lockers.
The Maori deckhand watched stoically as she undid the makeshift tourniquet and wiped the nasty wound with an iodine solution. She threaded the surgical needle and took a deep breath.
“This is gonna hurt, Hiko.”
He shrugged. “Just get on with it.”
Steve had found a set of scrubs and stepped behind a medical curtain to change. Foster hesitated with the needle, unable to help a quick look as he slipped out of his wet pants. From where she sat, she could see one well-muscled thigh, the heavy, wet material pushing down . . .
Jesus, am I in high school again? Foster turned back to the work at hand, embarrassed at herself. She pierced the ragged edge of flesh and pushed through as gently as she could. Hiko didn’t even flinch.
“You’ve got a high pain threshold,” she said quietly.
“I usually do it myself,” he answered. She couldn’t quite tell if he was kidding, but looking at the depth of the tattoo work he’d had done, she thought probably not.
Everton had produced another handful of peanuts from somewhere and looked over at her, speaking conversationally as he munched.
“Foster—what are you gonna do with your three million?”
She concentrated on making another stitch across the deep gash, fully aware that the captain was trying to make nice and not particularly interested. “I don’t have it yet.”
Everton continued. “Say you do. Seriously, what would you do?”
She shrugged; she had nothing to say to the man, and in truth, she hadn’t thought about it yet.
Hiko obviously had. “I’d open a school.”
Steve walked out from behind the curtain in a loose set of surgical scrubs. He tossed another set to Hiko, smiling. “A school?”
Hiko nodded. “Kura Kaupapa. You know, for little kids. Teach them to read and write Maori, that sort of thing.”
Everton worked to keep it going. “What about you, Baker?”
Steve was opening the wide medical lockers, checking the contents. “I dunno. I don’t have any attachments; always loved the sea . . .” He paused, then smiled. “I’d buy an island.”
Foster considered that, finishing a third stitch. “Interesting idea. Does it have a beach?”
“Yeah. Nice white sand.”
Foster smiled. “And a house?”
“With a thatched roof, overlooking a lagoon.”
Hiko grinned. “When are you guys getting married? Ow! Foster, take it easy!”
Foster looked over at Steve, saw him watching her thoughtfully as he reached for another locker. Interesting indeed . . .
He pulled the handle up, and quite suddenly, all hell broke loose.
Steve dove for cover as a shadowy figure opened fire from inside the deep locker, the popping sound of an automatic rifle shattering the stillness of the lab.
Steve spun, saw Foster push Hiko off the table and Everton hit the deck as the Russian strafed the lab with the AK-47. Glass doors blew into fragments, the metal table where Hiko had lain pierced by ringing bullets.
He saw Everton’s shotgun propped up against the base of the lockers and scrambled for it, reaching it just as the Russian jumped down, still firing wildly. Steve saw that a gas mask covered his head, saw the rifle pivot towards him—
—and the click of an empty weapon, the clip out of rounds.
Steve launched himself at the attacker, raised the butt of the shotgun and drove it into the Russian’s chest, knocking him back into the locker. The crash of the man’s head against metal was loud in the sudden silence and the Russian slumped, his body limp.
Steve grabbed the boots of the still figure and pulled him out onto the floor. Guy was a lightweight, couldn’t weigh more than 120 or so—short, too.
He looked over his shoulder, saw Hiko and Foster turn stunned faces towards him, Everton looking out from behind the examination table behind them. Amazingly, no one had been hit.
Steve reached for the gas mask, adrenaline still coursing through his body.
Fucker tried to kill me!
He yanked at the mask, ready to beat the shit out
The Maori deckhand watched stoically as she undid the makeshift tourniquet and wiped the nasty wound with an iodine solution. She threaded the surgical needle and took a deep breath.
“This is gonna hurt, Hiko.”
He shrugged. “Just get on with it.”
Steve had found a set of scrubs and stepped behind a medical curtain to change. Foster hesitated with the needle, unable to help a quick look as he slipped out of his wet pants. From where she sat, she could see one well-muscled thigh, the heavy, wet material pushing down . . .
Jesus, am I in high school again? Foster turned back to the work at hand, embarrassed at herself. She pierced the ragged edge of flesh and pushed through as gently as she could. Hiko didn’t even flinch.
“You’ve got a high pain threshold,” she said quietly.
“I usually do it myself,” he answered. She couldn’t quite tell if he was kidding, but looking at the depth of the tattoo work he’d had done, she thought probably not.
Everton had produced another handful of peanuts from somewhere and looked over at her, speaking conversationally as he munched.
“Foster—what are you gonna do with your three million?”
She concentrated on making another stitch across the deep gash, fully aware that the captain was trying to make nice and not particularly interested. “I don’t have it yet.”
Everton continued. “Say you do. Seriously, what would you do?”
She shrugged; she had nothing to say to the man, and in truth, she hadn’t thought about it yet.
Hiko obviously had. “I’d open a school.”
Steve walked out from behind the curtain in a loose set of surgical scrubs. He tossed another set to Hiko, smiling. “A school?”
Hiko nodded. “Kura Kaupapa. You know, for little kids. Teach them to read and write Maori, that sort of thing.”
Everton worked to keep it going. “What about you, Baker?”
Steve was opening the wide medical lockers, checking the contents. “I dunno. I don’t have any attachments; always loved the sea . . .” He paused, then smiled. “I’d buy an island.”
Foster considered that, finishing a third stitch. “Interesting idea. Does it have a beach?”
“Yeah. Nice white sand.”
Foster smiled. “And a house?”
“With a thatched roof, overlooking a lagoon.”
Hiko grinned. “When are you guys getting married? Ow! Foster, take it easy!”
Foster looked over at Steve, saw him watching her thoughtfully as he reached for another locker. Interesting indeed . . .
He pulled the handle up, and quite suddenly, all hell broke loose.
Steve dove for cover as a shadowy figure opened fire from inside the deep locker, the popping sound of an automatic rifle shattering the stillness of the lab.
Steve spun, saw Foster push Hiko off the table and Everton hit the deck as the Russian strafed the lab with the AK-47. Glass doors blew into fragments, the metal table where Hiko had lain pierced by ringing bullets.
He saw Everton’s shotgun propped up against the base of the lockers and scrambled for it, reaching it just as the Russian jumped down, still firing wildly. Steve saw that a gas mask covered his head, saw the rifle pivot towards him—
—and the click of an empty weapon, the clip out of rounds.
Steve launched himself at the attacker, raised the butt of the shotgun and drove it into the Russian’s chest, knocking him back into the locker. The crash of the man’s head against metal was loud in the sudden silence and the Russian slumped, his body limp.
Steve grabbed the boots of the still figure and pulled him out onto the floor. Guy was a lightweight, couldn’t weigh more than 120 or so—short, too.
He looked over his shoulder, saw Hiko and Foster turn stunned faces towards him, Everton looking out from behind the examination table behind them. Amazingly, no one had been hit.
Steve reached for the gas mask, adrenaline still coursing through his body.
Fucker tried to kill me!
He yanked at the mask, ready to beat the shit out
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