"The hell you are," is the first thing Tyler says when I explain the situation in the hospital hallway.

Emily and Taylor both fell asleep a short while after making their demands, and I left them in the quiet but capable control of my ex-mother-in-law. For some reason, she seems to like me more now than she ever did when I was married to her daughter. But God help me if I try to understand why.

Nurses part around Tyler and me as we argue in the middle of the hallway. I try to move over so they can pass, but Tyler grips my arm to keep me from getting away.

His genial expression is replaced with a glower. "Don't give me that look," I say.

Tyler shakes his head. "I'll give you whatever look I damn well please when you're talking stupid, boy."

"This woman saved my family, Ty. My family. The least I can do is go down there and rip down some of the red tape."

He lets out an exasperated sigh. "Speaking as your friend and not in an official capacity at all, there is no way in hell the suits will let you tag along with their operation this time. This isn't a search and rescue. This is an active hostage situation. The big guys in Jacksonville have it handled."

"Then we'll just push a few buttons, feel the situation out. I'm sure they've got it handled. I owe it to my daughter."

"And when that doesn't work?"

"It will."

"If it doesn't," he says, "then I want your promise you won't do anything stupid. You may be a grunt but this isn't Afghanistan. You don't get to wage war here."

"Consider it a peaceful operation," I say.

"You're incapable of peaceful operations," he mutters under his breath.

As we head downstairs to a waiting Jacksonville police car, I clap a hand on his shoulder and say, "That's the nicest thing you've ever said."

The sidewalk outside the hospital is packed with reporters looking for a juicy story, but Ty and I keep our heads down until we're inside the cruiser. Lights flash outside the windows and cameras click against the glass as the masses press in for their scoop until we leave them looking defeated behind us.

It's a short ride to the marina where a small command center is stationed. Uniformed police guard the perimeter and cops in pressed suits hunch over schematics under bright lights.

Tyler flashes his identification and gets us under the tape. A badge sits in the corner with a radio attempting to rouse the hostage taker on the ferry with no success.

Tyler introduces himself to the man in charge, who says his name is Chief Stevens. "If you need anything at all on our end please don't hesitate."

"Thank you," Stevens responds. "We'll do that."

"This is Gabriel Rossi, former Marine Recon. He volunteers with Coast Guard Search and Rescue. His daughter was the one the woman saved."

Stevens nods and shakes my hand.

"I'd like to help out in any way I can, sir," I say.

"I appreciate it, son. But we've got it handled."

Tyler gives me an I told you so look, but I nod at them both so I don't betray my real intentions. Stevens doesn't look like he'd be slow on the uptake and I'd hate to have to kick his ass. "Ty, if you don't mind, I'll have them take me back to the hospital."

"We could use you here to coordinate," Stevens says to Tyler.

Ty gives me a pained look.

"Don't worry," I tell him. "Going straight there."

"Selena will have your hide if you do something stupid."

I nod but I say nothing else. I don't have any time to waste. The trip back to the hospital passes in a blur. I don't give the helicopter pilot any room to argue and instruct he takes me back to the island.

Night is falling below us, and the ferry is illuminated by its onboard lights, a beacon in the otherwise obsidian sea. On both coasts, emergency response vehicles and their operators perch like stalwart guardians, their lights rain down on the water like carnival lights and sprays of fireworks.

The helicopter touches down on the helipad where Tyler's car still waits where he left it. The whole island is quiet, like everyone is holding a collective breath until the tragedy has passed.

I use the keys I'd snagged from Tyler with a silent apology as I crank and steer the cruiser back to my house.

Based on snatches of conversation from their headquarters, a rescue effort will begin within an hour unless contact is made with the captor, which won't bode well for the hostages. If interrupted it's much more likely the night will end in bloodshed.

I park the cruiser behind a copse of squat palm trees and unlock my house. Rudy greets me with a loud yap. I let him out of his cage and he sprints out to piss, then follows me into my workshop where I store my gear.

There's no telling what kind of situation I'll be getting myself into, so I spare nothing. I change into a serviceable wetsuit and water shoes, then shoulder my gear.

The dock is quiet as I slip into the shadows of night, except for the distant buzz of activity. Water laps against the side of my boat and I drop my bag in the passenger seat. The engine turns over with a gentle purr.

An immediate calm settles over me as I navigate through the dark water. I keep my lights on low not wanting to attract attention.

There's a chill coming off the water since the sun has gone down. I have my suit to protect me but a civilian wouldn't. The cold may not be enough to kill them outright but it wouldn't help their chances of survival if they get tossed over.

When I get close enough to see the outline of the ferry in the darkness, I cut my lights and allow my eyes to adjust to the lack of light.

Silence.

It's not a good sign. Neither is the fact that the captor hasn't contacted negotiators.

While my boat idles in view of the ferry, I pull out my binoculars to study the activity on the boat. There isn't much to see at first, but I'm patient.

I notice movement on the lower deck. I refocus and find a mass of people huddled together on the bottom floor. They're all on their knees with their hands behind their backs.

From the significant distance, I can't make out a threat with any certainty, so I inch the boat as close as I can without arousing suspicion. Once I'm close enough to make out more detail I find the majority of hostages gathered on the floor.

I don't assume there aren't more because assumptions in any dangerous situation never end well.

When I find no one threatening on the first level, I raise my gaze to the second.

And that's when I find her.

My daughter described her as a princess and even across the space between us, I couldn't agree more. She's the type of woman who should be in a man's bed being pampered, not crying anguished tears with a madman hovering behind her.

What the hell is she doing there?

I put down my binoculars and maneuver my boat around the back of the ferry. Based on diagrams I've got, there is a hatch to access the back of the engine room on the lowest level. My best chance at accessing the ferry undetected will be there, provided the asshole has no extra surveillance set up.

Either way, I'll to be ready for anything he has planned.

I'm coming for you, asshole.

The collar itself isn't uncomfortable like I thought it would be. It resembles dozens of other necklaces I've chosen myself, though much heavier. I wonder how he constructed an explosive on such a small scale. Then I think about whether or not it will effectively mutilate its intended victims.

Then I stop thinking about it altogether.

I gaze out the front window and try to ignore the man with the weapons chaining people to their death. I've never had the luxury of taking cruises—I've never given myself the time off from work, let alone had enough money left over from bills to save for one of the main cruise liners operating out of Jacksonville.

But if I could have, I imagine it would be something like this. The gentle lapping of the water against the side. The constant magical sound of waves in the distance and night air laden with salt and sea.

If I don't think too hard about the circumstances, the night could almost be beautiful.

Almost.

He hasn't told me where to go, so I keep the ferry moving in the same direction the captain was going before I took over. On this course, we'll surpass Rockaway Island and head right out into the Atlantic, going southwest toward Miami. At least, that's what the navigation panel in front of me says.

Every few minutes, I can't resist glancing back as he works down the morbid line of people. His face is calm, impassive, almost methodical as he works with each person. He's not aggressive. In fact, he doesn't say a word as he strings each of them up with their own collar of explosives.

A flash, at least, I think it's a flash, draws my attention to the left side of the ferry. I squint my eyes in the general direction.

Is it another boat?

God, that would be too easy, wouldn't it? The cops will come in, subdue the bad guy and then we can all go home. Hope rises on delicate wings in my chest.

A rescue party would be too much to hope for. I have to tell myself to keep from experiencing the crushing disappointment that's sure to come if it's not.

I search the water, eyes straining to make out the flash again from churning white caps in the distance. There's nothing of course, just water, useless water.

"You surprise me again," comes a voice from behind me.

Cursing underneath my breath, I glance over my shoulder and find him standing just behind me. I chastise myself for becoming so distracted I didn't notice the man creeping up behind me.

For an older guy he moves like a panther.

Silent...and lethal.

"I'm not sure I want to know what surprises you."

Then he surprises me by chuckling. He taps the dash. "Just keep it straight, just like this, and we won't have any problems."

I nod because I don't trust myself to speak.

"Good girl." He grabs the radio with one meaty hand, probably for another morbid-ass announcement.

I clench my hands on the wheel to keep from doing anything crazy, like jumping on his back and beating my fists against his head.

While he's distracted by twisting the knobs on the radio, I peek at the captain, who's slumped over on the floor between a crate and the wall of controls. He doesn't look too injured, but he's old, even older than our abductor. His bald head is glossy with sweat. It drips over his closed eyes and down his ashen cheeks, despite the chilling breeze coming off the water.

The radio squeals, then clears. The chatter below us ceases. "Good evening, passengers. This is your captain speaking." He smiles a little and then continues, "As long as you follow my instructions carefully, no one will get hurt today. Stay calm, don't cause a fuss and we'll all go home safely." He looks at me during the next part, and his black eyes are as frigid as the night air. "But if you attempt to get off this boat. If you attempt to harm me, the collars you're wearing will decapitate you so fast, your body won't even know what happened."

I resist the desire to pull at the constrictive rubber around my neck. My mind is screaming at me to get it off, get it off, get it off in an endless refrain. Sweat pops out on my skin with the effort it takes to keep my hands on the wheel. Each time I swallow my throat bobs against the restriction. Even though I know I can breathe, it's getting harder and harder to choke down the briny air.

Before the man can continue his instructions, commotion on the lower floor pulls our attention down. The man takes a few steps, stretching the cord along behind him. I risk keeping one hand on the wheel to peer around the corner so I can see down the stairs.

I see blood first and my initial thought is the man shot someone, but then the two men fighting come into view, one of them with a bloody nose.

It's the father. The one who is so pissed off.

He must be pushed to his limit because he clocks the guy trying to restrain him.

The man beside me shakes his head and sets down the radio. I have a fleeting thought to use it to contact someone on shore, but I gulp and remember defying the gunman would be a terrible idea.

There's another shout and the father shoves the guy trying to pin him down. The guy trips over his own feet and momentum carries him right over a line of wire guarding the edges of the ferry's side.

His hoarse cry follows him over the edge.

Everyone on board holds a collective breath. After a few seconds, when nothing happens, the buzz of low conversation reaches my ears. I hear snippets like where is he? Did the bomb not go off? What's going on?

From my vantage point, I can only see a slice of water just over the top of the ceiling of the bottom floor. Since it's dark, the ocean there is just a swirling mass of blackness. With one hand on the wheel, I stretch to my tippy toes to catch a glimpse of the man who's fallen overboard.

Maybe his collar was defective. Maybe this crazy man has no idea what he's doing.

Maybe we'll make it out of this alive.

For someone who just threatened a boatful of people with decapitation if they tried to escape, the man beside me seems calm. Too calm.

A thread of discord sews the lining of my stomach.

This is gonna be bad.

The father down below, realizing what he's done, gets to his feet and lurches toward the back to go after the man in the water. He must spot him because he reaches out an arm, but he has to know there's no way he can get him back.

After a few seconds of futile rescue attempts, he spots one of those red and white floats they throw over the side for just this purpose. Snagging it, he tosses it over the edge. The bobbing float edges into my view and then a dark shape hovers over it.

Relief has me swaying and I have to hold onto the wheel to keep from sinking into a pile on the floor.

It's chaos on the bottom deck. A woman who must be his girlfriend is screaming. The father's kids are wailing; one is sobbing so hard he can't breathe. Their mother tries to calm them down, but she's crying too hard to get the words out.

But it's nothing, nothing, compared to the eruption of mayhem from below when the man holding the float explodes.