The hostages down below are huddled together in small groups, head's bowed and arms wrapped around each other. They take no notice when I climb up the back along the rope and peer around the railing. They're too busy listening to the man with the radio dictating rules.

But the woman at the wheel isn't.

On one glance toward the front and her pale, over-wrought face finds mine. Her mouth gapes open and her wide eyes flicker toward the man brandishing a gun.

I don't move—I can't. Any quick movements might draw the eyes of any hostage and throw down a storm of unneeded and unnecessary attention. I've already lost one life today; I don't want to risk any more. She looks away for a second and I heft myself up the rest of the way and duck behind the first car.

Aches and pains make themselves known as I crouch behind an old beat up truck with chipped red paint, but push those to the back of my mind.

All of my gear sunk to the bottom of the ocean. I'm unarmed and I'm surrounded by who knows how many explosives ready to go off at the whim of a psychopath.

I'd like to chance looking in each of the cars for a through-and-through American with a glove box stuffed with a semi-automatic, but each one I try is locked.

Threads of conversation carry over the air. From a rough count, I estimate a couple dozen hostages on this floor. Maybe a captain and an attendant up top, plus my girl and their captor.

Despite their outrage, those on this floor keep themselves contained. The show of force the low-life was no doubt counting on with the explosion, is as effective at corralling these people as the bombs strapped to their bodies.

His reminders over the intercom don't hurt, either.

From my vantage point behind a rusted sedan, I can see through one roundish window into the main seating area on the first floor of the ferry. No one else seems to be hurt, but there are plenty crying hysterically and a few who look like they're about to hurl all over the floor.

The stairs leading up to the top, where the woman and captor are, run through the right side of the room, in full few of the rest of the hostages. Walking right out in front of them may do more harm than good, so the stairs are out.

I inch around a couple more cars until I reach the front railing. The ramp drops off directly in front of me and to my right is a chained off area that will almost guarantee a dip back in the ocean, but it's the only way for me to climb up to listen in on what the bastard's saying.

The deck hangs out over the water so I climb up the railing and feel around for a foothold above me. My fingers clamp down on a notch of wood about an inch thick. It's not much, but it will have to do.

Setting my jaw, I pull myself up by sheer strength of will, my biceps and shoulders burning with the effort. Above me is a rung for the second story railing and I swing one hand up to grasp it, but sweat slicking my palm weakens my grip and I damn near fall right back into the water below.

A growl tears its way through my chest and I surge upward, wrapping my hand around the rail and pulling myself up. I reach my other hand to the next one and keep going until I put a foot on the floor to boost myself the rest of the way over.

There's no opening in the rail on this side, but there is one on the other. I can't stand up here and vault over the rail, because the windows are about waist high, and I don't want to announce my presence before I've had a chance to see what this guy wants.

I inch my way around to the other side, making sure to shore my hands and footing with each step. It's an arduous process, but there's no room for error

With each step it gets easier to hear the goings-on inside the cabin. I sag against the railing when the woman at the wheel comes into sight. Her eyes are bright and glossy with unshed tears. She flinches and shrinks away and I get my first good look at the gunman.

He's about six-foot tall with a trim build. Over his black shirt and nondescript cargo pants are straps wrapping around his shoulders. Two handguns dangle from the holsters. He's older than I expected, maybe forty or forty-five, but his beard and mustache are threaded with gray.

They're speaking too low for me to hear and whatever the man says to her leaves her gaping after him until she collects herself. She rouses the emergency line and speaks with whoever is in charge. If not a hostage negotiator at this point, then certainly Sheriff Stevens.

Then I catch my name from her lips and I nearly release my hold on the railing and fall back into the water.

The fuck?

It scatters the bits of my drive and focus into the wind. Mind racing, breathing labored, it's impossible for me to gather them back up. They explode in a million directions, like shrapnel from an anti-personnel mine in the thick heat of an Afghani desert.

An indeterminable amount of time passes before I can control my breathing, organize my thoughts. I manage to tune back into the conversation, but the feedback is too low for me to hear from my position, so I use the opportunity to climb the rest of the way over the rail and crawl through the shadows to a dark corner by the door where he can't see me.

I give myself a short window to do a little recon before I burst in. I chance peering around the corner and find the captain bound and gagged in a corner. The woman's low voice fills the room as she speaks to Stevens on the other end. As if drawn by it, I almost take a step inside, but a sound to my left brings me to my senses.

The gunman steps into the room, his hands on his hips, the guns poised at his waist. The woman's eyes flick down to them and then back out the window. "Did you tell them?"

She purses her lips, her eyes pressing together before she answers. "Yes."

His impatient snort causes her to jerk, her arms flaring out like an out-of-control marionette. "Well, are they going to get him?" He leans a hip on the counter next to her and crosses his arms over his chest. When she doesn't answer right away, he pounds a fist against the countertop and she stumbles backward.

Frustration is good for me—it may cause him to make a mistake, but it's also dangerous because it makes him unpredictable. Unpredictable men with weapons are worse than unpredictable women.

"Answer now, pretty bird, before I really get irritated."

"I believe so, yes." She keeps her eyes downcast and her fists coiled tight, the nails digging into her palms, but her response is steady.

Good girl.

His boots scrape against the metal floor and then I hear her swift, pained inhale. I'm close enough now I can hear his next threatening words. People may doubt the presence of evil in this world, but having seen it, and hearing this guy now, there's no doubt in my mind it exists.

Her eyes bulge as he jerks her around and pins her against the edge of the counter. She trembles, but her eyes flash in defiance. "You know if it weren't for you, there'd only be one person on this boat with a bomb strapped to their throat, but because you had to play hero, you've put every person in danger." I risk looking around the corner and find her dangling from his hold, the tips of her toes scratching the floor as he pins the air. She scrabbles against him, her nails clawing at his arm, but he doesn't relent. "Now you will radio those shitheads again and let them know I will execute one hostage every thirty minutes until I speak to him."

His hand tenses in her hair and she squeaks. Then she says, "I thought you said no one would get hurt?"

"I guess it'll be up to you, pretty bird," he replies, then releases his hold.

His tone and his threats make me gnash my teeth. I want to charge in there and expose my position, but my indecision costs me and his footsteps recede back down the stairs.

She starts to open up the radio again and then she stops. The pause draws my attention and I glance through the murky windowpane and find her eyes on me again.

"Please help," she mouths. If I weren't already determined to save her those words would have torn through any resistance.

With one last glance toward the stairwell, I enter the room. Her eyes widen when she realizes I'm almost a foot taller than her. Tension runs through her tight shoulders and pursed lips and I don't want to frighten her more than she already is, so I hold my hands up in surrender.

"Don't be afraid," I say. "My name is Gabriel Rossi. Gabe. I'm here to do whatever I can to help you."

At first I think she doesn't hear me, so I repeat my name in a calm and even tone. I even take a step closer, keeping my hands visible. She doesn't move and her expression is frozen. Worried she may be going into shock, I put a hand on hers, but she snatches back, life blazing into her cheeks with a pink flush.

"Help me?" she screeches. "Help me?" She wedges her fingers underneath the collar and gives it a yank. "You call this helping me?"

I frown, but ignore her scathing statement and scan the room. "How long do we have until he comes back?"

"I don't know, I'm not his secretary." Then she pinches her nose between her fingers. "I'm sorry. I don't mean it. I'm just," she heaves a sigh and waves around her free arm, "under a lot of stress."

I put a big hand on her shoulder and try to ignore the warmth of her skin. Her arm drops to her sides and she hides a tremulous smile.

"Now," I say, my mouth firming into a line, my eyes narrowing into slits, "did he say when he will be back?"

"He didn't say," the woman tells me, her eyes flickering back and forth between me and the stairwell.

"Okay, it's okay," I tell her. "What's your name?"

"Chloe," she says. "Chloe McKinney."

I take her shaking hands in mine to steady them. I keep my eyes on hers, try to exude a manner of calm so I don't agitate her even more. "Nice to meet you, Chloe," I say. "The little girl you saved was my daughter, Emily. She and her mother wanted me to tell you thanks for saving her."

Chloe does a double take. "She's your daughter?"

"She was on her way to see me."

"Is she okay? Her mom?"

I squeeze her arms. "They're both fine, just fine. Thanks to you."

She struggles to find the right words, then says, "Good...good. I'm glad they made it out safely. You have a beautiful little girl."

"Thank you." She looks away and I tip her head back with a hand. "I'm gonna get you out of this."

Her head drops forward and then she looks back up. "I sure hope so."

When I feel she's steady, I back off, giving her some space, and get back to business. I do a cursory check of the room to make sure there aren't any surprises. I don't expect him to have another wad of explosives here—I haven't ruled out the possibility elsewhere—but I anticipate finding at least a cache of weapons. Men who pull off maneuvers like this are always well prepared.

I check behind the dash, in crevices, under seat cushions and strike gold in the mini refrigerator, of all places. There I find an MP-5 9mm submachine gun and a slew of handguns crammed into the interior. The contents, including the shelving, had been removed to make room.

I don't move the guns, don't want to risk tipping him off to my location before I'm ready. The fridge makes the slightest creaking sound as I close the door.

"So what's the plan?" she asks, her husky voice a whisper.

"Don't get dead," I tell her.

On top of the fridge I find a box filled with the bomb collars and miscellaneous parts. I find additional locks, but no key.

If he's smart, and I suspect he is, he'll keep the only copy of the key to unlock the collars on his person at all times.

"What are you doing?" she asks from behind me.

I replace the pieces back in their original spots with care. "Making sure there aren't any surprises."

"Not a fan, huh?"

"Not when it comes to my life, no." I peer through cabinet doors and continue my search, making sure to keep from disturbing the snoring captain. "Staying in the hospital just pisses me off."

"Do you end up in the hospital often?" she asks.

I glance over from my inspection of the radio. The smile teasing at her lips makes the response to her question dry up right in my throat.

She raises her eyebrows. "Well?" Her voice is colored with repressed laughter.

For the slightest moment, I wish we'd met under different circumstances. I wish there were a different reason she was smiling and laughing at me. If we were anywhere else, she'd be a woman I'd like to get to know—both in the sheets and out of them.

Because my eyes are still on her smiling mouth, I notice when the smile melts from her lips and then from her gaze. Giving myself a shake, I clear my throat. "More than I like," I say in answer to her earlier question.

She turns away to hide her reaction, but I see her widening eyes and firm lips in response to my frigid tone. Her shoulders stiffen and she straightens, losing what little rapport we shared. I turn away while she does, even though I want to do the opposite. It's better for the both of us if I don't encourage any connection.

I conclude my search of the cabin while the silence between us grows, then I tell her, "We don't have much time before he gets back. I will radio my man on shore for an update and see what we can do about getting everyone out of here without getting them killed."

She nods, but keeps her mouth shut and her attention on the water in front of her.

I punch the buttons on the radio with more force than necessary. Dead air greets my response for a few strained heartbeats.

Then Tyler's sarcastic and reassuring, voice says, "I'm glad you didn't get yourself killed, punk."

My shoulders slump and I slouch into the dash with my head leaning onto my hand. When I speak, my voice is as soft as it can be and still be heard over the scratchy radio connection. "Damn good to hear your voice, old man," I tell Tyler.

His chuckle is familiar and welcome. "Bit of a clusterfuck you've gotten yourself into," he says.

"Well, you know how I attract trouble."

"Crazy son-of-a-bitch," he mutters. "You're gonna have hell to pay if you do get back here in one piece. Stevens is going on a rampage."

"Tell me something new," I say. "Does he have a plan or are they floundering?"

"They've got a negotiator, but so far no luck connecting with your guy."

"No shit? I heard he won't talk to anyone but me. Any lead on what that's about?"

"None so far, but trust me, I'm working on it. Pissed anyone off lately?"

"Guess we'll find out. But I want to get as many hostages off here before our guy gets trigger happy and I have a feeling he won't be pleased when he finds me here, which will happen sooner or later." I pause while I consider my options. "Think Stevens will go for sending rescue teams to intercept?"

"How do you plan to convince the kidnapper to go for it?"

"He doesn't have to know I'm here...yet. If we could get him to head toward the teams without knowing they'll be there waiting, the element of surprise may work in our favor."

"And if not?"

"If not, I'll offer myself as a bargaining chip."

Chloe, who's been silent during our conversation, gasps beside me. It's a small sound and if the wheelhouse wasn't so quiet because we are trying not to draw any attention to ourselves, I wouldn't have heard it. But since I do, since I can't help but notice her presence so close, I turn to look at her.

She's working her lip with her teeth. The bottom one is blood-red from constant attention. I don't think she realizes it, but she's shaking her head in barely noticeable twitches.

To Tyler, I say, "If you can convince Stevens to go along with it, have them meet us." I rattle off a location not far from where we are.

"I'll do what I can," Tyler says. "You be smart. Selene will skin me alive if something happens to you."

"I will," I say. And I hope I'm right.

I hang up the handset and turn my attention to Chloe, whose hands are now knotted around the wheel.

Before I can give her directions, she says, "Where do I need to go?"

The determined pull of her mouth almost makes me smile. Almost.

"We want to get him as close to the coast as possible. Say whatever you have to say to convince him."

Then she flattens me when she says, "What if I suggest the police need us closer due to the storm and radio signal?"

I nod. "Yeah. Yeah, that'll work."

She looks away, then back at me. "What about...what about you?"

My first instinct is offer comfort, which I neither have the time or the ability to do at this point, so I try for honesty instead.

"I'll keep low until we meet with the rescue team."

"And if he doesn't let the hostages go? You'll give yourself up to him? This isn't a game."

"Trust me," I tell her as I back through the door. "If it was a game, I'd be playing to win."

I've never known what a privileged life I lead until one choice threatened to take it all away. Slices of memories race before my eyes as I stare, unseeing, through the window in front of me.

My parents, who've lived on opposite sides of Florida since their divorce, love me—in their own off-handed sort of way. My two sisters fought each other—and me—the entire time we were caged under the same roof. Since we all moved out and moved on with our own lives and worries and ambitions, we've never kept the tight bond I've seen most other families cultivate. But I love the lot of them. Much as I've complained over the years, I'd give anything to see all of them one more time.

As the ancient clock affixed to the wall next to me ticks off the passing time with maddening regularity, I remember each of their faces. My mother, whose dark hair has recently become threaded with gray. The last time I saw her was during her Christmas visit and we stood in the aisle in the middle of the drugstore as she contemplated whether or not to buy hair colorant. After a heated debate about two brands of the exact same shade of blackish-brown, she'd decided to get it done at a salon instead.

At the time, it made me want to throw a tantrum like a five-year-old right in the middle of the store, but now, I'd repeat that moment a million times over.

The same goes for any of the countless, meaningless fights with my sisters. They take after my mom when it comes to looks. Impish little faces and straight falls of identical black-brown hair. Two and three years younger than me, they always banded together against me, leaving me the odd man out.

I take after my father and I can see him in my reflection in the window. Sharper, stronger features. A tough chin and full, expressive mouth. Unlike my sisters, my hair doesn't know which shade it wants to be. It's predominantly brown, but in the right light it takes on an auburn hue.

I picture his face as I stare at my own and I can hear him lecturing me about checking my oil or hurricane-proofing my apartment. He likes to show his affection by doling out maintenance advice and Mr. Fix-It services. When my ex broke up with me, he offered to caulk my tub. If I get out of this mess, I bet he'll be willing to build me a house from the ground up.