I crouch in the narrow space between the bed and the hull, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth. The shotgun. Ford showed me where he keeps the shotgun. I scramble for the storage locker, my hands shaking so badly I can barely work the latch.
The weapon is heavy in my grip. Heavier than I expected. I check that it's loaded the way Ford taught me and position myself at the bottom of the stairs, barrel pointed upward.
Waiting.
The sounds continue. Something crashes. Glass shatters. A cry of pain that might be Ford's and might not be.
Then silence.
I count my heartbeats. One. Two. Three. Ten. Twenty.
"Sera."
Ford's voice, rough and strained. I don't lower the shotgun.
"How do I know it's really you?"
A pause. Then: "My first map was a coast survey from 1847. I showed it to you on day three."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and lower the weapon. A moment later, Ford appears at the top of the stairs.
He's bleeding.
"Oh god." I abandon the shotgun and scramble toward him, hands reaching for the dark stain spreading across his left side. "Ford, you're?—"
"It's superficial." He catches my wrists, stopping me. "Through and through on the ribs. Looks worse than it is."
"There's so much blood."
"Scalp wounds and rib shots bleed like hell. I'm fine." He's already moving past me, down into the cabin, reaching for thefirst aid kit mounted on the wall. "What I need you to do is stay calm and help me with the field dressing."
"Who were they?"
"Three men. Professional kit. Tactical coordination." He peels off his blood-soaked shirt and I see the wound clearly for the first time. A furrow carved across his ribs, still seeping red. "Not your average mob muscle."
"Veroni's people?"
"Maybe. Maybe not." He hands me gauze and medical tape. "The way they moved, the equipment they were carrying... that's military training. Intelligence-level resources. Someone with deeper pockets than a Rhode Island crime family hired these guys."
My hands shake as I press the gauze against his wound. He hisses but holds still, guiding my movements with terse instructions. Clean the entry point. Pack the wound. Tape it tight. Don't worry about pretty, just worry about functional.
"What does that mean?" I ask when the dressing is secure. "If it's not the Veronis?"
"It means this is bigger than a turf war." Ford pulls on a clean shirt, grimacing as the movement stretches his injured side. "It means someone with serious resources wants you badly enough to send a wet team into U.S. waters."
"A wet team?"
"Assassins. The kind who don't leave witnesses." He meets my eyes, and I see something there I haven't seen before. Real fear. "Sera, I need to make a call. The man who started all this. The one who can tell us what we're actually dealing with."
"Priest."
Ford nods and reaches for a satellite phone I've never seen him use before. He dials a number from memory. Waits. His jaw tightens.
"It's Callahan." His voice is flat, professional. "I've got a situation. Three hostiles, neutralized. Tactical training, intelligence-level equipment. Someone sent a wet team after my package."
A pause while he listens.
"No, she's fine. I took a round but I'm mobile." Another pause, longer this time. His expression darkens. "You recognize the operational signature?"
