I grabbed the iron cleat and pulled myself up onto the lower deck.

The wood was slick under my boots.

I kept my gun raised, my eyes moving across the deck.

The sliding glass doors of the main salon were just ahead.

I slipped inside, the sudden warmth of the cabin hitting me.

The smell of leather and expensive polish was overwhelming.

I moved down the carpeted stairs to the lower deck.

The corridor was narrow, with several closed doors.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

The screen lit up with an unknown number.

Footsteps sounded on the deck above, heading toward the stairs.

I slipped into a narrow recessed doorway just as the shadow of a man appeared at the top of the stairs.

My hand went to the grip of my Beretta.

I pressed my back against the cold wooden paneling of the bulkhead.

The footsteps were heavy, echoing slightly against the low ceiling of the companionway.

The man was humming a low, tuneless song under his breath.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and turned away from my hiding spot, walking toward the stern of the vessel.