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“That’s whyIhave to be the one to go to Cali.”

“To do what?”

“Make the exchange.”

“What exchange? I understand you want them to hand over Patrick. But you have nothing to give them.”

“I’ll have something.Patrickand I will have something.”

Her father looked at her soulfully, searchingly. He seemed to understand that she was asking for his trust, not his blessing, and that she was going to Cali with or without the latter.

“You and I,” he said in a halting voice. “All the family we have left is each other.”

“I know. I’ll be careful.”

“There’s a member of my security team,” he said. “Enrique. Former special ops. Speaks perfect Spanish. Take him with you.”

She reached out and took her father’s hand. “Thank you,” was all she said.

He smiled sadly. “You know, honey, this is ‘above and beyond the call of duty’ for a former babysitter.”

Kate shared his smile for a moment, then turned serious. “There’s so much more to it, Dad.”

Chapter 50

Patrick was on cleanup duty, wiping, swiping, and wringing a bloody rag into a bucket of red-tinted water.

Javier’s body was on the floor, covered by a canvas tarp. His killer had stepped out after the shooting and returned with the tarp, cleaning supplies, and a duffel bug. He left Olga chained to the pole but put Patrick to work, watching over him like an armed prison guard. It occurred to Patrick that thousands of people made an honest living this way, day after day, cleaning walls and floors, wiping up blood and body fluids at crime scenes all over the world. All things considered, Patrick would have much rather swabbed the poop deck. Or even walked the plank.

“Don’t think about what you’re doing,” Olga said under her breath, trying to help him through it.

Patrick was dealing with a particularly nasty stain on the white wall. The blast had literally removed the top of Javier’s head.

“Finished,” said Patrick.

“You missed a spot,” said Liu.

Patrick wiped away a clump of hair and rinsed his rag in the bucket.

“Nice work,” said Liu. He was technically still nameless, but the movie-star moniker had stuck, at least in Patrick’s mind.

“Can I wash my hands, please?”

He tossed Patrick a clean rag. “Later.”

Patrick wiped away as much of the mess as possible and returned to his place on the floor. Liu chained him to the pole and went to the duffel bag on the counter. It had sat there, unopened, since Liu’s return with the cleaning supplies, as if he were inviting his hostagesto guess what might be inside. Body parts? Weapons? Instruments of torture?

“No shortage of supplies on this ship,” said Liu, as he removed an empty paint can and a gasoline can from his bag. He placed the paint can on the countertop and poured in some gasoline. Next from his bag were chunks of a Styrofoam cooler, which he broke into even smaller pieces before mixing with the gasoline.

“What are you going to do with that?” Olga asked with trepidation.

“Amateur pyromaniacs stop as soon as the Styrofoam dissolves in the gasoline, which basically gives you a sticky gel that burns. But I’m no amateur. So I’m going to add the key ingredient. Not everyone can get their hands on it, but if you know where to look, you can find it on just about any ship.

“Benzene,” he said, stirring the liquid into the can. “With this, I get essentially the same ‘super napalm’ used by the U.S. military in Vietnam.”

He stepped toward Olga and removed the stick from the can. A big glob of gel clung to it. “This burns at about a thousand degrees centigrade,” he said.

“Keep it away from me,” she said.