Chapter 13 - Edge of the Abyss
Julian’s ribs hit the low stainless-steel safety wire with a sickening crunch, the force knocking every scrap of air from his chest.
His outstretched left arm caught the travel incubator by its molded plastic handle just as it tipped over the threshold. Below him, forty feet down, the dark Atlantic water churned with white foam, waiting to swallow the child whole.
Crack!
A bullet tore through the fleshy meat of Julian’s left shoulder, the impact burning like molten lead. His fingers convulsed around the handle, nearly slipping, but he locked his grip with pure, stubborn desperation. He dragged the heavy unit back over the rail, pinning it against his bleeding chest with his right arm.
"Fool!" Marcus snarled, regaining his footing at the top of the stairs, leveling the revolver for a fatal headshot. "You die for nothing!"
Clang!
A heavy iron winch handle struck Marcus squarely across the temple from behind.
Marcus stumbled, his eyes rolling back, the revolver firing wildly into the fiberglass overhead before clattering down the stairs. He collapsed against the sliding glass door of the salon, dazed and bleeding.
Standing behind him was Claire.
She wore a bright yellow foul-weather jacket over her hospital scrubs, her face pale, her hands trembling as she clutched the heavy iron crank. Behind her, in the open wheelhouse, the boat’s captain lay unconscious on the deck, knocked out cold.
"Claire?" Julian gasped, his vision swimming in grey static from the bullet wound. "How... how did you get here?"
"The pilot boat!" Claire shouted over the screaming gale, pointing toward the starboard side where a small harbor authority vessel was bumping against the yacht’s hull, tied off with emergency grappling lines. "The harbor master saw your truck crash the gate! I made him follow you!"
Claire dropped the winch handle and sprinted down the stairs, falling to her knees beside Julian. She didn't look at his bleeding shoulder; her trained hands went immediately to the travel incubator pinned against his chest.
The red battery light was flickering, dying.
Inside, Maya was turning pale, her tiny lips tinged with gray, her chest barely rising.
"Her oxygen is out!" Claire cried, her voice cracking with terror as she popped the emergency latches of the plastic dome. "She’s suffering an anoxic seizure! Julian, we have to intubate her right now or she’s gone!"
Claire reached into her medical bag, pulling out a miniature neonatal bag-valve mask and an infant laryngoscope. With hands that defied the violent rolling of the ship, she slipped the tiny tube between the child's vocal cords, attaching the manual ventilation bag.
"Squeeze it," Claire commanded Julian, placing the bulb into his uninjured hand. "Every three seconds, Julian! Gentle! Just two fingers! One... two... three..."
Julian squeezed the rubber bulb.
Under the dim deck light, his daughter's tiny chest rose. A faint, almost imperceptible pink flush returned to her pale cheeks.
Behind them, the groaning sound of shifting weight broke the rhythm.
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Marcus Sterling was dragging himself up using the salon railing, his face a mask of blood and murderous rage. In his trembling hand, he had retrieved the nickel-plated revolver from the deck gutter.
"Give... me... that... child," Marcus hissed, his thumb cocking the heavy hammer back with a distinct, metallic click.
