Furious Jeffrey Higgins (english love story books TXT) 📖

I found a white tee shirt with the yacht’s name, “KARNA,” printed in gold on the front. I slipped it on, and it hung mid-thigh and melted away my goose bumps. I delved farther into the container and located a Swiss army knife. I clipped it to my shirt.

In the far corner of the compartment I discovered a black box, made from heavy plastic. I set it on the bed and popped it open. The flare gun rested inside. It had a French name and looked like a revolver with an oversized barrel. I drew the heavy gun, pressed a lever, and snapped the barrel open at the breach. Three flares wrapped in plastic were wedged inside the box. I ripped one open, and inspected the flare, which resembled a shotgun shell, only wider and longer. I slipped the flare and gun back into the box.

I could not carry the gun and use the ascenders at the same time. I searched the cabin for line or a strap but found nothing. I thought for a moment then pulled the sheet off the bunk. I cut it with the knife and tore off a long strip of fabric. I looped the strip through the case handles and tied it over my shoulder like a bandolier. I removed the last two bottles from the refrigerator, drinking one and saving the other for later. It would get hot during the day. I rummaged through the cabin, careful not to make noise, but found nothing else.

Time to go.

I climbed the ladder, cracked the hatch, and peeked over the brink. Brad stood on the starboard side of the cockpit staring at the mast. He knew I had come down.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

I slipped down the ladder and backed away from the hatch. The other sailboat could disappear from view at any moment, and every second I waited could mean losing my chance. Besides, there were only a few places to hide on a yacht, and even Brad’s damaged brain would eventually consider checking the foresail locker. I had to ascend the mast, but I would never make it with him standing there.

The thought of leaving the compartment weakened my knees, and I leaned against the bulkhead for support. I pictured Emma’s face. I had faced my darkest days and come so far. I could do this.

I had an idea.

I opened the storage compartment again and searched for something heavy and easy to handle. I found a fishing rod holder under the bed and hefted it in my hand. It was the right weight, but too long. There was nothing else. I squeezed the bottle in my hand. I would want it later, but if I never made it up the mast, water would not matter.  I had to use it.

I climbed the ladder and looked through the plexiglass. I could not see Brad. I unlocked the latch and raised it a few inches. Brad stood near the mast facing the bosun's seat with his head cocked. He turned and looked at the cockpit, trying to solve the problem. I had to hurry before he figured it out.

I raised the hatch, praying he would not turn around, and eased my upper body through the opening. I twisted my torso, cocked my arm, and threw the bottle high into the air with all my strength. It sailed over the Bimini top and landed with a clunk near the helm. Brad whipped his head toward the sound. Had he seen the bottle? He limped aft, the bones in his leg crunching under his weight. The sound sickened me.

I climbed through the hatch as he loped toward the cockpit. If he turned, he would have me. I tiptoed, trying to be quiet, and the bloody bandage squished between my toes. Flames radiated through my leg, and I grit my teeth.

A wave smacked into the bow and the deck swayed and pitched. I lost my balance and fell hard on my side, sprawling on the deck. I twisted and glanced at the stern. Brad had fallen too. He hung across the safety lines, facing away from me then stood and swatted the lines with an open hand.

I clambered to my feet and hobbled to the mast. I slipped into the harnesses and tightened the belt around my waist. I watched Brad stumble into the cockpit. He tilted his head toward the sky and snarled. I raised the ascender, sat in the seat and stood in the stirrups. I elevated the seat and repeated the process, faster than before. The gun case banged against my hip, each time I stood.

“Yaaa,” Brad yelled.

I looked over my shoulder, and he glowered at me from the stern. He raised his hands over his head and curled his fingers. He snarled and climbed onto the deck.

I hung only ten feet in the air. I turned away from him and focused on speed. Raise ascender . . . sit . . . raise stirrups . . . stand. Brad trudged across the deck toward me, thumping his leg as he moved. The noise grew louder, closer.

He neared, but I did not turn to check. Any wasted motion would slow me.

“Aargh,” Brad screamed below me.

I looked down. Brad jumped and slapped the line with his hands, missing me by inches. The chair swung in the air, and I clung to the harness to avoid falling. He crashed to the deck and screamed in pain. I continued to climb.

I reached the top and rested.

That had been close. My life had come within seconds of ending, and now that the danger had passed, my hands shook. I hugged the mast to steady myself. Cumulus clouds crawled across the blue sky. I breathed in the salty air, fresh and thick. The yacht bobbed in the ocean as the wind blew harder and the sea surged. The mast swayed, exacerbated by my weight. I had almost died, but I survived. My body tingled with exhilaration, stronger than ever before.