Page 12 of Turn the Tide
He yanked off his T-shirt, sucked in a lungful of memory-laced air, and dropped into the frigid water in just shorts. Without tactical gear and a plan, this was more like BUD/S training than any mission he could recall, but it didn’t matter. He’d been here before. His body knew what to do.
His long limbs ate up the distance from boat to platform, where he did some quick recon around the platform’s legs. The noise this thing was emitting had scared off every creature with a brain in its head, leaving nothing but sponges, starfish, and empty shells coating concrete and metal. Well, and him. Although the brain was debatable.
He mounted the ladder to the lower deck, cringing at the sharp edges that bit into his feet. Staying low, he scanned the space for people or cameras—neither of which were apparent.
The Polaris was significantly smaller than the rig he’d called home for much of his thirties. It didn’t take long to investigate the first deck, along with the two long arms that extended out over the water. Above, he counted three additional levels full of hiding places, not to mention the living quarters he knew had to be in there someplace.
Beneath his feet, the hull abruptly stopped trembling. As the noise died down, he found himself holding his breath, waiting.
Whatever was going on, it was wrong. He could sense it in little ways. If they were pumping, where was the fresh oil smell? Where was the goddamned crew? There’d be two dozen guys if this was a rig in full production.
For the first time since he’d climbed up here, Eric felt the cold. Ignoring his body’s needs was another skill he’d gained through training and necessity. Now that he noticed it, though, the chill crawled over his skin, rousing goose bumps like something alive. He ignored it and moved toward a ladder. Best to check the exterior before facing whatever lay inside.
For some reason, the quiet was worse than the noise had been. Maybe because he could meld into a ruckus. This silence, though, had the makings of the calm before a storm…and he didn’t trust it.
When his instinct told him to duck beneath a steel beam, he listened.
Seconds later, voices sounded from above. Unconcerned, they floated loud on the clear night air.
“Sampson’s pissed.”
“She just appeared out of thin air, man.” The second voice was nasal and high.
Two men. Their hollow footsteps told him they were directly above. He swallowed back the urge to blindly attack, and waited. If he could just figure out who the hell he was up against, he’d know what steps to take.
“It’s that nonprofit. I told you they’d be a problem.”
“Fuckin’ hippies.” Eric wanted to choke the laugh out of Nasal Man’s voice. “You know how Sampson feels about tree huggers.”
“What’re we supposed to do with her?”
Nasal Man didn’t give an audible response, and Eric had the urge to swing up there and kick the answer out of him. When he blinked, he could see the man’s answer etched into the back of his eyelids. A slicing-across-the-throat movement. Or maybe a gun to the head. Whatever it was, that silence didn’t bode well.
At the same time, at least the conversation told him that she was alive…for the time being.
He waited for the footsteps to recede before slipping up the ladder. No more silent exploration. Whatever Zoe had walked into, he had to find her. Now.
