Her grip on the chrome rail made her knuckles white, and she glared up at him, her eyes ablaze with fury. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Hiding from the Coast Guard.” He pushed the throttle to maximum speed, and his baby responded with a deeper rumble and an elevated bow.
Her eyes skipped from him to the blackness ahead and back again. “What if we hit something?”
“If we hit something, we’re in deep shit.”
“Well, that’s comforting.”
“Just telling the truth. Now hang on, while I get us through this.” The quicker they crossed into international waters, the better.
Miss B Hayve plowed through wave after wave, skimming over the liquid black ocean like a dream. Lack of moonlight made it impossible to see the waves. Their first knowledge of when they’d hit one was with the boom of the water breaking the bow, followed by the water over the windshield. He tried not to look at Charlene’s eyes or her white knuckles clutching the railing. His focus needed to be on the water. If he did see something, he’d likely be right on top of it, with little time to react. He just prayed it wasn’t a shipping container. Or worse…a boatload of refugees.
The only good thing about the lack of moonlight was that a Coast Guard patrol would stand out like a dog’s balls, and conversely, they’d have little hope of spotting Miss B Hayve.
To chance even one spotlight would put their freedom in jeopardy. And although he’d taken this very risk several times before, for some reason, having Charlene in the firing line had his brain rubber-banding from “We can get through this” to “We’re fucking stupid.”
He’d been on many lifesaving missions. He’d also completed thirty-one missions that’d put his men front and center in life-threatening territory. But they were trained for it. Some even begged for it. Him included. The thrill of being in jeopardy became as necessary as oxygen. They also knew the ultimate cost. There was not a chance in hell Charlene knew the consequences of what they were doing. And it was going to be even more dangerous once they hit the other side.
Even once Miss B Hayve crossed that imaginary line that put them in international waters without a hitch, hope and trepidation still filled his mind. He cut the speed back a fraction to give him a couple more seconds of reaction time.
Charlene’s ability to remain silent was both a refreshing change and annoying, to the point where he was beginning to feel stupid for not asking more questions. But rather than shoot the herd of elephants in the room, he decided on a different approach. “You hungry?”
“Umm, just a bit.”
“Good. Me too. Down in the galley you’ll find ham-and-cheese sandwiches already made up in the fridge. I hope you’re not one of those vegan, gluten-free types?”
She giggled and backed that up with a smile that was stunning. “No, I eat anything.”
“Great, me too. We’re going to get along just fine. There’s a sandwich toaster down there if you want to heat it up.”
A sudden look of sorrow engulfed her, making him wonder if she was about to burst into tears. But before he had time to question it, she slipped off the chair and disappeared down the steps. Her floral scent lingered, though, and he admonished himself for liking it so much.
Other than Red, Marshall hadn’t had decent company in a long time. The closest thing he had to a companion was the stray dog who’d taken to sleeping on his front porch. He hadn’t had the heart to shoo the three-legged mutt away, so he’d named him Hoppa and started tossing him his dinner scraps. Despite himself, Marshall liked having the scrawny mongrel for company.
And that there made him a sad sack of shit.
The instant his mind went to considering Charlene as nice company, he clenched his jaw, eased forward on his chair, and attempted to concentrate on the blackness around him. But the empty void ahead had his thoughts bouncing right back. Charlene was young and beautiful and didn’t need a has-been like him ruining her future. Nope. The second she was done with his unique skills, she’d be off like a rocket. And he wouldn’t blame her one bit.
The intercom button on his panel buzzed, triggering a smirk as he pressed it. “Yes.”
“Would the captain like a drink?” Her voice sounded cheeky, and he imagined that beautiful smile he’d seen brightening her face.
“A Coke, please.”
“Coming right up.”
He couldn’t recall anyone else thinking to use the intercom to talk to him on the flybridge. Every other person who’d wanted his attention called from the bottom of the stairs. Her resourcefulness put her way ahead of most of the people he’d had on Miss B Hayve. It also showed confidence and initiative. Charlene was already on his most-interesting-person list, but the more he learned about her, the more he wanted to know. Getting her to open up was the challenge.
Her footsteps announced her approach, and he had to resist glancing around to watch her arrival. “There you go.” She placed a can of Coke and a plated sandwich on the ledge beside him.
“Thanks. You not having any?”
“Yes. I took you up on your offer to toast it. I’ll be back up in a sec.”
She left to return downstairs, and he decided to wait for her before he started eating. A couple of minutes and a few huge waves later, she returned with her meal and a bottle of water and slipped into her seat.
“Smells good,” he nodded at the sandwich.
“Oh, do you want me to toast yours?”
“Nah, it’s all good.”
“It’s no trouble, only takes a minute.”
“No. I’m good. Love a good toasted sandwich, though, don’t you?”
She spun to him, a frown wobbling across her forehead.
“What?”
“It’s just…my father and I, well, we made toasted sandwiches into an art form. We’d compete over the title of best sandwich maker.”
“Ha, that’s right up my alley. Your father still around?”
She snapped her eyes away. “No, he, umm, passed away a few months ago.”
“Sorry to hear that. Sounds like you were close.” Despite the limited light, he didn’t miss the turmoil on her face.
“Yeah, we were.”
“What about your mother?”
“I haven’t seen her since I was six.” She nibbled on the corner of her sandwich.
“Oh, sorry about that.”
She shrugged. “No need to be.”
He lifted his Coke, and as he sipped, he stewed over how to get her talking. It was an unusual conundrum. Most women he’d met didn’t shut up. His thoughts bounced to some of his darker days in the navy. The times when he’d stepped very close to the edge in order to get a man talking. He’d heard some pretty horrible stories over the years, and more often than not, he wasn’t surprised about who the story implicated. It took a certain type of man to do certain kinds of torture. One particular man, Captain Ithica Randsome, had dark, soulless eyes that’d scare the crap out of most sane men. If Marshall had ever been on the wrong side of Randsome’s radar, he would’ve been tempted to jump overboard.
Marshall reflected that the kind of techniques that Randsome used to make people talk probably wouldn’t work on Charlene anyway. He’d already pegged her as a woman who had nothing to lose.
Then again, that was blatantly obvious given her radical plans.
So he couldn’t go with the “what has she got to lose” angle. He decided to try “what did she have to gain.” The answer was easy…knowledge.
He waited until she’d finished most of her meal before he spoke. “I’ve made this trip seventeen times in three years. Most of those times, my customer was on Cuban soil for a duration of approximately two, maximum three hours.” He huffed. “Though I did have four dipshits who got themselves so doped up they missed the scheduled departure time and spent an extra day shitting their pants in a Havana gutter.”
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Her eyes were on him, her mouth curled into a curious smile, and she seemed to be listening to every word like he was teaching her CPR or something. When she didn’t speak, he continued. “The reason why they had such short times on Cuban soil were threefold. One was because I helped them get what they wanted. Two was because I have no intention of hovering around with the Cuban coast guard up my ass. And three was I never leave a man behind. Or woman.”
He watched her process this information and waited for her response. Her eyes flicked from the instruments on the panel to the blackness ahead of them. With each passing second, it grew clearer that she was in more trouble than she was letting on.
Her refusal to open up was beginning to piss him off. “Look, I’m risking a hell of a lot doing this. Don’t suppose you’d like to tell me what mess you’ve gotten yourself into?”
Her jaw dropped. “Mess? Why do you think it’s a mess?”
He waggled his head. “Beautiful young woman with her life ahead of her wants to risk it all by doing something that could ruin her life forever. I’m guessing it’s not by choice.”
Her blinking eyes confirmed her battle with a response. “Well, you’re guessing wrong. This is my choice.”
“Really, huh. This’s your first time to Cuba, right?”
Her momentary debate had him fuming over her secrecy. Most of his midnight-run customers were young guys wanting to add a stupid notch to their ego. Usually they were chasing rum, cigars, or women. Occasionally, it’d be a gun or drugs, but he mostly stayed away from those. Unless money was so tight that he had no choice.
Charlene, though, ticked none of those boxes, and that had all his curiosity sensors bristling. She was in over her head; that was a given. But what she was drowning in was the question.
“Yes, it is.” She finally answered.
“What’s your plan when we hit land?”
Her eyes looked up at him, yet she seemed to be looking through him. She appeared conflicted. Like telling him was breaking some kind of sacred vow. She wiped her hand across the back of her mouth, collecting the tiny crumb that he’d wanted to thumb away himself. Placing her drink down, she turned to him. “Do you know Legendarios del Guajirito?”
As much as her question was progress, it was also a step backward. “The dance show? In Havana?”
“Yes, do you know it?”
“Uh huh.” He showed her the skepticism her question deserved.
“I want to go there.”
“You’re doing an illegal trip to Cuba to see a stupid dance show.”
She nodded.
“Okay then.” He huffed at the absurdity. She was either nuts or making shit up. Either way, she was a grown woman, so if this was the game she wanted to play, then who was he to stop her? “Right then. What’s your plan to get around Havana? Do you even speak Spanish?”
When her shoulders deflated, he figured he’d hit a home run. Which made him certain that by the time they set foot on Cuban soil, she’d be asking for his help. It was time for him to shut up and wait for her to arrive at the same conclusion. She adjusted her seating, and just as he thought she was loosening up, a glimmer of light on the horizon caught his eye. And then it was gone.
Two seconds later, it was back.
As they plowed through one wave after the next, he maintained his visual on the light. Within two minutes, his worst nightmare was realized. “Shit!”
“What?”
“We got company.”
“Where?” Her breath hitched.
“Dead ahead. Wait a sec and you’ll see it.”
Her eyes snapped to the invisible horizon. “That light. What is it?”
“That’s probably the US Coast Guard, and I’m guessing they know we’re here.”
“Can’t we outrun them?”
He shot her a you’ve-got-to-be-fucking-kidding glare. “We’ve got about twenty minutes before they board us.”
Her brows shot upward, yet she seemed to look through him. “What do we do?”
“We’ll shut down the engines and pretend we’re fishing.” He cut the speed right back and rode the boat’s slump into the water.
“That works?”
“If all goes well, they’ll check our IDs and give us a rap on the knuckles.”
“What if I don’t have ID?” Her voice elevated a notch.
He glared at her, momentarily lost for words. “What? Nothing?”
“No.” She spat the word at him.
Despite how weird that was, he believed her. It also meant she was in way more trouble than she was letting on. And now they both were.
“In that case, we’ve got trouble.”
“What’s your plan B?”
He cocked his head. “What makes you think I have one?”
“Every good soldier has a plan B. And you strike me as a damn good soldier.”
There she goes again, simultaneously flattering him and applying pressure. “You’re right. But you’re not going to like it.”
She lifted her chin. “If it stops me from rotting in a six-foot cell, then I’ll like it just fine.”
“Okay then. I hope you can swim.”
Her eyes bulged. “What! You’ve got to be—”
Ignoring her outburst, he killed the engines and jumped up from his seat. “Come with me.”
Using the chrome railing, he glided down the stairs without using his feet, then spun to his left and repeated the move to the lower deck. He strode to the bow section and pulled out a panel beneath the bed. He’d built it with concealment in mind, and it had passed detection many times already. Tucked inside, to the left of the secret hold, was the harness that he’d had to use only twice before. Each time, it was with a man. Each time, they’d thought it was part of the thrill ride.
He doubted Miss Bailey would share those sentiments.
Marshall yanked the harness free, then turned to the rapid breathing behind him. Her eyes showed her fear, but otherwise she hid it well. “In that cupboard you’ll find three wet suits. They’ll all be too big for you, but it’s all I got.”
“I’m really getting in the water?” Her voice quivered, yet she didn’t look as terrified as the situation warranted.
And that told him she’d been through hell before. “Yep. No choice.”
Time was against them, moving in some kind of a weird warp. One second it was going a million miles an hour; the next second it was slow, allowing him to see every movement in perfect clarity—her trembling fingers as she pulled open the cupboard, the muscles in her toned arms flexing as she tugged a wet suit free, the blank expression on her face as she took the suit to the bathroom and disappeared behind the door.
She seemed numb, robotic. Horrified, yet committed to what had to be done. He had to know what shit she was into. So if they got through this, he was going to belt it out of her.
If they got through it.
Fifteen minutes.
He turned his attention back to adjusting the straps on the harness. The last guy he’d had in it had been just a fraction smaller than him. He just hoped the damn thing would hold her in. Otherwise, they had a whole new set of problems.
She stepped out from the toilet. Despite the oversized wet suit hiding all her curves, with her flushed cheeks and her hair up in a high ponytail, she looked like she was ready for a photo shoot for the cover of Sports Illustrated. He’d never been in the company of a woman who was so beautiful, period.
He’d thought his young Cuban fiancée would be the most stunning woman he’d ever meet. Boy, was he wrong. A wave broadsided Miss B Hayve, snapping him to attention.
Focus, Crow!
“What’s in the case?” He pointed at her suitcase, which was still on the bed.
“Just clothes.” A new wave of fear rippled her features.
“Just clothes?
So if I toss it overboard, you won’t mind.”
“Of course, I’ll fucking mind. It’s everything I own.” The fire in her response was the emotion he’d been looking for.
“If it’s just clothes, it can be replaced.”
Her eyes shifted.
“I’m fucking serious. I’m tossing that case overboard with you.”
She strode to the bed, unzipped the case, and reached beneath her neatly folded clothing. “This can’t get wet.” She gripped a tin box that was plain except for a couple of twirls engraved in the lid.
His gut clenched. This was the last thing he’d expected. Yet given her cagey responses, he should’ve guessed. He met her gaze. “If it’s drugs, I’m throwing it overboard.”
“It’s not drugs.”
“I mean it, Charlene. They’ll bring sniffer dogs on board. So if you got drugs in there, I need to know. Now!”
She undid the clips and peeled open the lid. “It’s not drugs.”
Blinking at the rolls of money, he felt like he was on the set of Miami Vice. But this was real. And the way that money looked, banded together in neat rolls, convinced him it wasn’t something an innocent woman would possess. Trouble. She was trouble.
“My father left it to me. It’s all I’ve got.” She sucked on her bottom lip, and her demeanor shifted from despondent to defiant, yet her eyes pooled. The last thing he needed was tears.
“Give it to me.” He snatched it from her hand.
“What’re you going to do?”
“I’ve learned that if you put stuff in plain sight, they barely give it a glance. Hide it, and they sniff it out every time. And not just the dogs.” He leaned over the bed. At the top, next to the pillows, he’d built small nooks, ideal for a novel or a bottle of Bud. The tin didn’t quite fit and jutted out over the mattress, but it was a perfect spot. He pointed at her handbag. “Anything you need to take out of that?”
She shook her head and he shoved it into her suitcase and zipped it back up.
Charlene looked like a person who’d given up. He’d seen it before on soldiers who had been caught with their pants down…when all hope was lost. “It’s not over yet.” He opened the harness. “Step into this.”
Out of Luck Page 11
