The Tide (Tide Series Book 1) (12 page)

The scaffolding atop the rig crashed inward. Another deep rumble shook the platform. This time it came from beneath. Bubbles of hot air burst around them. The legs of the platform finally gave out. Water surged around to fill the void it left as it slowly sank, and the Zodiacs raced from the collapsing rig.

The outboard strained against the onslaught of waves and rushing water. Then with a jolt, the craft shot forward as it beat the unforgiving pull of the sinking behemoth. Waves washed over the gunwale. The air chamber pierced by the Skull was sunken in, but the internal valves and baffles within the bladders prevented the whole craft from turning into a useless sack of rubber. Still, the deflated chamber let gallons of water pour into the Zodiac. Renee scooped water over the side with her helmet as they surged across the waves.

Another loud crack of broken steel rolled over the ocean. Fire curled into the air behind them. Screaming Skulls leapt into the ocean. In a blink, the platform disappeared under the ocean’s surface as if it never existed. Bubbles churned the water, the only evidence of the nightmares now sinking to the ocean floor.

“Bravo team, give me a SITREP,” Dom’s voice crackled over the comm link again.

“Everyone’s accounted for,” Renee replied.

Even Brett
. She stared at the man’s limp form and looked up, catching Spencer’s gaze. Through his visor, she could see his eyes filled with sorrow. He shook his head.

In her mind’s eye, Renee saw Brett tumble over the side of the platform again. Then she pictured the attack on Ivan in the generator room and the creature pouncing on Scott. She hadn’t even heard what—if anything—they’d found out about the biological agent or chemical weapon responsible for turning people aboard the oil platform into the bloodthirsty creatures. Had they done enough to help Meredith unravel this mess? Was Brett’s sacrifice worth it?

She glanced at Dom’s Zodiac skimming over the water, silhouetted against the dark horizon.
And what about Scott? Would he make it?

The mechanic groaned, rolling over in his blue coveralls. His eyes fluttered open. His face went ghost-white as panic overtook him, and he fainted again. She didn’t blame him. After everything he must’ve witnessed, finding himself in the middle of the ocean surrounded by armed individuals in biohazard suits must have been too much. She hoped he would regain consciousness and be willing to talk when they took him aboard the
Huntress
.

She had questions. Lots of questions, but only one seemed to matter in that moment: was this mission worth the cost?

––––––––

J
ay’s head pounded with all the fury of a feral cat caged for the first time. His vision swam with the pain, but he wouldn’t let it stop him. He rubbed his fingers over a one-way, first-class airline ticket to San José, Costa Rica. Even the cacophony of voices around him and the incessant announcement of “See something, say something” over the airport’s speakers couldn’t quell his buoyant optimism.

He dragged his carry-on bag behind him and joined the end of the security line. He was ready to leave Washington, DC—and the States—for good. No more idling in the congested traffic. No more paying outrageous rent for a cramped apartment. Most importantly, no more godforsaken directives from the agency.

He had once found it thrilling to travel overseas as an independent secret service contractor. But after seeing that
thing
in the IBSL disembowel Corey, he’d had enough. All the money he’d saved working as a mercenary would now be put to good use in his retirement, touring the beaches and tropics of Central America. He’d spent his last night in DC at his favorite bar, a small joint near Dupont Circle called St. Thomas’s. He’d drowned himself in fresh mussels and Belgian ales, and he couldn’t remember how he’d made it home at the end of the night. But it didn’t matter now. In just a few more hours, he’d be leaving it all behind.

Jay pressed a cold, half-drained water bottle against his forehead in a weak attempt to subdue his headache. He might’ve forgotten how he’d gotten back to his apartment, but the pounding in his skull wouldn’t let him forgot about his late-night revelry.

A woman with an overstuffed carry-on bag bumped into him from behind. He started to fall forward. His hand shot out instinctively to break his fall, and he accidentally scraped his fingers on the bare shoulder of another woman in line in front of him.

“Hey, watch it!” The woman’s hand flew up over the spot where Jay had scratched her.

“Sorry,” he said. “Accident.”

A furrow formed across her brow as she glared at him with her arms crossed over her chest. “Ew.” She huffed. “You need to cut your damn nails.”

Jay stretched his fingers out in front of him and looked down at them. The nails had turned yellow again. He clenched his hands into fists, hiding the nails. He was self-conscious of their appearance. Since he’d returned from the failed IBSL mission, he’d filed down the hard, yellow growth once already. He must’ve picked up some strange fungus infection from his time at sea.

As the security line slowly drew him forward, his thoughts turned to what he’d seen aboard the IBSL facility. Maybe the nail infection—or whatever it was—had come from the labs. He shuddered and nudged aside the paranoid thoughts.

“Hey, the line’s moving,” the woman behind him said.

His cheeks flared with involuntary anger, and his eyes shot open wide. “Shut up,” he snarled. Several nearby travelers in line with him gave him curious or dirty looks. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—it’s my head...it’s killing me.”

The woman held up her hands in a placating gesture. Her fingernails were painted an obnoxious hot pink that irritated Jay all the more. “All right.” A grin broke across her face. “I can recognize a hangover when I see one.”

Jay nodded but kept his eyes on his shuffling feet. Just a few more people in line, and he’d be free—free to sit down, free to wait in his cushy seat for the seven-and-a-half-hour trip to Costa Rica. He could shut his eyes or get a cold Coke to chase away the hangover. Hell, maybe he should go for broke and order a Bloody Mary on the plane and pound a couple of gin and tonics afterward. It was first class, after all.

“Sir.” The TSA agent motioned him forward.

Jay dug out the fake passport from his pocket. This was one of the few
not
issued to him by the agency. He preferred to keep a couple on hand that the US government couldn’t easily connect with him. He handed over the forged document with the name reading Joseph Painter. The TSA agent took the passport and the ticket. For a paranoid moment, Jay thought the blue-uniformed agent raised a skeptical eyebrow at the picture and address.

Then the man handed Jay back the documents. “You’re going to have to throw your water bottle away.”

“Yes, sir,” Jay said. He trudged past the agent and dropped the bottle in a trash can. His patience waned as he joined yet another line. The bright fluorescent lights pierced his retinas and sent undulating waves of pain through his already tormented brain. He couldn’t remember a hangover like this. Not since college. Shit. Even his twenty-first birthday hadn’t been this bad. A deep, inexplicable anger welled up in him. He was stomping toward the full body scanner when an agent gestured for him to move forward.

“Sir, you’re going to need to take your shoes off.”

Jay resisted the sudden urge to hit the TSA agent.
What the hell is wrong with me
? he thought as he slowly bent down to untie his shoes. He stood and tossed them onto the conveyer belt.

“Sir—” The agent behind the belt started.

“What?” Jay snapped.

The agent rolled her eyes and put his shoes into a plastic tray. “You’ve got to put your shoes in one of these.” She dropped the tray with the shoes back onto the belt and into the X-ray scanner. “Go on.”

Jay went through the full body scanner and held up his arms when commanded to do so. Standing immobile for those few seconds was excruciating. His limbs shook. He didn’t want to stand still—
couldn’t
stand still.

“I’m going to need you to step over here, sir,” another agent said. He felt someone grab his shoulder.

Jay whipped back. “What do you want?”

“Sir, please calm down. It’s just—”

“Just what?” His nose twitched. The pain in his head swelled.

“Do you have anything in your pockets?”

“No, I—”

The agent interrupted him. “Paper, cellphone? Anything you didn’t put on the belt?”

Jay’s voice rose as his frustration boiled over. “No, I—” Then he realized he’d left the boarding pass in his pocket.

But it was too late. The agent was already patting him down. The man’s hand brushed over Jay’s leg, and the mere sensation of physical contact caused a strange explosion of pain coursing through his nerves. His limbs shuddered until he could take it no more. He backhanded the agent, and as he did, the back of his fingernails slid across the man’s face and drew blood. Another agent stepped forward and drew a Taser from her holster. Jay dodged and knocked her back. He just wanted to leave.

Just...need the plane...the beach...Costa Rica.
The thought of sand, cool salty water, and a cold drink swam through his mind.

“Stop!” Two TSA agents stepped from behind the X-ray scanner. One grabbed Jay’s arm. He slashed at the first man and shoved the second into a crowd of onlookers. Flashes from cell phone cameras exploded around him. A muddle of bright lights and apprehensive faces swarmed around Jay.

“Dude’s going crazy,” someone muttered.

A woman called, “What the hell’s wrong with him?”

“He’s a terrorist!” another voice offered.

“Stop!” Jay bellowed. The voices around him stoked the fire burning beneath his skull. He hurtled past the milling people, past the raucous, concerned voices and people yelling for him to stop. Hands flailing, his fingers slashed anyone who got too close. He needed his gate. He needed to get to the airplane.

He pulled the crumpled ticket from his pocket, but the words and numbers blended together. They didn’t seem to be in English; they weren’t in any language he could understand. His vision turned red, and he yelled again. The voices around him seemed to quiet, and his head began to settle.

Then a force slammed into his back, and he crashed to the ground. He was vaguely aware of a couple of TSA agents pinning him down and trying to cuff him.

But his nose twitched with the smell of
food
, of meat. A hand pressed against the side of his face, pressing him into the floor. His gaze flickered to a nearby McDonald’s. Yet what he smelled was something different, something fresher.

Something
alive
.

A sudden jolt of strength tore through his body, and he pushed himself up. One of the agents elbowed him, but all the attack did was make him angry. Jay burst upright and shoved one of the agents away. He jabbed another in the throat then delivered a staggering punch to a third. The agents reeled as backup ran their way.

Jay held up his fingers before his face. They quivered in anticipation. For a brief moment, he wondered what the hell he was doing. Then he charged into the crowd before him. Screams and cries replaced the hushed voices. Travelers trampled one another as Jay attacked anyone within his reach. The chorus of frightened shrieks drowned out the televisions hanging from the ceiling.

One of the monitors showed a journalist standing on some beach. The sight fueled a second wave of energy that propelled him through the throng of screaming passengers.

“Out of the way!” he screeched in a voice that sounded like a stranger’s.

A burly man in fatigues suddenly stepped out of the crowd and tackled Jay to the ground.

“Hold still!” the man bellowed.

The TSA agents crowded around. The chubbiest of the group bent over, hands on his knees, panting. “Keep him down,” the man gasped.

Jay fought to free himself from his attacker, snarling and snapping.

“Hold still or I’m going to...”

Jay bit the man’s neck before he could finish his sentence. He rolled onto the floor, clutching his gushing wound. Jay jumped to a crouch and eyed the bewildered TSA agents. The plump one who was out of breath was closest. Easy prey. His eyes went wide as the beast that had once been Jay charged.

––––––––

L
auren Winters and her team stood at the entrance of the cargo hold. She fidgeted in her biohazard suit as she waited alongside Peter Mikos, the ship’s surgeon. Peter’s dark eyes were glued on the ocean. Lauren guessed he was mentally preparing himself for the emergency surgery they were about to perform.

Sean McConnelly joined them, appearing uneasy in his suit. Sean’s PhD in epidemiology gave him unique insight into the risk of bioweapons. He regularly helped Lauren in her laboratory experiments, but most of his work centered on computer simulations and statistics.

“We’re going to be okay,” Divya Karnik said to Sean as she walked up to the researchers and apparently sensed Sean’s unease. A full head shorter than the rest of them, her brown eyes still shined behind the positive pressure suit’s visor. Divya’s breadth of experience had no doubt instilled in her a professional calm that Lauren valued on her team. Divya had served abroad working with Doctors Without Borders and in the States researching how so-called tropical diseases rare in America might be used as biological weapons.

“Yes, we’ve got this,” Lauren said. “We’ve prepped for this, we’ve talked about it, and now it’s time to put all that in action.”

She and her medical crew had set up a passageway using a high-powered ventilation system and plastic sheeting made for mobile biocontainment facilities. Ideally, it would contain anything else Dom’s Hunters had come in contact with. They had also prepped two stretchers on wheels, ready to hoist Scott and Brett into the medical bay. The Hunters had radioed in that Brett was already gone, but Scott still clung to life.

The crash of waves outside the hold grabbed Lauren’s attention as she waited for the telltale signs of the thrumming Zodiac motors and the crackle of static over the comms when Dom announced their return over the radio. Lauren’s thoughts turned to the other Hunters. She hoped none of them had succumbed to whatever biological agents were present on the IBSL. Maybe she was paranoid for thinking that when they’d been equipped with their positive pressure suits. But no matter how much logic told her they should be fine, she kept picturing Glenn, hurt or turning into one of those Skulls as Dom had called the monsters over the radio.