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

There’s room.

I shut the small cupboard and opened the larger door, which also accessed the compartment. I peered into the unlit space again. Above me, the steps creaked as Brad stepped onto them. I did not have a choice.

I lowered the medical kit into the engine space and ducked inside. I hesitated before closing the cabinet. I had locked the cabin door from the inside and there was no other egress, so even in his impaired condition, Brad may figure out where I had hidden. I stepped back into the cabin, climbed onto the platform behind the bed, and opened the hatch over the transom. Maybe Brad would see it and think I had climbed out and fallen overboard.

Something slammed against the cabin door. Brad.

I scampered across the bed, trying not to make noise. He growled and slammed into the door again. Wood splintered near the hinge.

I climbed into the compartment, but when I tried to close it, there was no interior handle, because it had not been designed as a living space. I gripped the ends of the door with my fingertips and waited for Brad to make noise again. My fingers ached, but I had to time it perfectly. Brad slammed against the cabin door and wood splintered. I pulled the cabinet, and it clicked shut as the door burst open and fell to the floor.

Had he seen me?

I held my breath.

Brad stomped into the room, huffing and puffing. He banged into something on the ground, probably the broken door, and the head door slammed open. He yelped.

A moment later, he growled from the opposite side of the bulkhead. He banged against the compartment door, and I covered my mouth and shut my eyes. If he opened it, I was dead. The mattress springs creaked, and I heard him crawl across the platform behind the bed.

The engine compartment had plunged into darkness when I had closed the door, and I could not see a light switch. A few slivers of light flickered around the edges of the cabinets, but I could only make out dark shapes. The space reeked of diesel fumes and heated electrical wiring, and the back of my throat tickled. I could not cough. Not now. I swallowed to moisten my throat.

The mattress springs groaned again, and he landed on the deck, the broken door crackling under his weight. Brad stormed out of the cabin into the salon, and then pounded up the steps to the deck. I could not hear him anymore.

I crawled as deep into the compartment as I could and balled into a fetal position. The space felt warm and dry, and the sound of the generator made it difficult to hear anything, both a tactical problem and a psychological blessing. Brad’s grunting and growling had pushed me to the edge of panic. Unfortunately, I would not hear him if he returned.

I nibbled my fingernail and waited.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

I could not see anything. Some light had leaked into the compartment when I first hid inside, but not anymore, which meant night had fallen. The humming of the generator filled my ears and my foot throbbed.

I ran my fingers over the bottom of my foot, and they came away slick with blood. I needed to find the medical bag and stop the bleeding. I braced myself against the sloped ceiling to avoid banging my head and leaned forward, swinging my arms across the deck like a blind woman. My fingers connected with the canvas bag, and I dragged it to me.

I unzipped the kit, dug through the first modules, and touched the familiar shape of a flashlight. I turned it in my hand and pressed the plunger. The light illuminated the cabin, blinding me, and I covered it with my palm. It was nighttime and probably dark inside the yacht, and if the beam leaked out of the compartment, Brad could discover my sanctuary.

I parted my fingers, letting a sliver of light escape, and maneuvered it around the engine compartment to reorient myself. A second door opened into the port berth. I had not seen it before, because the generator had blocked my view.

My foot had painted the floor with blood. I shined the light on my sole. The wound had clotted, but my movement had restarted the flow, and I needed to suture it. In the bag, I found hydrogen peroxide to sterilize my instruments, and a bottle of Betadine, a povidone-iodine for disinfecting the tissue. I collected suture needles, surgical scissors, non-absorbable suture material, syringes, and a scalpel. I laid dressings and bandages beside me and ripped the corners of the packaging to allow quick access when needed.

This is going to hurt.

I popped three Tylenol in my mouth, ground them between my teeth, and swallowed the bitter powder. I wrapped a latex glove over the end of the flashlight to cloak the beam, and it glowed like a light bulb. I held the flashlight in my mouth to free my hands. I often joked that I had done so many surgeries, I could operate with my eyes closed, and I would almost have to do that now.

Now or never.

I laid a sheet of gauze on the deck and donned gloves to prevent the bacteria on my hands from contaminating my wound. I did not want to think about the myriad of pathogens inside the engine compartment. If my wound became infected, I would have a serious problem. I bent my leg and laid my foot on the gauze with the laceration facing me. I wanted to soak the instruments to disinfect them, but without a container, I had to pour the hydrogen peroxide over them and set them on the pad. I palpated the wound and confirmed I had removed all the glass.

It’s time.

I soaked a dressing in Betadine, sucked in a breath around the flashlight, and dug the sterile pad into my laceration. Pain exploded through my foot