Clouds hid the moon and turned the sea into an endless rippling expanse of black blood.  The night was reduced to ragged breaths and the monotonous rhythm of the muffled oars pounding through the still water.  The small boat's engine had been cut for the last half-an-hour.  In that time, a heat sweat had built up in Maxwell's wetsuit, eliminating all the coolness the open-air offered.

 Everything was focused on the tiny bubble of reality surrounding his Sillinger inflatable. 

Stroke.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Stroke.

The lights from shore were becoming star points.  The distinctness of the buildings and the town they formed were breaking apart into a loose constellation.

Maxwell cursed himself for looking back.  Don't get distracted.  Stroke.

The white shape of the El Silbón lurked in the mysterious mid-space where it didn't appear to be getting any closer, but faint sounds were beginning to travel out to his ears.  There was music that rose and fell as though linked to the rhythm of the waves.  It was a throbbing bass beat, likely coming from one of the radio stations on the Trinidadian shore.  Occasionally a word broke the night, distinguishable only as a human voice and bereft of meaning.

Alone on a boat in the ocean, Maxwell was far out of his comfort zone.  The exertion forced him to recognize the damage the desk job had done to his body.  He should be in better shape to attempt this mission all by himself.  Even in ideal circumstances, it should have been a two-man job—three or four wouldn't be a bad idea.  But there was no help from the DTAA, and he could risk hiring mercenaries.

Serves me right for becoming a bureaucrat.  Stroke.

He looked up to see the yacht racing toward him.  He was coming in too fast.  The tide was adding speed to his small craft.  The gleaming hull towered above him.  Lights were on in the portholes and on the deck.  The music and voices were more constant but no clearer.  It was two hours past sunset and El Silbón was still full of activity.

Some would question his tactics.  Maxwell had no doubt that most people would choose to attack later when the passengers and crew were in bed.  But he doubted he could board with the silence required for that plan.  A little activity would help mask his movements.

He paddled backward, trying to slow himself.  The ship rushed in at him.  Maxwell pivoted his boat to come in sideways and hauled the oar out of the water.  He leaned his body over the side and took the impact with his shoulder, silencing the collision.  Clenched teeth held back the groan that threatened to escape him.  Before the bounce could send the Sillinger too far away, he attached the tether line to the hull with a self-sealing vacuum suction-cup.

After testing to make sure the black rubber was solidly fastened to the ship, he let the line out.  Using his hands, Maxwell maneuvered himself around from the starboard side to the aft.

The vibration of the engine traveled through his neoprene gloves, as he used the pressure from his hands to brake the Sillinger.  Running only to power the yacht's electrical systems, the tremor of the motor was faint.  Even with it shut off, Maxwell would have known where to plant the C4.  He pressed the putty to the fiberglass surface until it stuck and then armed the detonator.  The small inflatable could probably outrun the El Silbón.  Its eighty horsepower and lightweight would make his tiny boat swift on the water.  But the yacht could put up a chase and there was the risk of Torrealba's mercs firing on him.  Better they were disabled as he made his getaway.  When he was clear, he'd trigger the plastic explosives and leave them dead in the water.

Maxwell backtracked over to the starboard side, inching along with frustrating slowness until he reached the swim ladder.  Since no one was planning on taking a dip in the hundred-and-twenty-foot deep night drenched sea, it was in the up position, about six feet above his head.  Once he stood up, he might have had a shot at jumping for it, if he'd been on solid ground.  This was going to take a lot more work.

Gearing up, Maxwell checked the chamber of the Glock on his hip.  He made sure the knife in his belt and the one on his ankle were secure.  For the hundredth time, he debated taking the FN P90: it was the right weapon for the job, but he had to move fast and stay light.  And with any luck, he would be back on board without a shot ever being fired.

When there was nothing else to do except take a couple of rapid bracing breaths through his clenched teeth, he took up two more of the suction-cups and began to pull himself up the side.

He hadn't done anything like this since training and his body reminded him of that fact with every brutal inch of progress he made.  He could almost hear a familiar gruff voice in the back of his head telling him: you can't do this.  Lies won't get you up on that boat and get you off again, alive.  And lies are the only thing you're good at.

He pushed the thought down and buried it.  Just like Bertrand was now buried, in some untended grave, in a town where no one knew his name.

   It was unfortunate that his death hadn't been at Maxwell's own hands.  Just as it had been unfortunate that cirrhosis had taken so long to claim him.  If it had been more efficient, Maxwell wouldn't have been robbed of all those years.  Perhaps he might have been reunited with his mother if fate was more just.

Dirt piled in over his memories as the strain of physical exertion concentrated his thoughts back to his movements.

Switching to the ladder made the going easier, but the muscles in his arms were already burning and he was breathing hard through his open mouth.  Cautiously, he peered over the gunwale's railing.

The aft deck was empty, but a guard patrolled above on the bridge deck.  As the dim figured moved off, Maxwell dragged himself over the side and scurried to the shadows.

His back pressed against the cabin wall.  He focused on his breath forcing it back into a smooth pattern.  Two people were talking above him.  Only the high pitched syllables could be heard over the music coming from the prow.  Maxwell closed his eyes and focused.

"Sur."  The word drifted up above the radio's murmuring dance tune.

South.  They must be discussing navigation.

The song stopped abruptly as the radio was switched off.  An incomprehensible bark came from the cabin behind him.  Somebody was calling out or giving an order.

Maxwell pressed his ear to the wall and held his breath.

A clink.  Glass on metal.  A pop of a wet cork. 

The person was having a drink.  An image began to form of a cut crystal glass on a silver tray.  A bottle of añejo tequila in a pampered hand.  Benicio Torrealba having his nightcap.  Of course, it could be a dozen other things.

Go with your gut.  That's what Owsley had always told him in training.  His old commander had been a firm believer that relying on instinct both resulted in better choices as well as lightning-fast reflexes.

It was possible he had Aaron in there with him.  But if daddy-dearest had begun drinking himself to sleep, it was more likely that the boy was in bed, below decks.

Maxwell drew the eight-inch knife from his belt and began to creep toward the stairs.  They were located mid-ship, port side.  The yacht's layout had been studied so thoroughly that he moved as though he'd been born on the ship.  He padded down the narrow strip at the side, keeping low and staying below the cabin windows.

He was steps from the door, when a crewman turned down, heading toward him from the prow.

Everything stopped.  The blood beating in his ears was louder than the waves lapping against the hull.  Maxwell wished he was a better knife thrower.  The holster on the man's hip was clear in the silhouette created by the deck lights.  If Maxwell rushed him, the guard would have his sidearm out long before he could engage him in hand-to-hand.  Maxwell could try a fast draw and beat him to the punch, but his Glock wasn't silenced.  A shot would bring hell down on him. 

An agonizing second of indecision ticked inside his head.  He had no choice.  He'd have to take the shot and deal with consequences. 

Before he could reach for his weapon, a voice called out in the night.  "Miguel."  His target spun in response.

"Qué?"

A conversation in Spanish was shouted across the space of the forward deck. 

"Coming to the game later?"

"Will Juan be there?"

"Yeah.  Why?"

"He has more wool than a lamb."

Laughter from the unseen compatriot.  "See you then."

Miguel began to turn and Maxwell was on top of him, dragging him away from the front of the ship and his friend, with a hand over his mouth and the knife slitting his throat.  He backed the corpse through the door.  A trail of blood followed him down the narrow teak steps.  There was nothing he could do about it, but he was able to stuff the body in a closet and get it out of sight.

The ship's living compartments were a narrow warren of rich woodwork.  There was jingly, bouncy music coming from one of the cabins down the hall.  A children's show or movie.  That's where he needed to go.

Each foot was placed carefully to avoid a creak or a squeak from his water covered boots.  The sound of the TV became louder. He listened at the door for a moment before slipping in like a ghost.  The boy was seated on the floor two feet from the screen in a compact den.  No one was watching him. 

Maxwell shut the door behind him without a sound, slipping the knife back in its sheath.

"Aaron." 

There was a terror on the boy's face when he saw him.

Maxwell pulled the mask off his face.  "Don't yell.  Your mom sent me.  Here, listen."

He took out his phone and played Emily's message.

"Hey there, baby boy."  Her voice was artificially cheerful.  If you knew her, you could spot the tension in it.  The fear and the worry were hiding behind the false optimism.  "I've missed you.  I want to see you so bad.  This man is Max.  He's a friend.  Go with him and he'll bring you to me.  He'll bring you home.  But you have to go fast, fast."  The repetition hinted at some mother-son code Maxwell wasn't privileged to.

Aaron was hesitant but he came to Maxwell dream-like.  Slow and languidly.  Maxwell scooped the boy up in one arm much as he had done at the estate.  He drew his Glock with his free hand.  A gunshot at this point wouldn't make a difference.  He could be off this boat in less than a minute, even if an alarm sounded.

He eased out into the tight hallway and headed for the exit.  Footsteps pounded down the stairs.  They weren't rushed but there was more than one set.  In the tight space, the men would be forced to come single file.  Maxwell took aim at the doorway.  He'd wait for the second target to reach the bottom and then take them both out.

He swallowed to keep the dryness out of his throat, as the anticipation built.

Then a horribly familiar click of a pistol being cock came inches from the back of his neck.

"Don't try anything stupid, Americano," said the voice behind him.

***

The emptiness of the Music Box amplified R.J.'s anxiety.  The nervous energy seemed to bounce around the empty corridors like an echo.  The lack of people made him uncharacteristically nervous.  His apprehension was nothing definable.  It was like the edgy feeling after one too many cups of coffee.  With each turn, he almost hoped he'd run into someone who had stayed behind, even if that person was Gracie or Paulson.  He just wanted something to break the disturbing stillness.

When everything was quiet like this, the ironwork hallways felt even more like a submarine than usual.  It was easy to feel lost beneath a great ocean inside of a derelict craft—a ghost ship—corroding away and just waiting for the moment when water would begin flooding in, spilling over the decks and rising to drown him.

He had once tried telling Nikki about it, without telling her anything.  He described dreams of being trapped in a submarine.  Nikki had told him he'd watched Red October one too many times.  She also teased that he was suffering from a Sean Connery complex.

A flashing image of their last night together played in R.J.'s head like worn-out piece of celluloid that had been run through a projector one too many times. 

Standing awkwardly on the edge of her small galley kitchen, he fishes for the courage to speak the words he's practiced. 

While he hesitates, she speaks.  "I made braised short ribs you will die for." Nikki wipes her hands on a towel.  The faint sweat on her brow slicks back her hair and makes her face glow.  Her loving smile tempts him to abandon his resolve—cave to his desires—and forget his duty.  "What is it you wanted to tell me?"

He tried to silence the silky but throaty voice reverberating in his ears.  The need to quiet the hurt was so strong R.J. felt the awful temptation to dredge up Mila.  Mila still had the power to smother everything with her memory of misery.  Even after all these years, she could create a morass so deep nothing else could rise to the surface.

Nikki didn't deserve to be forgotten like that.  Instead, to sidestep that ache inside of him, R.J. reminded himself why his place was down here and not up there on the surface.

When he first joined Project LARS, it was a triumph for his ego and a victory for his imagination.  Amy was a prize—a prize that had already been seized and handed to him.  It was as though all of the futile hunting and searching, which had occupied so much of his life, had been paid back to him in this gift—this lycanthrope.  But now he saw things for how they really were: fragile.

Amy wasn't a prize.  The people under his care weren't parts in a machine that operated for his benefit.  His hubris was gone.  He wasn't supposed to be there to reap the rewards.  It was his duty to lead and protect everyone whose life was tied to LARS.  R.J. was the only one with the background to understand beings like Amy.  He was the only one capable of knowing the pitfalls, the dangers, and the needs of the project.  And as much as it hurt, he had to face the fact he was needed more here than anywhere else.  The Music Box's need for him was much larger than Nikki's.

The fierce storm in his mind made his surroundings disappear, but R.J. still spotted the blood from ten feet away.  The door to the changing room was open.  Yellow, orange, and white hazmat suits lined the far wall.  The white vinyl tile floor was marred by a mercurial pool of deep crimson.  Flowing from some unseen source, it puddled in front of the doorway.

His sudden decrease in speed almost made R.J. trip over his own feet.  Paused as though stopped in time, he stared at the growing stain before breaking into a run.

She got out.

It was a completely irrational thought but it rang in his head like a fire alarm.  The fear of the lycanthrope being on the loose was rooted so deep that the sight of Kelman Huang's body sprawled on the floor confused him.  The blood was draining from it, but it seemed perfectly intact.  Maybe it had nothing to do with Amy.  Perhaps he fell and hit his head?

R.J. knelt next to him and checked for a pulse.  It was gone but the body was still warm.  He turned the technician over to perform CPR and spotted the source of the injury: a ragged hole in the young man's chest.

A bullet hole?

He couldn't be sure.  He had never seen one before.  But this was clearly no accident.  R.J.'s hopes of reviving Kelman drained away just as the lifeblood poured from the wound.

Why would anyone do this?

His eyes made a wild, flickering scan of the room.  There was an empty space in the racks that gaped like a missing tooth.  Two suits were gone.  The only reason someone would need them was if they were planning on entering Amy's enclosure.

R.J. was back on his feet, dashing for the service corridor.  He skidded across the floor as his momentum prevented a smooth turn.  Down the hall, two men in lightweight yellow hazmat suits punched in their security info at the portal.

With an unthinking, sudden impulse he screamed, "Hey."

The shorter of the two raised his arm.  A fiery blast erupted from his hand, creating a negative image in R.J.'s eyes.  In the confined metal hall, the shot was as deafening as a bomb.  A bullet blistered past R.J., ricocheting off the wall and leaving a shiny scratch a foot from his head.

He threw himself into a recessed doorway, trying to get some protection from the next shot.  It was feeble cover and his eyes clenched tight, bracing himself for the inevitable searing death.  It seemed impossible that they would miss twice at such close range.

It appeared that Bowman and Miller wanted to get at Amy and were willing to kill everyone who got in their way.  It had been the faces of the two newcomers behind those plastic visors. None of it made any sense and his brain refused to try to work it out.  It just spun uselessly like a bald tire on ice.  The only thing that R.J. kept thinking of was the gun in Bowman's hand.  Strangely it had looked white—perhaps it was a trick from the blinding muzzle flash.

Whatever the color, it had proved its ability to kill, and any second there would be another shot—one R.J. wouldn't survive.

But when it didn't come, he cautiously peered out from his precarious cover.   The hallway was empty and the door to the portal was closing.  His instinct was to run to it, but that was wrong.  He needed to stop them from getting in.

And he could only do that from the OC.  R.J. turned and began to sprint faster than he had in years.