Page 38 of Her Captivated Hero

“I have the two daughters with me.” Hunter said. “They’re in good shape,” he said before Gray could ask the question.

“I want them secured, and you to help search,” Gray commanded. “I’ll take the lower and tank decks. Dalton, you take the main deck. Hunter and Aiden, I want your asses up to the bridge, now. We’re going to have some nervous crew members up there. I want them secured, and or taken out. That’s going to be your call, you’ll know their status. That doesn’t just go for the crew on the bridge, you got that?”

Gray heard all of his men agree. They knew their jobs.

They’d already been on the lower deck, so Gray headed straight for the tank deck. He just had a feeling. He’d been around a lot of years, and he’d learned not to discount feelings. Gray yanked open the door and went inside, his rubber-soled boot ensured that he didn’t slip in the blood as he ran by one of the dead guards. He triple-timed it down the stairs, until he hit the lower deck, then he ran back toward the stern of the yacht. Gray shook his head in wonder. They’d fancified the door to the engine room in fine grain maple, but as soon as he opened the fancy-assed door he was looking into the same old guts of a boat. Bright lights, steel and the smell of grease and motor oil. It was hot and noisy, too. Kind of felt like home.

He slowed the door down so that it shut softly, and then he crouched down beside the left stair rail. He was out in the open, so he tried to make himself a small target in case there were more guards than anticipated, or if the engineer or one of the mechanics had guns. Then there was Faizon or his son. Gray was positive that this was where they were holding the women. He didn’t have anything to go by except for instinct. Damn, now he was sounding like Zed.

Oh for God’s sake, it’s away from the women and soundproof. This is logic, Tyler. Not whoo whoo psychic shit.

Gray crept down the stairs, then shot across the floor two meters so he could hide behind the ship’s main oil tank. Damn, how the hell could he smell body odor while he was butt up against three hundred gallons of grease? A man had to be close. Gray waited and listened, and took a deep breath in. Gray’s eyes watered.

Yep, real close.

A light footstep. Just the one. He heard the sound of metal touching metal. Gray recognized it, a wrench turning a bolt. He peered just enough around the corner so he could confirm that there was a man in a sweat-soaked dingy white tank t-shirt working on a hydrophore pump.

Gray didn’t see anyone else. He rushed him, hitting the mechanic on the back of the head with the butt of his gun. The man was out for the count. Gray still took a moment to search him for any weapons. There was nothing.

There had to be at least an engineer and another mechanic for a boat this size. He remained in a crouch. He was surrounded by tanks and pumps, he needed to get over to the boiler and piston rod. How often had he seen the chief engineer bitching about that equipment? By the sounds of things, he needed to move even farther to the back of the boat. Gray continued to use the large tanks as cover.

He hit pay dirt when he heard two men speaking in Arabic. They were not happy. As Gray got closer he could hear them talking about the woman who was being held in the engine store room. They were debating whether they should give her some water.

Gray stepped out from behind the water cooling tank, his submachine gun pointed at them. The fat man’s arms flew in to the air, the second guy stood stock still.

“Hands up,” Gray said in Arabic. When the second man still didn’t comply, Gray took three menacing steps forward and repeated his command in a lower voice. The man finally held up his hands.

“Turn around, hands on the wall, legs spread.” Once again the second man was slow to respond. As soon as he turned around, Gray slashed down with the butt of his weapon between the man’s neck and head. He fell to the floor like a bag of wet cement.

He patted down the other man and didn’t find any weapons.

“Take off your shirt and your friend’s shirt.”

The older man stared at him blankly. Gray said it again, slower. The man complied. He handed the grungy cloth to Gray. He really didn’t want to touch it. He threw one of the shirts on the floor, then ripped the other one into strips and swiftly gagged and hogtied the unconscious man.

“Where’s the women?”

Again with the blank stare.

“Where are the women?” he repeated his question slower. Gray knew he was speaking Arabic fluently.

“Only one woman.” The man pointed at a door. “She needs water. She’s hurt.”

“Take me to her,” Gray demanded.

The man stumbled forward, looking over his shoulder at Gray’s submachine gun.

“Hurry up.”

When he got to the door, he pulled at the key ring attached to his belt and unlocked the door. They were met by silence and darkness.

Please let her be alive.

He shoved the big man to the deck and felt for the light in the little room. He hit the switch, immediately scanning the floor. Which was when he saw her bare, dirty feet dangling in front of him.

Gray grabbed her around her hips, and she moaned.

Thank God that she had moaned, it told him she was alive. He looked up and saw her gaze down at him through swollen eyelids. He couldn’t tell the color of her eyes, all he could see was blood where the whites of her eyes should have been.