Page 115 of Backtrack

Two men dressed in the white scrubs of kitchen staff pushed carts side by side down the passage. Each cart was stacked with trays two-dozen high with assorted pastries. Malosi screamed at them to get out of his way, but the men were too busy with their conversation to see what was happening until they were almost on top of him.

The big Samoan had the advantage of knowing the ship. He ducked quickly, crashing through a set of double doors. A wisp of a woman in gray sweats and T-shirt flew out and into the hallway, crashing into the carts. Piecrusts and puddings went everywhere. The woman had apparently been on her way out when Malosi went in. He’d helped her along with a backward shove. Completely airborne, she bounced off the carts and hit the ground hard, screaming as her outstretched arm gave a sickening pop.

Cutter and Lola slid to a halt on the sloppy floor, Cutter watching the door while Lola checked on the injured woman. The ponytailed junior officer trotted up behind them, apparently now up to speed with what was going on.

“I’ve got her,” she said, stooping beside the injured woman. “Ajit is on his way with reinforcements. Go!”

Cutter took a moment to snatch the clip badge off his belt and pull the steel chain out of the pocket in the back of the leather circle, throwing it over his head like a necklace. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the double doors. “Is there a back way out?”

The injured woman clenched her teeth, clutching her own arm. “Hatch on the starboard … the right side of the storeroom … leads to a kind of raceway behind the bulkhead that runs parallel to I-95.”

Lola held a door while Cutter stepped inside, waving for the half-dozen occupants to exit the bar. A couple of musicians, who were surely vying for Peter-Frampton-in-his-heyday look, glanced up blinking blearily at the giant shouting in the doorway. The female bartender had surely seen Malosi run through and, by now, had snapped to what was going on. She helped usher the Frampton look-alikes out to the corridor.

“He’s in the storeroom,” she said as she passed. “Careful now.The kitchen keeps extra cutlery in there. Big knives. Lots of big knives.”

“Sweet as!” Lola drew her Glock as the doors swung shut behind them. “A storeroom full of blades …”

The storeroom door was at the far end of the bar. Painted steel, like most of the hatches on the ship, it sported heavy hinges and a thick handle like a freezer, rather than a conventional knob. Colt Python in right hand, Cutter moved approximately 45 degrees from the opening, reaching across to grab the handle with his left. Lola posted at an angle as well. She held her handgun near her chest, muzzle down in a position calledsul, meaning south. Her thumb hovered over the small weapon light mounted under the Glock’s barrel.

Cutter took a deep breath. “¿Listo?”

“Ready as,” she said.

He pulled open the door, and Lola brought her gun to bear, flooding the dark room with white light.

A man’s foot was visible inside the door. The rest of the body lay hidden by a stack of Captain Morgan rum boxes. Navy blue uniform slacks were hiked above the ankle of a polished black shoe. Dress socks sagged, exposing dark skin, the same tone as Lola’s.

“Malosi!” Lola hissed. “Let’s see those hands!”

Cutter scanned the inside of the storage room. It was roughly ten-by-twelve feet and crammed floor-to-ceiling with a labyrinth of boxes and crates, many of which were now overturned, bottles smashed against the concrete floor. The strong odor of spirits filled the air and bit at his nose. A quick glance showed pools of spilled alcohol growing larger across the floor. Whatever had gone down in here had happened only seconds before.

Their view of Malosi’s torso was blocked, but his shoe was pointing toe down, as if he was doing a push-up behind the liquor boxes.

Cutter shot a glance at Lola, who was closer. They’d worked together long enough that she knew exactly what he wanted her to do. Glock at low ready, she stepped in and kicked the black shoe in the heel. It moved with her kick, but the rest of the leg stayed put. “Malosi!” She kicked it again. “Hands.”

Nothing. Cutter moved slowly, cutting the pie step-by-step to reveal the big man’s body. He lay face down. A large pool of bloodblossoming around his shoulders. His hands were up over his head, like he was flying. Both showed defensive blade wounds.

“Looks like his throat’s been cut,” Cutter said. “Check for a pulse.” He stepped around overturned boxes and broken liquor bottles to try the hatch along the back wall. It was slightly ajar.

“He’s gone,” Lola said behind him. “Nearly took his head off.”

The junior officer stuck her head in the storeroom. Cutter saw her name on her badge for the first time. Frida from Norway. “Ajit is—” Her words caught in her throat on the back of a stifled scream. “Abraham!”

Lola pushed her away. “You don’t want to see him like this if you were friends.”

“Were?”

Cutter snapped his fingers. “Get on the radio with Ajit and tell him you need medical now.”

“Yes.” Frida snatched the radio from her belt. “Medical. Perhaps we can—”

Lola gave a sad shake of her head. “No,” she said. “But we still need medical.”

“Of course,” Frida said.

The bartender appeared at the door, cursing at the mess in her storeroom. She threw her head back and groaned.

“Who’s gonna clean all this shit up?”