in self-defense. The most recent one was a bootlegging deal that went sour—the man had pulled a gun on him—but the first time when he was spying for Winter. When he was sixteen. That was a savage killing, and he’d been an animal when he’d done it. No matter that he’d known in his heart that he would’ve been dead himself if he hadn’t, the weight of it had taken months to purge from his head.
He hobbled a step, and now Astrid could see that he was still having trouble with his leg. She hoped the bullet festered.
“My doubloon,” Max demanded, waving forward one of the men, who stuck the pistol against Bo’s head. Bo hesitated for a moment and started to reach inside his jacket, but one of Max’s goons stopped him and began searching for the gold himself.
Astrid’s heart raced. Two guns, but one of the men was busy patting Bo down. Could she do something to give Bo time enough to get to his own gun before they took it away? Her mind flipped through possibilities—anything at all. A distraction. A scream. A kick in the balls. But before she could decide, a chill slid down her neck.
Someone was behind her.
She spun around to find Mad Hammett smiling darkly beneath his heavy mustache. He was holding something over her head. As her eyes rotated upward, his hands came down like the blade of a guillotine, fast and unavoidable, sheathing her body. Dark. Rough cloth. Loose weave. Strong, earthy scent . . .
Visions of the sacrificial victims in burlap sacks floated inside her head as she screamed and flailed. Arms like steel bands wrapped around hers. She kicked. Struggled. Heard chaotic shouts around her right before an explosion went off, so loud it made her ears ring. The scent of gunpowder drifted through the rough cloth that smothered her.
“ASTRID!”
She tried to answer, tried to shout back, but a pain shot through her legs—so sudden and forceful, her knees buckled.
And then everything turned upside down.
TWENTY-SIX
Bo smelled the ocean before they pushed him out of the car. They’d blindfolded him, and whoever had brained him with the pistol had knocked him hard enough to make the world go sideways. Blood had begun to crust over his ear, and he winced as they jostled him onto his feet and shoved him forward.
He did his best to fight the throbbing headache that threatened to obliterate rational thought and concentrated on his surroundings. Traffic in the distance, and a lot of it, but the sound was muffled by . . . buildings, perhaps? And boats. He heard rigging and groaning hulls and mooring ropes. They were at a pier, but it wasn’t his pier. He could tell by the feel of the boards upon which they were now shuffling. Too much bounce.
“Where’s Astrid?” he said, his voice sounding weak and not quite right. His lip was split. It hurt like hell to talk.
The two thugs who were shoving him along, hands gripping his arms, guns pointed into his back, didn’t answer. But when he asked again, louder, one of them punched him on the back of his head, and somewhere under the fresh jolt of pain, he heard Max’s coughing.
“You do what I say, you just might get to see her again,” the man said. “Can’t promise what condition she’ll be in, though.”
“You fucking piece of garbage—”
“Save your breath,” Max said. “I need you cognizant, and if the boys have to hit you again, I’m afraid they may cause permanent damage.”
Cold Pacific air howled in his ear and whipped though his clothes as Bo was hustled up a gangway and shoved onto the deck of a boat. He smelled a particular bright cedar scent and had a good idea they’d boarded the Plumed Serpent. While they crossed the deck, he wondered if Mr. Haig at the radio station had anything to do with him and Astrid getting captured, or if someone at the dance hall had recognized them. Maybe Max himself had been upstairs, looking down the peephole, when they’d visited the carousel booth. That thought made him feel a little sick . . . or perhaps that was only his head injury.
“Step up,” one of the thugs told him, but not soon enough.
He stumbled up several stairs, crossed a threshold, and was pushed into a cabin.
His arms were wrenched back painfully. Hands bound with rope. And then he was tied to what felt like a pipe on the wall and left in silence. Bo tried to pull himself loose, blindly feeling out his environment with his knees, feet, elbows, searching for anything. All he found were a couple of walls, a chair bolted to the floor a few feet in front of him, and the boat rocking beneath him. They hadn’t left port, and from the layout of the cabin—a small room, up a set of stairs—he was almost certain they’d stuck him in the boat’s pilothouse.
He ignored his instinct to call out for Astrid. Never show weakness around people who can hurt you. That’s what Winter had taught him. Bo didn’t want them torturing Astrid to get a rise out of him. And he couldn’t let his brain think about what they might do—what they could be doing to her right now!—or he’d go mad. He felt the raving panic battering his mind already. Sweat bloomed across his back and beaded his forehead. He wouldn’t be any good to her if he allowed himself to crack.
She would fight back, he told himself. That wasn’t much, but it was something. She was smart and savvy, and she didn’t fall apart under pressure. He heard her voice saying I am a Magnusson, chin high, foxlike eyes narrowed, and willed her to summon that defiance now.
The only thing that gave him peace was the dark confidence that he would kill every last one of these people the second he got free. Bo was not clean of spirit. He’d taken life before, twice, in self-defense. The most recent one was a bootlegging deal that went sour—the man had pulled a gun on him—but the first time when he was spying for Winter. When he was sixteen. That was a savage killing, and he’d been an animal when he’d done it. No matter that he’d known in his heart that he would’ve been dead himself if he hadn’t, the weight of it had taken months to purge from his head.
