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you this, this is the last time we work for percentage of the cargo instead of a salary.”
    Might be the last time we do anything, Steve thought, and then boosted himself up after Squeaky to find out for sure. With any luck, they could fix the problem and make it out Leiah’s other side. If it was as bad as it seemed right now, though, not getting paid was going to be the very least of their troubles.

    Foster stood out on the jutting wing bridge with Richie, the two of them inspecting the damage to the radio system in the heavy, strange air. The long-range antenna had been snapped off almost at the base, which was bad enough—but the coupler had also shattered into multiple pieces, and that meant rigging a replacement wasn’t going to happen.
    On the top deck below them, Steve was helping his partner into a dive suit and Hiko was busy with a torch, leaning against what was left of the safety railing. Woods had crashed for a short spell and Everton was nowhere in sight; she hadn’t seen him in over an hour. Rays of sun pierced through the fog, made the scene look almost peaceful; a day of hard work on an ocean tug in the tropics . . .
    Richie stared out past the men, his dark features intent as he studied the silently raging storm beyond. He’d made it clear that he didn’t want to talk to her, ignoring her attempts to start a conversation; maybe this was an opening. In spite of her irritation with the sullen attitude of the crew, she was tired of feeling like an outsider.
    “That inner wall may be as high as forty-five thousand feet,” she said. “The eye, twenty to thirty miles across.”
    Richie seemed interested. “Weird. I’ve never been in the eye of a hurricane before.”
    “Typhoon. In the South Pacific it’s called a typhoon.”
    Richie glanced at her, sneering slightly. “Thank you very much for that,” he said, words dripping sarcasm.
    Jesus, what’s it gonna take?
    Foster stared at him, wondering why she even bothered. He was stoned half the time anyway . . .
    Richie crouched down, scooped up a chunk of the broken coupler, and sighed heavily. “This thing’s history.”
    Foster looked out across the deck and watched as Squeaky plunged overboard, the splash loud in the unnatural quiet of the eye. Steve ran a hand through his thick, dark hair and paced back and forth a few steps, looking down into the rippling water. Tall, but not too tall. Well built, definitely, good-looking in a preppy kind of way—
    She realized suddenly that she was checking him out and turned back to Richie, surprised at herself. She gave it another shot. “Couldn’t you bypass that capacitor, rewire it . . . ?”
    “On an antenna coupler, it’s a resistor, not a capacitor. I don’t talk to you about navigation, so don’t talk to me about electronics, okay?” He stood up, his low words stinging and sharp.
    Foster glared at him. “Could you please explain the problem you have with me? Are you mad at me today, or is this a female thing?”
    Richie’s expression remained blank, his dark eyes unreadable. “No, no, don’t get me wrong, Foster. I love women, I just don’t think they should be on a boat.”
    He tossed the piece of mangled equipment to the floor and started to walk away—then stopped and turned, and Foster could see the anger now, the reality behind his little speech.
    “I know who your father is. We all needed the money a hell of a lot more than you did.”
    Foster called after him as he started walking again, unable to let it ride. “That’s right, Richie, I have a trust fund and a Park Avenue apartment, this is just a hobby! I love this, I love sleeping in a closet and using the head after Woods—”
    She was talking to air, Richie had walked out, headed for the top deck where Steve and Hiko waited for Squeaky to come up with news. Frustrated, she kicked at the ruined coupler, sent it skittering across the boards.
    She took a deep breath, turned and looked out at Leiah. The raging storm mirrored