looked over at Vincent, who gave her a nod— I’m watching —pulled her legs out of the water, put on her wedges, and headed straight for the man. He saw her coming, turned away, and disappeared around the corner.
She edged her way through the small crowd—their deck was very exclusive—and saw him moving down a narrow passageway dotted with rows of plain metal doors. He glanced over his shoulder, spotted her, and picked up speed.
“Wait,” she called, but that was all she could say. She couldn’t invoke the power of her badge. She wasn’t a cop here. She was just a civilian.
I’m never not a cop.
He took a right.
So did she.
He went down a flight of metal stairs, ducking beneath a sign that read No P ASSENGERS P LEASE ! apparently in several different languages. She heard his footfalls clanging, then her own, as she followed him. When she reached the bottom, she saw him moving down another tight passageway. As before, she pursued, and when she was almost close enough to reach out and grab him, he whirled around and yanked on her arm.
Instinctively Cat executed an open-palm strike, slamming the heel of her hand beneath his chin. God, he was made of iron; his thick neck muscles prevented his head snapping back so much as a fraction of an inch. He deflected her uppercut to his midsection, wrapping his hand around her forearm and throwing her against the wall. Anticipating his counterattack, she had tucked in her chin and so her shoulder took the brunt of the impact. She used her own momentum to push off with a sidekick that caught his jaw, and before he could grab her ankle, she twisted around and rammed her elbow into his side and punched him in the face.
Then she let herself fall to the floor and contracted her legs into her chest, thrusting hard when he began to bend over her. But it was a feint; he had backed off. She jackknifed to her feet—and faced down the barrel of a gun.
“Fire!” she shouted without hesitation. “Fire on the ship!”
That was the magic word to utter in a crisis situation. Not “help” or “nine-one-one” or even “call the police,” unfortunately. That was because a fire could affect everyone including a random passerby who might not otherwise be inclined to get involved.
“Shut up.” The man raised his gun.
“I don’t think so.” She kept her voice even and steady. “Fi—”
“Who do you work for?” he asked at the same time she started to yell.
“I’m NYPD. You?” she shot back.
“ You’re a cop? Where’s your badge?”
“Who wants to know?”
“You know who I am.” But he looked uncertain. He dabbed at his split lip and frowned at the blood. “Wait. What’d she tell you?”
“Who are you?” she said again, sensing that once he’d realized she was a cop, he abandoned the idea of shooting her.
“Terry Milano. Her bodyguard.”
“No way,” she blurted.
His smile was sour. “Let me guess. She told you I was some master criminal after her father’s business secrets. Or some pervy pedophile.”
“But you’re… her bodyguard ? Do you have credentials to prove that?”
He reached in his pocket and handed her a wallet. She checked it. He had a California driver’s license identifying him as Terence Milano. She also found a permit to carry a concealed weapon.
“My best credential is inside the Neptune Suite,” he said. “My boss, Forrest Daugherty. Her father. You can speak to him if you want. Or to the head of security aboard the Sea Majesty. His name is Brian d’Allesandro.”
That was correct. From force of habit, Cat had looked up the name of the ship’s security chief when she and Vincent had booked the cruise. Sometimes you came across ex-cops who had left the force. They got paid a lot more doing private security and put up with a lot less politics.
“D’Allesandro knows I’m carrying,” he added. “He knows I’m working for the Daughertys.”
I’ve been played , Cat figured. That girl is probably laughing her
She edged her way through the small crowd—their deck was very exclusive—and saw him moving down a narrow passageway dotted with rows of plain metal doors. He glanced over his shoulder, spotted her, and picked up speed.
“Wait,” she called, but that was all she could say. She couldn’t invoke the power of her badge. She wasn’t a cop here. She was just a civilian.
I’m never not a cop.
He took a right.
So did she.
He went down a flight of metal stairs, ducking beneath a sign that read No P ASSENGERS P LEASE ! apparently in several different languages. She heard his footfalls clanging, then her own, as she followed him. When she reached the bottom, she saw him moving down another tight passageway. As before, she pursued, and when she was almost close enough to reach out and grab him, he whirled around and yanked on her arm.
Instinctively Cat executed an open-palm strike, slamming the heel of her hand beneath his chin. God, he was made of iron; his thick neck muscles prevented his head snapping back so much as a fraction of an inch. He deflected her uppercut to his midsection, wrapping his hand around her forearm and throwing her against the wall. Anticipating his counterattack, she had tucked in her chin and so her shoulder took the brunt of the impact. She used her own momentum to push off with a sidekick that caught his jaw, and before he could grab her ankle, she twisted around and rammed her elbow into his side and punched him in the face.
Then she let herself fall to the floor and contracted her legs into her chest, thrusting hard when he began to bend over her. But it was a feint; he had backed off. She jackknifed to her feet—and faced down the barrel of a gun.
“Fire!” she shouted without hesitation. “Fire on the ship!”
That was the magic word to utter in a crisis situation. Not “help” or “nine-one-one” or even “call the police,” unfortunately. That was because a fire could affect everyone including a random passerby who might not otherwise be inclined to get involved.
“Shut up.” The man raised his gun.
“I don’t think so.” She kept her voice even and steady. “Fi—”
“Who do you work for?” he asked at the same time she started to yell.
“I’m NYPD. You?” she shot back.
“ You’re a cop? Where’s your badge?”
“Who wants to know?”
“You know who I am.” But he looked uncertain. He dabbed at his split lip and frowned at the blood. “Wait. What’d she tell you?”
“Who are you?” she said again, sensing that once he’d realized she was a cop, he abandoned the idea of shooting her.
“Terry Milano. Her bodyguard.”
“No way,” she blurted.
His smile was sour. “Let me guess. She told you I was some master criminal after her father’s business secrets. Or some pervy pedophile.”
“But you’re… her bodyguard ? Do you have credentials to prove that?”
He reached in his pocket and handed her a wallet. She checked it. He had a California driver’s license identifying him as Terence Milano. She also found a permit to carry a concealed weapon.
“My best credential is inside the Neptune Suite,” he said. “My boss, Forrest Daugherty. Her father. You can speak to him if you want. Or to the head of security aboard the Sea Majesty. His name is Brian d’Allesandro.”
That was correct. From force of habit, Cat had looked up the name of the ship’s security chief when she and Vincent had booked the cruise. Sometimes you came across ex-cops who had left the force. They got paid a lot more doing private security and put up with a lot less politics.
“D’Allesandro knows I’m carrying,” he added. “He knows I’m working for the Daughertys.”
I’ve been played , Cat figured. That girl is probably laughing her
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