The Trade (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 2) by Chris Thrall Read Free Book Online

words,
shaking his head in a daze.
    “Yes, Hans, I check everywhere. I check the bunk rail like
you said, but nothing . No safety line clipping on to it, and only the
one set of scuba gear, not two like you thought.”
    Hans put his head in his hands, racking his brain as he
tried to take in the information. How could she not be there? There was no way
the safety line could snap or unclip itself, nor could the locker under the
bunk containing her dive kit open on its own accord – it was fastened by a bolt
that clamped shut.
    “She . . . must have gotten out,” he muttered. “She must
have gone for the scuba gear.”
    The thought of his brave little girl staying calm, as he had
always taught her, only to swim free of the sinking yacht and find herself
clinging to the equipment, adrift in the dark on the ocean, was too much to
take. As he began to sob, Penny put her arm around him, and Silvestre nodded to
Samson to fetch the rum.

- 15 -
    One month earlier
    J essica awoke from a deep sleep following the night spent
drifting on the ocean. She’d dreamt a bizarre repeating dream in which bad men
were trying to capture her and Papa was too busy sailing the yacht to stop
them. When she opened her eyes, the horror of the last twenty-four hours brought
reality crashing home.
    In the feeble glow from a flickering bulb, she ripped off
the coarse gray blanket covering her and shook it, hoping and expecting to see Bear
drop out so she wouldn’t be alone. Since the death of Mom and JJ, Bear had been
her faithful companion, and to have him here now would have lessened the fear
and homesickness she felt.
    Bear was gone, and Jessica remembered the last time she saw
him was when the seawater flooded into Future ’scabin and washed
him away. As her eyes welled up, she took a deep breath and shook herself.
    “Get a grip, funny face!” she said, echoing her father’s
favorite reprimand. “Sobs are for slobs!”
    Jessica’s thinking helped, spurring her into action. She scanned
her surroundings but could only vaguely remember having been in such a place
before, when she was much younger.
    Where is it?
    It reminded her a little of the cellar beneath their home in
Maine – only the walls were built from large, crumbling yellow blocks covered
in damp mold and smelled like their kitchen did when Papa juiced vegetables
after his morning run.
    The door was a modern internal type, smaller than whatever had
been the original and hemmed in with a rough-shorn timber surround. Jessica
wasted no time trying the handle, easing it downwards and pulling the door toward
her – Damn! It only opened an inch. Someone had bolted it from the
outside.
    There were no windows in the room, and the same aging yellow
stonework formed the ceiling, so old that stalactites had formed. She sat back
down on the lumpy white mattress, its black pinstripes barely visible beneath
unsightly stains and grime.
    Barefoot and wearing shorts and the T-shirt she had draped
over her head when the men plucked her from the sea, Jessica shivered in her
miserable dank prison. She wrapped herself in the blanket just as someone
started to undo the padlock.
    Jessica stared at the door, fearful and confused, hoping it
was her father, who would pick her up in a bear hug, and everything would come
good.
    The man entering the room had a bald head and goatee beard
and was definitely not her father.
    “Ah, Maria,” he announced in an accent that wasn’t American.
    “I’m not Maria,” she snapped with a slight tremble.
    “Yes, you are,” said the man. “Sweet little Maria is going
to behave and make us a lot of money.”
    “I’m not,” she spat, her eyes throwing daggers.
    “Ha! Why not?”
    “Because my papa’s gonna come and get me.”
    “Is he?”
    “Yeah, and he’s gonna kick your ass!”
    “So your father is a fighter?” the man grunted.
    “My papa is a detective and he was a Navy SEAL and he’s not afraid of anything .”
    “Your father is dead, Maria . He