Wired Courage: Paradise Crime, Book 9

by Toby Neal

  Connor’s mouth had fallen open somewhere along the way, and he closed it with an effort. “Why didn’t Pim Wat just tell Sophie this? Ask her to donate the marrow?”

  “My Beautiful One . . . hates to admit any weakness. Appealing to her daughter’s compassion is not her style.”

  “Stealing Sophie’s child has not endeared her, either.”

  “Pim Wat claims taking the child was an impulse. She hoped the baby would be a match for the prince, and that she would not need to bring Sophie here since Sophie had proved recalcitrant. But the infant was not a match. Then, Pim Wat’s maid took her and disappeared.” The Master sipped his tea imperturbably.

  Connor sat up as adrenaline hit his system. “Armita took the baby.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I take it you don’t know where they are.”

  The Master’s pansy-colored eyes met Connor’s squarely. “Do you think you would even be alive right now if Pim Wat had the baby to use as leverage on Sophie?”

  Connor’s heart thudded. “You expect Sophie to come here and donate bone marrow in exchange for Jake and me?”

  “Yes.” The Master leaned forward. “And because she would not want to see an innocent child die. Her own relative.”

  Connor sat back and shook his head. “I’m guessing Armita is in touch with Sophie now. Sophie will stop at nothing to be reunited with her child. She won’t come here once she has Momi. You’ve miscalculated.”

  “I don’t miscalculate. She will come for you.” They locked eyes. Connor looked away first. “Put your wrist on the table,” the Master commanded.

  Connor found himself doing so, resting his fist, fingers up, on the flat surface. Riverlike blue veins tracked over his rigid ligaments, disappearing into the meat of his muscled forearm. The insides of his wrists were marked by the brass handcuffs, purplish creases and red scrapes marring the pale skin.

  The Master put his forefinger and middle finger on a spot just below Connor’s hand. He pressed down lightly.

  Connor froze, paralyzed. His breath caught and held—his diaphragm refused to respond. His body went rigid. He couldn’t even blink. His skin crawled with bizarre sensations. There wasn’t a thing he could do about any of it—he was trapped in his immobile body.

  “There are secrets I can show you.” The Master’s voice was as potent as the strongest narcotic. “With your computer skills and my talents, we could topple governments. Make kings and queens. Raise fortunes, and crash them on the unworthy. Set free the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, if we so desire.” Those bizarre purple eyes drilled into Connor’s soul. “Think about it.” The Master lifted his fingers, releasing him.

  Connor breathed again. Blinked again. He yanked his arm up against his chest. Pushed his chair out. Stood up and backed away, all the way to the wall. “I can do all I want to with just my computer.”

  The Master smiled. “You’ve been frustrated many times by the vast world of people who don’t keep a digital footprint. I can help with that.” He flicked a crumb off his immaculate white gi. “Think about it. That is all I ask.” He rang the brass bell and addressed the now familiar ninja servant. “Take this man to the barracks. I find I tire of his company.”

  The ninja tugged Connor away.

  He was unnerved by how much he wished the Master would let him stay.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Days Twenty-Six and Twenty-Seven

  Jake lapsed in and out of consciousness as he lay in the white-walled chamber that must be the compound’s infirmary. Had he really just died, and been brought back? His body confirmed, with a multitude of pain, that was the case.

  A kind-faced older man hooked him up to oxygen, treated his wounds, and surprised him by hooking up an IV. “Just getting you hydrated.” The man had an Australian accent. “And a little something for the pain.”

  Jake floated away on a rosy cloud of meds, and fell asleep.

  When he woke, his “belly was chewing on his spine,” as his mama used to say, and the older ninja was right there beside his pallet, handing him a nourishing bowl of meat broth.

  Jake was able to sit up and eat it himself.

  Eating felt surreal. He was still, mentally, halfway wherever he’d gone when he died.

  This brush with death was far from his first near miss, but it was his most serious.

  Black.

  That’s all there had been.

  No angel choir, no Grandma welcoming him from the other side, no favorite pup Shadow from his youth, begging for a pet. Maybe there was no heaven.

  Naw. He refused to believe that. He just needed to be dead a little longer.

  Jake spooned up the last of the soup and swallowed it. The heat and soft texture felt good on his raw throat.

  He felt bruised, hammered on, wrecked. Like he’d gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson, and the dude had focused on his internal organs, specifically his lungs. It still hurt to breathe.

  Why was he alive?

  And . . . why did Connor have one blue eye, and one brown?

  Connor had to have pleaded for his life. Maybe caved and offered Pim Wat what she wanted to hear. But hadn’t there been another man there? Dressed in white, with the most unusual eyes . . .

  Eyes haunted Jake as he drifted back to sleep.

  Purple eyes. And Connor’s eyes. One blue, one brown . . .

  He woke abruptly.

  The room was dim with early morning. Night must have passed.

  He knew who Connor was.

  Todd Remarkian. Sophie’s first lover.

  His brain had added up all the clues as he slept.

  Remarkian had supposedly been Hamilton’s business partner at Security Solutions. The blond, blue-eyed Aussie had been killed by a bomb close to two years ago. Remarkian had been Sophie’s boyfriend—a man who would still be with her if he hadn’t been “killed.”

  Only Remarkian wasn’t really dead. He lived a double life, hiding behind colored contacts, dyed hair, and a pair of hipster glasses, masquerading as the CEO of their company, Sheldon Hamilton. And Sheldon Hamilton was also a man who called himself Connor, a man who loved Sophie as much as Jake did.

  Todd/Sheldon/Connor. A man Jake had come to regard as a friend.

  Jake lay rigid, his mind whirling. Why had Remarkian faked his own death?

  He had to be the Ghost vigilante. There was no other reason the man would have set in motion such an elaborate ruse; nothing else made sense. The FBI had been onto him, so he’d faked the death of his Todd Remarkian persona, and kept his Hamilton identity.

  Sophie had to know that her first lover was still alive.

  The betrayal . . . Jake groaned aloud at the pain. His inarticulate cry bounced off the stones and mocked him.

  He’d taken one blow after another from Sophie. Had she ever been honest with him? Told him the truth? Chosen him first, over others?

  Was she really with Connor, or with him?

  And let’s not forget Alika, Momi’s biological father, the “baby daddy.” At least Jake was reasonably certain Sophie was over that guy!

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, covering his eyes with his hands. “Holy crap. Oh my God.” No curses of any kind seemed adequate. Jake rolled on his side and groaned again, his eyes stinging.

  Everything was sore, and there was no escape from his pain.

  He punched the stone, because punching beat tears any frickin’ day. He welcomed the pain of his split knuckles.

  The door, a crude wooden affair, creaked open. Jake rolled over, shading his eyes from light pouring in.

  The man with the purple eyes stood framed in it, staring down at him.

  “How are you?” Purple Eyes had a British and Thai accent, and his voice was mellow and kind.

  “Just dandy.” Jake’s throat felt like someone had taken a cheese grater to it, and it sounded about as good. “Nothing like dying in a tub of water to make you appreciate life.”

  Only he didn’t appreciate life. He ought just to have died
, rather than have to deal with this latest punch to the gut. He’d thought Connor was a friend, but never had the man so much as hinted at his other identity throughout all those long days they’d spent in close proximity.

  Connor and Sophie had conspired against him. Kept him out of the loop. Who knew what their relationship really was? Jake shut his eyes, overwhelmed.

  “Your friend cares for you very much,” Purple Eyes said. “He saved your life.”

  “He’s not my friend.” Alarm flushed Jake’s system. “What did he promise you?” Connor had to have caved . . .

  “The crown prince of Thailand needs Sophie’s help.” Purple Eyes settled himself, resting a hip on the edge of Jake’s low, wood-framed pallet. “The prince is dying of a rare form of leukemia. He needs a bone marrow transplant. Sophie is his only match.”

  Jake absorbed this. “Why didn’t you—or Pim Wat—just tell us that? Ask Sophie to be a donor? After all, isn’t the prince some kind of relative?”

  “Second cousin.” Purple Eyes stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I left it up to Pim Wat, thinking she was the one to approach her daughter. She seems to have made a mess of things.”

  “We couldn’t figure out why Pim Wat wanted Sophie to come here so badly,” Jake rasped. “And is that why Pim Wat snatched Sophie’s baby?”

  The man inclined his head in assent. “The baby is gone. The nanny stole her.”

  Jake’s chest squeezed painfully. “What?”

  “We don’t know where Armita took the child.” Purple Eyes shook his head. “I should have monitored the situation. Intervened sooner.”

  “What did Hamilton tell you?” He couldn’t keep his voice casual. If Connor gave up Sophie’s location . . . But he wouldn’t. The guy loved Sophie too. Jake bit back another curse, remembering the betrayal afresh.

  “Connor has said nothing. He is being treated well.” Purple Eyes really had a magnificent voice; it reminded Jake of a cello, melodic and many-toned. “But soon he will tell me everything I want to know. Rest. You have nothing to fear.” The man got up and left, closing the door and taking the light with him.

  The kind-faced healer knocked, then entered with an herb-smelling bowl of water and a cloth. He laid a cool palm on Jake’s brow. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I died, and there was no heaven,” Jake said, and shut his eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Day Twenty-Six

  Sophie climbed down off the back of the full truck bed loaded with vegetables and crowded with loud, protesting goats corralled into a crude wooden enclosure. She was tired and sore, and smelled overwhelmingly of goat, but at last she was in Bangkok and within ten miles of her goal.

  Sophie walked around to the front of the small Mitsubishi truck and handed the farmer a wad of bright Thai baht. “Kóóp khùn káà. Thank you. I will go find my family home now.” Staying with a variation of the truth was always easiest; she’d claimed to be a lost tourist looking for her aunt’s house.

  Sophie hefted her backpack. She still had miles to go to find the family compound at the edge of the city, and dark was fast approaching. She needed to find a hotel to clean up and change in; somewhere with Wi-Fi so she could reconnect with the outside world.

  Scooters and pedestrians swirled around Sophie as she navigated across an unpaved road, weaving in and out of the chaotic traffic. Sounds assaulted her: the wail of a child, the barking of dogs, the squealing of pigs being herded to market, and the ever-present honking of traffic with few rules to regulate it.

  And the odors! Sophie wished she could pinch her nose against the reek of sewage, rotting fruit, and diesel fumes that colored the air.

  She passed a tea stand and spent some baht on a spicy chai beverage. Sipping the tea, she pressed on down the busy thoroughfare, headed for the Western Thai Vacationer Hotel, an inn she’d researched ahead of time.

  The area’s buildings seemed to lean inward, pulled toward each other by thick powerline spiderwebs. Shops lined the street, and vendors called out and showed off their wares as she passed. Sophie avoided eye contact to try to keep them from approaching her, but her American clothes made her an easy target for sales pitches. Once inside the hotel’s quaint but elegant space, Sophie breathed a sigh of relief.

  She had forgotten that the country of her youth was so loud, intense, and colorfully beautiful.

  She approached the front desk and requested a room, registering it under her Mary Watson identity.

  Tomorrow, when she was fresh and clean, she would take a transport to the site of the magnolia tree. Tomorrow, she would know if this journey had been a fool’s errand.

  Sophie woke with a start in the pitch-dark room with its blackout drapes drawn. Her breasts ached and the front of her shirt was soaked.

  She thought that she’d stopped lactating, but the dream she had had was so vivid . . .

  Sophie shut her eyes, willing herself back into the dream.

  Sophie and Momi were sharing a warm bath. The two of them were immersed in the tub, and Sophie cuddled and kissed her tiny girl, rinsing suds out of her child’s curls. She blew a gentle raspberry on Momi’s stomach, making the baby arch with the Moro reflex she had read about, the infant’s legs folding tight to her abdomen. She hugged Momi close, snuggling her in against her wet naked skin, reveling in her daughter’s velvety softness and sweet scent.

  The warm bath felt as if they were swimming in amniotic fluid together with no separation; they were as physically and emotionally bonded as they could be. Momi nuzzled into Sophie’s neck, seeking nourishment, and Sophie slid her downward and presented her nipple. Sophie felt the powerful sensation of her baby latching on as she nursed. The baby gazed up at Sophie, her golden-brown, long-lashed eyes serious. One tiny starfish hand reached toward her mother’s face.

  Tears pricked Sophie’s eyes.

  She flung the bedcovers off with a curse. This was no time for lounging around; her child needed her!

  She had spent hours in the hotel room the night before, working through multiple VPNs to see if there was any news of the missing men. She’d put a communiqué out to McDonald at the CIA, and surfed online connections for any trace of news. She’d contacted Bix on Oahu, asking for an update. Security Solutions had notified Interpol and the authorities, but no response was forthcoming.

  No one wanted to take on the Yām Khûmkạn on their home turf. It was as if the men had fallen off the planet.

  Sophie fixed a tepid cup of tea in the room’s coffeepot as her belly tightened with the memory of her online searching. There had been no contact from anyone to the house on Phi Ni.

  Sophie had to let it go for now. She’d done all she could to put forces in motion to rescue the team. Now it was up to her to rescue her daughter.

  Sophie opened her backpack and unrolled the native costume Nam had packed for her, accompanied by a Muslim headscarf with a translucent black veil that covered half her face.

  She donned a long skirt with concealed split legs for movement along with a long-sleeved linen blouse. She draped the head covering over her short hair, secured the veil section of the headscarf, and gazed at herself in the mirror.

  The garments were loose and concealing, better than any disguise. No one would question her with culture and modesty so clearly advertised. She was just a Muslim woman, similar to any other except for her height—at five foot nine, she still towered over most of the female population. But for the first time in a long time, Sophie felt invisible—and was grateful for the anonymity. Only her eyes and nose showed—and the wicked scar that ran up her cheekbone, past her eye, and into her hairline.

  She turned to the pack and removed a small nylon drawstring bag for just her essentials. She would store the backpack here at the hotel for retrieval later. She called down to the desk and arranged that, and then checked out over the phone.

  She sipped her tea, eyeing her unfamiliar appearance in the mirror.

  What if this was a trap? A plan to lure her into Pim Wat’
s reach? What if Pim Wat had Momi, and had coerced Armita into bringing her here?

  But why?

  Nothing about this whole situation really made sense. She just had to move forward and hope for the best. “Just put one foot in front of the other,” she said aloud. “That’s what Marcella would tell me.”

  Thinking of her best friend reminded her of her father. She had kept him apprised during her time on Phi Ni with brief text messages every three days—but now she felt the need to hear his mellow voice. She reassembled the satellite phone and called his personal cell.

  When he answered, relief broke over her in a wave. Sophie shut her eyes. “Hello, Dad.”

  “Sophie!” Francis Smithson’s Morgan Freeman-like bass voice was not mellow today. “I’ve been going nuts with worry! What the hell is going on?”

  She hadn’t seen her father since before the birth; he’d planned to come to Kaua`i for that event, but she’d delivered early, and then . . .

  “Dad.” Sophie cut him off. “I can only talk for a few minutes. I fear things have gone wrong, and I need to catch you up.” She briefly sketched in the disappearance of the rescue party and the contact she had made with Armita. “I’m here in Bangkok and about to find out if this message was really from Armita, or . . . if it is something else.”

  “Don’t go alone,” Frank said. “Wait. Let Security Solutions fly out there—hell, I’ll beg Ellie to go. Ellie, my girl needs help!” Frank bellowed, addressing someone else in the room.

  Sophie could clearly picture the elegant, blue-eyed brunette Secret Service agent who was assigned to her dad. She liked and respected Ellie Smith, but she was sure there was nothing the agent could do about something so far outside of her job parameters.