61

The cold front hit just after midnight, the weather changing as suddenly as the channels on a TV. One moment they were sailing smoothly toward their destination with a fresh, mild wind blowing on a beam reach from the west, directly across their northerly course; the next, the air was ten degrees colder and the wind had shifted forty-five degrees to the north, picked up speed, and filled with stinging rain that beat down with an incessant intensity.

The angry new wind picked fights with everything it met. It drove into a sea that was flowing down the Channel on an ebb tide, piling the rolling swell into shorter, steeper waves that crashed into the boat, tossing it, bouncing it, dropping it like a toy.

There was no point in all three of them staying on deck, so they agreed on a roster of two-hour watches. The course was set by auto helm. Whoever was topside simply had to keep an eye out, ready to override the system and take the helm if the need arose. Carver went first; Trench volunteered to go second. That way, Faulkner could take an uninterrupted break till it was time for his watch. He needed the rest. He’d spent well over twelve hours at the helm. By the time his watch was over, it would almost be dawn. They’d all get up then.

Carver didn’t expect any trouble during his time on duty. When he was standing in the cockpit, anyone wanting to attack him would have to climb up a ladder and through the hatch, coming out of the light into the darkness. Unless he fell asleep at the tiller, no one was going to overpower him that way. He’d be vulnerable only when he went back down below deck.

At the end of his watch, Carver stepped up to the hatch, gripped the top, then swung his legs through, missing the ladder completely and jumping straight down into the cabin. He landed in a crouch on the heaving floor. Trench was sitting on the edge of the main table in the center of the cabin.

“Bloody hell,” he said coolly. “That was a bit dramatic.” There was a mug in his hand. “Hot toddy,” he said, holding it up appreciatively. “You should try some. We left some for you in a Thermos. It’s in the galley.”

Trench nodded to his left, where Bobby Faulkner was stretched out on a settee. “Fast asleep. Poor chap was absolutely shattered.”

“Think I’ll crash too,” said Carver. “Anyway . . . your turn. Good luck. It’s bloody cold and wet up there.”

Trench grimaced and went, “Brrrr . . . ,” just like any man about to go out into foul weather. He made his way past Carver and put his mug in the galley sink. He showed no outward signs of tension or even alertness, yet he never completely turned his back as he scuttled up the ladder and out into the cockpit, pulling the hatch closed behind him as he went.

Carver let him go. Trench might just have been inviting an attack. And there was no guarantee Faulkner was really asleep. He didn’t want to find himself fighting both men at once.

He picked up the Thermos and poured himself a mug of toddy, savoring the steamy fumes of brandy, honey, lemon, and tea. But just as he was about to take the first sip, he was distracted by a clack of hard plastic from the cabin floor. There were two mugs down there, knocking into each other. Faulkner must have had a drink too.

And now he was lying unconscious, passed out on the settee. Carver went over and shook him hard, but there was no response.

Well, that settled one thing. It would be a straight fight, Trench against Carver, master against pupil. And by the time Bobby Faulkner awoke from his drugged stupor, only one of them would be alive to greet him.