Furious by Jeffrey Higgins (top 10 novels to read TXT) 📕

more than an hour. I stood and searched for ships, but the horizon remained clear. We were alone.

I would have to be more careful. Brad had been right—not having someone on watch was dangerous and I could not rely on the AIS alarm. I had been awake all night thinking about my future, and I had taken care of Brad all day, so I was not surprised I had fallen asleep. If Brad did not improve today, I would set my alarm and take brief naps.

On our second day without wind, the sea flattened like a lake, and the sails hung like towels on a hook. I checked the GPS and our position had not changed. I stretched and went below to check on Brad.

I tapped on the stateroom door. No answer. I opened the door and slipped inside. The bed was empty. A flicker of panic shot through me.

Brad retched inside the head, and vomit splashed in the toilet.

This is not good.

“Brad?” I knocked on the door.

“Leave me alone.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“I’m sick, damn it. Leave me alone.”

I stared at the closed door. He must not have slept well. “Okay. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Get out.”

I retreated to the galley, made coffee, and climbed on deck. The cloudless day caused the temperature to rise. Our yacht bobbed on a current pushing us west, away from the Maldives. I walked around the deck and stretched my legs. Something splashed off the starboard side, and I whirled around with my heart pounding. A large fin cut through the water.

The great white shark had returned.

I moved away from the gunwale out of reflex and tripped over the cabin coaming. I stumbled and threw up my hands to catch myself but hit the deck hard and fell against the lifelines. The back of my neck tingled, and I peered over the side. The black shape swam just below the surface then dove under the yacht.

I walked to the port side, taking more care this time, and combed the surface with my eyes. I did not spot the shark. Why did it scare me? The beast was huge, but we sailed a massive yacht, and I did not plan to go swimming.

I had spilled the coffee on my shorts, so I went below to change and get another cup. Brad tossed and turned in bed. I sat next to him and put my hand on his forehead, which felt damp and warm. At my touch, his eyes swiveled toward me, bloodshot and yellow.

“How do you feel?”

He blinked, like he was trying to focus. “Bad.”

“You’re hotter. When did you take Tylenol?”

“What?”

“How long since you took anything?” I asked.

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“I gave you 650 milligrams at eleven o’clock last night. Did you take anything this morning?”

“My head hurts.”

 “We need to lower your fever,” I said.

I retrieved the medical bag and shook two Tylenol out of the bottle. I raised them to his mouth, but he turned away from me. I leaned over to insert the thermometer, and he snatched it out of my hand.

“Come on, Brad. I need to know how high your temperature is. You know I do.”

He glared at me and stuck the thermometer in his mouth.

I took it out after it beeped.

“Shit. Now, it’s one-oh-two.”

Brad dragged himself into a seated position and shook the sheet off, agitated, restless. I got him another cold washcloth and a drink from the refrigerator. He took them and leaned back in bed.

“Lay down and rest,” I said.

“I know what to do. I’m a goddamned surgeon too, or did you forget?”

I stood. Doctors were the worst patients. “What can I get you?”

“Leave me alone and let me sleep.”

Brad scratched his head furiously, wrapped himself in the sheet, and turned away. He seemed angry and confused.

Fevers could do that.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Perspiration coated my skin in the sweltering heat. The wind had vanished, and the yacht lay motionless on the flat surface. I removed my tee shirt and used the soft fabric to wipe the sweat off my forehead. I dropped the damp shirt on the cushion beside me. Even in a bikini, the still air clawed at my skin.

The wind had been absent for days, and with a limited amount of diesel fuel, we were at its mercy. The breeze would increase eventually, but I did not want to think about having to sail without Brad. I had checked on him every hour, hoping he would get better. I needed him to deliver us to the Maldives.

The ocean sparkled, a rich blue—cool and inviting—but the thought of going in the water still terrified me. I had not swum since I was ten years old and there were thousands of feet of saltwater beneath us. My fear was genuine, and that was before I had seen the shark. The image of a jagged-toothed monster stalking the depths below—unseen and hungry—sent a cold jolt through my stomach.

Splashing water over my face and body would feel refreshing but jumping into the shower would disturb Brad. I opened the instrument panel and flipped to the screen controlling the swimming platform. It appeared simple enough, with buttons to raise and lower it. A drop of sweat dripped off my forehead onto the screen. I pressed the button, and the stern opened with an electrical hum. The platform unfolded outward and descended on its hydraulics until it extended parallel with the surface. The teak deck hovered a few inches over the water.

I searched for the shark before I descended the wooden steps. My eyes swept the surface one last time, and I stepped onto the sturdy deck. The ocean remained flat, with no wind or noticeable current, and the platform felt stable. I relaxed and knelt along the edge of the dock. I stared into the depths, but my face reflected off the glassy surface.

I leaned over, cupped my hands in the water and splashed my face. It was not as cold as I had hoped,