The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(59)

No sense worrying about the shore until he got there. If he got there.

Another problem was his stamina. Could he make it? He was in good shape from running and dieting, but swimming used a different set of muscles. First thing he needed to do was to lighten his load.

He disconnected his weight belt and let it sink to the bottom of the sea, already feeling more buoyant. Next, he needed to release his tank. He’d never done this before and imagined it would be more complicated than the belt. He didn’t want to remove his buoyancy vest, which still had air in it and would keep him afloat. He recalled how he and Paulina had secured the tank to the vest with a strap just beneath the valve on top of the tank. Another strap pinched the tank tight to his back.

He reached behind him, feeling for the bottom strap, and followed it as far as his arm allowed. He gripped the unsecured end of the strap and pulled it loose. Then he reached over his head and found the valve to the tank. Just below it, he felt the fabric and inched along it until he found the clip, pinched it, and felt it snap free. The tank slid down his back and dropped like a stone into the depths.

He found the inflator hose attached to the buoyancy vest and blew air through it, inflating the vest and increasing his buoyancy. Then he slid on his mask and put the snorkel’s mouthpiece between his teeth. He lowered his head and put his right arm in front of him as Paulina had instructed, found his bearing, and began kicking, he hoped, toward shore.

Within seconds, he felt himself laboring, the cold kicking in, his muscles thick and his movements slow. He imagined his blood like oil in an engine in subzero temperatures. But he couldn’t fixate on those thoughts, or on the cold, or even on his labored breathing. Just keep moving. That’s all he needed to do. Keep moving. He had at least thirty minutes of kicking in front of him. He’d take one minute at a time. He’d resist the urge to lift his head, to take his mouth off the snorkel mouthpiece, to fall prey to his body’s desire to stop and rest, if only for a minute.

To stop was to die.

He kept repeating their names in his head. Alex and CJ and . . . baby-to-be. They hadn’t decided on a name. Didn’t know the sex. Paulina said it would be a girl—How? Jenkins didn’t know, but in that moment he, too, saw a baby girl. Alex and CJ and baby-to-be. Alex and CJ and . . . Alex and CJ . . . Alex and . . . Alex. Alex.

He heard underwater thrumming, thinking at first it was just his imagination, his desire. It persisted. He stopped and looked up, but he was having difficulty connecting the sound to anything in particular. A boat? Yes. No . . . An engine. A boat engine. The thrumming grew louder. The boat getting closer. He looked into the gray shroud. Was it his imagination? Was it the desperate hope of a condemned man?

Was it the Russians, returning?

A spotlight pierced the darkness, illuminating the gray.

Not his imagination. The fishing boat.

The light swept left and right. Then it stopped. He thought he heard voices. Men shouting.

The light swept right again, blinding him. With difficulty, he raised his arm and flung it back and forth over his head.

“Nerede?” he heard.

Then, “Orada! Orada!”

Not Russian.

The boat inched closer, materializing out of the fog. On deck, two men stood at the railing, one pointing down at him. The second threw something overboard. It spun in the air before hitting the water. A life preserver.

Jenkins kicked to it, looped an arm through the opening, and held on as the men pulled in the line, dragging him to the ship.



It took what little strength he had remaining, and two men pulling and tugging and finally grabbing the straps of his vest, to yank Jenkins onto the boat. He fell over the railing and flopped onto the deck like a fish gasping for air. Three men stood over him, speaking to him in short, quick bursts of English, an urgent tone. He could not catch his breath long enough to respond.

One of the men gripped Jenkins beneath his shoulders and dragged him across the deck to the pilothouse. The oldest looking of the three hurried to the steering station, taking the wheel and throttling forward on the engine. Jenkins rocked backward as the engine kicked in and the boat gained speed.

He could not feel his hands or his feet, and he’d begun to shiver violently. One of the men held out a mug. Steam drifted up from the surface of the liquid inside. When Jenkins reached for it, his hands shook so violently he could not hold the mug.

The man knelt in front of Jenkins and pulled off his gloves. Each movement sent thousands of needles shooting through his hands and his fingers, and Jenkins groaned in agony. After the man had removed the gloves, he stuck Jenkins’s hands beneath his armpits.

“How are your feet?” he asked in accented English.

“I can’t feel them,” Jenkins said, his teeth chattering.

The second man—they were brothers perhaps, based on their similar appearance—returned from the back of the pilothouse with thick wool blankets, draping them over Jenkins’s shoulders. He helped his brother remove Jenkins’s rubber booties. Like his hands, Jenkins’s feet ached.

“I am Emir,” the man said, rubbing life back into Jenkins’s feet. “This is my brother, Yusuf. The captain is our father, Demir.”

“I thought I lost you,” Jenkins said, still shivering. “I saw your boat leave.”

Yusuf vigorously rubbed Jenkins’s hands and he winced at the intense pain. “I am sorry,” Yusuf said, “but we must get the blood to circulate again.”