Hawke’s voice seemed to be echoing now. Kannaday had to fight to pick up the words.

“G-good,” Kannaday said. It was the only word he could manage without using his lips or tongue. He was not sure anyone heard. He felt himself drifting. His good eye shut.

Hawke was still holding Kannaday’s chin. He pinched hard. “Good?” Hawke repeated. “Then you agree?”

Kannaday nodded once. Hawke released his chin. The captain’s head dropped so that his right ear was facing the ground. A moment later he felt his legs being lifted. He was being carried astern.

There was something oddly comforting about being semiconscious. Kannaday was living from second to second. He was preoccupied with pain. He had no responsibility other than to ride it out. The moments when the hurt subsided, even slightly, were almost euphoric. A part of him was actually grateful to the men who were carrying him.

A Marshall Plan for Peter Kannaday, the captain thought with lightheaded detachment. First we break you down, and then we build you back up.

Awareness came in short flashes. Kannaday was in the hall. Then he was in his cot. Then he was being bandaged and wiped down with a damp cloth. It felt refreshing but hurt at the same time. He realized that he was passing out and then waking as the men ministered to his wounds.

Finally, everything was silent and still. The pain was there, but it seemed distant.

As he lay there, Kannaday heard a soft buzz behind him. He recognized the sound. It was the engine of the launch. The crew must be heading to the fishing vessel. Or maybe they were returning. He had no idea how much time had passed. Perhaps he had been down here longer than he thought. In any case, Kannaday needed to get on deck to make sure the delivery went as planned. He was still the captain. Even the mutinous Hawke had said that much.

Hawke, Kannaday thought suddenly. Dreamlike memories of the beating came back to him. So did the rage he had felt when Hawke’s men first grabbed him.

The captain should have killed the mutinous bastard when he had the opportunity. He would get the gun from his desk and kill him now. Marcus had betrayed the captain, too. Kannaday could not kill the boss’s nephew. But he could lock the privileged little bastard in the radio room until they reached Cairns. Jervis Darling would understand that.

The captain sat up. As he did, his head imploded. The act of moving had reignited the beating. Hot prickles raced from Kannaday’s forehead to his temples and down his neck into his spine. His flesh caught fire, and he was immediately sickened by the iron-rust taste of blood in his mouth. Kannaday shouted and shot back onto the cot. He breathed quickly, squeezing his eyes shut and whimpering as he tried to ride out the pain.