by Jade Alters
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Mated to Team Shadow
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The party pitched to full swing, and the revelers were too sloppy drunk or high to pay attention to my movements. This allowed me to poke my nose in places where it did not belong. The only people I had to watch were the four ridiculously smoking hot bodyguards dressed in black from shoulder to toe stationed throughout the yacht.
But although I acted as loopy as the tanned and toned high rollers surrounding Aedan Morgan, I could pick out a path to his office. Here I hoped to find the clue to my old college roommate's fate. At the very least, I might find convincing evidence about her kidnapping and/or Morgan's nefarious deeds.
When I use the word "nefarious," it is for good reason. Interpol suspected Morgan was the kingpin of not only drug running but Caribbean piracy. This last scored high on the law enforcement's radar because a frightening surge of pirate attacks plagued Latin America and the Caribbean last year. Law enforcement recorded seventy-one pirate attacks in Latin America and the Caribbean—a one hundred and sixty-three percent increase from the previous year. Morgan certainly had a piece of that.
But no one could make a case against the elusive Morgan. The pirate playing the part of an international playboy gave the bastard plenty of cover and ability to move about the cabin, figuratively. Last I saw, Morgan sat immobile on the upper deck in a half-conscious state after sucking in several lines of pearly white coke.
It must be good to be a criminal mastermind. At least he lived well enough. The yacht, surreptitiously renamed the Lady E, was gorgeous though only worth thirteen million dollars. Higher-end floating palaces go for thirty-eight mil and more, but I guessed beggars couldn't be choosers when you procured your watercraft through theft. Highly polished walnut panels lined the walls, and the hallway floors had the softest carpet I'd ever felt. Yeah, I must check my bank account to see if I had thirteen mil to cover the price of one of these babies.
As if.
Newsflash. Investigative journalists beginning their careers do not make big bucks.
I smoothed my gold sequined mini-dress scored at a New York designer's showroom at a deep discount. It was not a thing I would normally buy. The cut dipped too low and the hem too high, but it purchased me entrée into many venues that demanded a particular cache for admittance.
At once trashy and expensive, it pegged me as the type of party girl welcomed into the dens of iniquity of the rich and famous. I checked my stylish blonde bob wig, stolen from my mother's inventory, to make sure it was in place. Then I moved forward zig-zagging through the partygoers careful to support the illusion I was drunk. If they caught me, I needed a plausible excuse why I veered off course.
So much depended on me not getting caught.
"Where's the loo?" I said in my sloppy French to the immobile bodyguard stationed at the doorway that led to the staterooms and Morgan's office.
He stared at me with animal dispassion as if I were prey, and I shivered. His nostrils flared, but other than that, not a single muscle twitched on his classically chiseled face.
Down girl, I thought. You are not here to play. Though if I were, Mr. Tall, Dark and Dangerous would tick the right boxes. Chalk it up to my intrepid and impulsive nature, but I have yet to meet an inappropriate man to whom I'm not drawn.
Which was why I lived steadfastly single. Still, his high cheeks, his classic straight nose, square jaw, wide shoulders and ripped abs that did not hide behind his black sweater whispered to me, "Come here, little darling."
"The head," he said in English, "is down the hall, second door on the right."
Head. Interesting choice of words. Marines use that term for the bathroom.
"Merci," I said, and then realized I announced I understood English. Hell. I hope I haven't blown my cover. But I reassured myself speaking more than one language was common in most parts of the world. In contrast to the United States where it was nearly a cultural crime to know more than one language.
I fake stumbled forward and then found myself thrown into the bodyguard's solid form by a bona fide impaired guest making for the same accommodation.
"Sorry," the guest slurred, and staggered past us.
"Excuze-moi," I said as the delicious bodyguard caught me in his strong arms. His scent intoxicated me with an enticing mix of sandalwood and musk.
He bent to my ear and whispered, "You can cut the bullshit French. You sound like a boarding school reject."
I pushed away with more force than my supposedly drunk condition would have allowed and glared at him.
"There is no need to be insulting," I said. "Sometimes you have to lay it on thick to get into these parties."
"Oh, I'm sure you lay something," he said with a curled lip.
"Va te faire foutre," I snapped. But telling the man "fuck you" didn't even draw a tick in his face.
He cocked his head. "Sorry. On duty. Better run along now. The gentleman has finished." His head snapped to level his gaze on the rowdy crowd. Dismissed, I stepped away stewing at his rude treatment until I realized the bodyguard announced the man finished before he opened the door.
Arrogant son-of-a-bitch.
I passed the drunk and slid open the door. Instead of walking inside, I looked over my shoulder to check that the bodyguard had his eyes on his paper watching the crowd. I slid it shut and tiptoed down the hall and slipped in the door I'd spotted Morgan walking from earlier.
The stateroom featured a large wood desk before an immense porthole that was more a wide pan
e of glass than hole looking over the St. Lucia harbor. Lights from the town sparkled in the bluish light of deep evening seeming more like a fairyland than bustling port. We were gliding toward a slip, a sure sign the evening was about to come to a close and announced my narrowing window of opportunity.
I glanced around the cabin frustrated by the pristine cleanliness of its occupant. Who would think that an international criminal had a clean fetish? I walked to the desk and rattled each drawer to find them locked tight.
Merde.
I was not without resources, just a rapidly dwindling amount of time for my investigation. I pulled the metal nail file I hid in my bra and worked the lock of the topmost long, thin, middle drawer. This is the place where many people kept sensitive information on thumb drives.
The question was whether Morgan had pried opened these locks to gain the inner recesses of the desk. I had to hope so because I found no other place he could hide information.
My misspent youth hassling the principal of my high school rewarded me with a click. Heart thudding, I pulled open the desk to find a leather journal and several thumb drives.
Score!
I hope.
I pried open the leather journal to find it was a ledger with words and numbers but in Spanish. Since my Spanish was as good as my French, I couldn't make heads or tails of the words. I slipped my iPhone SE from my bra, stripped of all apps and not connected to a service. Its use was strictly to take photographs, and its compact size made it easier to conceal in clothing. I had to work to steady my shaking hands as I snapped sharp photos of the pages. The ship shuddered from a bump which I could only surmise was the dock.
I was officially out of time.
One more shot and I'd have captured the written pages. I slipped the phone back into my bra. In a scorching second of bravado and heedless of the danger, I scooped up the thumb drives and stuffed them in my bra, determined I would get off this vessel before Morgan discovered the drives missing.
Or so I hoped.
The cabin door rattled, and my heart nearly stopped as I shoved the desk drawer closed.
The door flew open revealing a bodyguard. Only he wasn't tall and dark. He stood delectably tall, buff, and blond.
"Who are you?" he said with his eyes narrowed.
"I'm looking for the bathroom," I said sloppily, aiming to pull off my drunk act.
His eyes narrowed because he clearly did not believe me. His nostrils flared too and surprise lit his handsome green eyes. The bodyguard touched a headset on his ear.
"Intruder in the primary's office."
He nodded and touched the headset again.
"Roger," he said.
My stomach fluttered with a thousand nervous butterflies, and as usual in dangerous conditions, I now needed to use the bathroom, but I had to hold it.
"Oh, baby," I said in a seductive voice. "I didn't mean to make any trouble. I'll just go on my way."
But Tall, Blonde and Delicious wasn't having it as he moved to the desk, and I tried to pass by him. He grabbed my arm in a viselike grip and stopped my forward motion cold.
"Wait here," he said with utter politeness as if he was a waiter offering a menu.
"I should go," I said.
"No," said a rougher voice. Another of the bodyguards stood in the door. And this one was massive. He had to turn to get his expansive shoulders into the cabin. His deep blue eyes stared into me to the divine secrets of my soul. His nostrils flared too.
What is it with these guys flaring their nostrils?
"What do we have here?" said another voice.
Morgan came up behind the bodyguard, standing straight and utterly sober in his white linen suit. The bastard had played us all. The butterflies in my stomach morphed to big nasty moths seeking escape as suspicion glittered in his cold eyes. My heart sank as I realized that he did not buy my drunk act.
"Gunner found her here," said the big guy.
Morgan sauntered past both bodyguards.
"Find something of interest?" he said with an oily voice. I imagined a snake sliding across my skin, and I shivered.
"I was looking for the bathroom," I said.
"And found my desk instead. Let's see." He slid around the desk and pulled at the should-be-locked middle drawer, which opened. Inwardly I cringed.
"Hmm," he said. Morgan glanced at the biggest guard. "Frisk her," he said.
I looked to Morgan and to the guards and did the math. If I didn't find a way out of here, I was as disappeared as my friend Surma.
Tall, blonde and delicious, AKA Gunner, responded to a flick of Big Guy's head and advanced on me. I shrunk against the bulkhead and desperately searched for an out. Toeing off my sandals, I scanned the distance between my position and the door. I had to hope I had surprise and speed on my side.
I curled my body then leaped to put one foot on the desk. I jumped forward to sail past the black-garbed muscle, landed and rolled. Three years of high school gymnastics paid off at odd times, like this one. I stood and sprinted into the hallway only to run into another six-foot mountain of muscle, and he stared at me in amusement as I bounced off him.
"Grab her," said Gunner.
"We don't have time for this," said Big Guy.
"Yeah, but we can't leave her behind," said Gunner.
"Are all the guests off the ship?" said Big Guy.
"Yes, Ryker," said the guy in the hall.
"And the crew?"
"Gave them shore leave. It thrilled them."
"Where's Damon?" said Ryker.
"Here, boss," said Tall, Dark, and Dangerous, AKA Damon.
"Let's hit it then," said Ryker. "Grab her, Gunner."
"With pleasure, Ryker." Unceremoniously, Gunner threw me over his shoulder.
"Wait," said Morgan coming from the stateroom. "What's going on?"
"We're terminating our employment," said Ryker.
As he finished speaking, a sun-splitting boom rocked the ship.
Ryker
The C-4 blast thundered through the ship, and the shockwave of the timed explosions threw us against the deck. Gunner had placed the first charge at the bow of the yacht for Morgan's benefit. But damn it, that pirate was at that wrong place courtesy of Gunner not manning his assigned position. He should have kept Morgan cornered until the last minute.
"Fuck!" sputtered Morgan. As he tried to stand, the second explosion splayed him across the bulkhead.
"Who are you guys?" the pirate rumbled with a dangerous tone in his voice.
"No time for chit-chat. Adios."
I eyed my team. "Go! Go! Go!" I yelled. The four of us with our guest scrambled toward the ladder that would take us below deck where the auxiliary watercraft sat. That was the plan: Get in, set the charges, steal—I mean, appropriate the speedboat and watch one slimeball go up in flames.
The woman bounced on Gunner's shoulder spitting fury and beating his shoulders.
Too damn bad. Serves Gunner right.
"Did you unleash the moorings, Kane?"
He nodded grimly, and we moved forward with uneven steps. The ship listed to the side, toward the water and not the dock, hampering our progress. Gunner had placed the charges to do this because we didn't want to damage the dock.
We crawled through the skewed hallway to the ladder that would bring us to the lowest deck where Morgan stored the yacht's powerboat. It was our getaway plan because we didn't want to put our feet on foreign soil. Without passports and involved in a dubious operation, we couldn't count on recovery. This was a strictly "will disavow any knowledge" mission, meaning that until we got into international waters, we were on our own.
Damon, beside me, growled. His frustration rolled over him because he knew what I would say.
"No. Not here," I said.
"Why the fuck not?"
I jerked my head toward the woman Gunner slung over his shoulder.
"Not in front of the normals."
"Damn, Gunner."
We made to the ladder, and
show-off Damon jumped to the lower deck. He held open his hands.
"Toss her here, Gunner."
"Toss?" she squeaked.
"Sure enough, but I get her back."
Gunner pulled her off his shoulder and dropped her feet first as she screamed. But Damon scooped her up and thrust her into my arms. One by one our boots thudded on the metal deck, and Kane and Damon raced to push the boat into the water. Fortunately, our forced rearrangement of the yacht's hull brought the water level to the power boat's keel. However, we'd have to hurry, or we couldn't clear the rapidly sinking opening at the stern to make our getaway. And the sharp and acrid smell of diesel told me one or more fuel tanks had ruptured, which made it more imperative that we get out of Dodge.
Gunner dropped the woman in the boat, and I stayed behind to shove the craft and ensure it cleared the sinking yacht. Damon started the engine. The glub sound of the engine almost reassured me that we'd get away clean. But the yacht listed again, and only inches remained to push the boat through the opening.
"Go!" I yelled as I ran along the side pushing determined to make the boat squeeze through at an angle. Damon steered the sleek speedboat forward and put it in gear.
"Go!" I yelled again, and his expression hardened because he knew he'd be leaving me behind. We worked on the buddy system to cover each other's backs. Damon was my go-to, but I made an executive decision for their safety over mine. Damon grimaced disliking my decision, but he accelerated and piloted the boat to clear water.
The yacht groaned and listed submerging the opening in seconds while the shell of the ceiling hovered inches above my head. Gear lining the walls of the boat bay floated in the rapidly narrowing gap. The lights flickered and snuffed casting me in darkness. I needed out before I became a casualty. I knew better than to panic, but adrenaline pumped through me.
