“Doc doesn’t look like a hostage,” J.B. said, wiping his face and tucking on his glasses.
“He’s not,” Ryan said. “And that buys us some leverage. Jak, let them on board. Everybody else, stay close. We need to show a united front. We’re a crew, just like them.”
“Gotcha,” Krysty said, and jumped down the main deck, only bending her knees slightly to absorb the impact.
“Leverage for what?” Mildred asked. “What are we bargaining for?”
Ryan said nothing, but checked the clip in his blaster to make sure it was fully loaded. In a few minutes, the outrigger full of sailors reached the side of the Constellation where there was a gap in the gunwale.
“Ahoy!” a short man at the front of the boat called out. “We’re coming aboard!”
“That you, Adam?” Ryan shouted down from the deck, arms crossed, hands dangling near the SIG-Sauer.
Doc raised an eyebrow in puzzlement, then remembered their old code. If one of the companions was with strangers, calling him “Adam” was asking if it was a trap. Answer the name, and the companions would cut loose with every weapon they had, hopefully catching the enemy off guard. Any name with a B meant leave immediately, and so on. It was something they had cooked up on board the Leviathan, sadly destroyed some time ago.
“Clear as crystal, Charlie!” he shouted back though cupped hands.
Ryan nodded at the all-clear code. Good. Maybe they could cut a deal with these sailors yet. He really didn’t want to chill them and take the ship, but that was his only other option.
Going to the hole, Jak kicked over a coiled rope ladder that appeared to be for just such a purpose. The first of the sailors climbed on board with ease and surveyed the destruction with a dour expression.
“Any of them alive?” the sailor demanded. He was a short man, with a barrel chest and arms like a gorilla. The handles of knives jutted from each rolltop boot, and two pistols rested in his wide leather belt. His shirt had a bloody bullet hole in the chest, obviously taken off a fallen comrade.
“Alive? Not anymore,” Ryan replied gruffly. “How about ashore?”
The man grinned. “As you say, Blackie, not anymore.”
“Ryan,” the Deathlands warrior stated coldly.
“Bosun Jones,” the little man replied. “Bosun Jackson Carter Jones, commander of the Constellation.”
“A bosun in charge of this goliath?” Mildred asked suspiciously.
As more sailors climbed aboard, Jones frowned. “Guess I bloody well have to be. All the officers are dead. I’m the only rank left.”
Just then, Doc rose into view, his ebony swordstick stuck into his belt. “By the Three Kennedys, that was brilliant! Dropping the sails and ramming the bar. Ingenious!”
Ryan merely grunted, knowing the question could tell the man way too much about them. Dangerous.
“Why didn’t you just drop anchor?” Jones asked.
“They shot it loose,” Ryan replied. “Or didn’t you see that?”
“Yeah, I saw. So what about the sea anchor?”
The ship had two? Ryan lied, “Jammed.”
“Is it now?” a burly sailor demanded, his nose broken, a bare sword in his three-fingered grip.
“You have my permission to go see for yourself,” Ryan said calmly.
“Permission?” Jones roared. “This is my ship, lubber, and I give the orders around here.” He stabbed himself in the chest with a thumb. “Me and only me!”
As the rest of the crew came on board, they formed a surly mob behind Captain Jones. Their brands still leaking blood, they looked exhausted, but grimly ready to back any play of the small commander.
“Was your ship,” Ryan stated, resting a hand on his blaster. “It’s ours now.”
The companions drew their weapons just as the sailors did the same. For a few moments, nobody breathed for fear of starting the point-blank shooting. Ryan prepared to move fast. At this range, the .75-caliber miniballs would literally blow him in two. Heart or head shots were too chancy. He’d have to hit the blasters themselves as the bosun drew.
“Jus’ give the word, Cap,” a tall man growled.
“Belay that,” Jones snapped, and the men eased their stance. But callused hands were never far from their assortment of weapons.