by Roze, Robyn
From behind vined metal fence panels and manicured shrubs, tidy homes peeked out, sheltered under old Tembusu trees with swaying branches painting stormy swaths across the sky. The area felt safe and cozy with its trash bins lined curbside up and down the street. The picture of normalcy, given the day’s events, made her laugh out loud at the absurdity. With the welcome relief and release of emotion, she regained her confidence, and her voice. She could do this. More importantly, she was in good hands.
She moved from her hunkered position in the back up to the second row, sitting herself tall, ready for Mick. He and Higgs were talking to another man, all standing between the rear of the red car and the front of the Escalade. Before long, the group appeared to have agreed on something, and Mick headed back to the SUV with the other two in tow. When he opened the back-passenger door, he looked surprised to see Shayna sitting in the seat, eager to go. His expression made her lips curve in self-assurance.
She glanced out the front windshield. “Any chance I get to drive that little speed demon?” His masculine chuckle warmed her, and she accepted his outstretched hand as Higgs and the other man slid into their seats up front.
“Any other time and place I’d say, ‘Hell, yeah, show me what you got.’ But today is not that time and place. And your guard dog husband would kick my ass if I let you.”
His eyes combed the area as he guided her with brisk strides to their new, ground-hugging ride and lifted the latch on the scissor door for her. She sank into the leather-wrapped seat and buckled the three-point restraint, while Mick lowered the passenger door. He skirted around the front and took his place beside her, starting and then deep throttling the engine a few times.
He scrubbed his palms together. “All right, hang on to your hat. We’re gonna see what this baby can do.”
“Open her up.” Shayna’s breathy excitement widened Mick’s smile, engine howling, as they rocketed away.
Mick swerved off an access road and coasted under the shaded awning of the forest that marked the perimeter of the Labrador Nature Reserve. Cutting the high-octane engine, he angled forward to glance out the rain-speckled windshield. “Right on time.”
In the distance, the thunder of a helicopter grew louder on its approach.
“That’s our next ride?” Shayna leaned ahead to get a better view.
“Yeah. You ever been on one?”
Images of Frank popped in her head and then disappeared. “Many times.” She replayed the hair-raising race that got them here on schedule, any worries mitigated by Mick’s exceptional skills behind the wheel. “That was the best time I’ve ever had in a car.”
Mick studied her for a moment, then shook his head in disbelief. “You really can’t judge a book by its cover. Sean warned me about you.”
She arched one eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.
“I took one look and figured you for the type to turn to mush at the first sign of trouble. Scream non-stop. Or bitch constantly like one of those yappy-ass ankle biters.” He checked the helicopter’s progress. “Now, I kinda wish you had a sister I could force Sean to introduce me to.”
Shayna laughed. “You wouldn’t need Sean for that. I’d introduce you myself.” She unbuckled and watched the helicopter as it neared its landing point. “Should we get out now?”
Mick surveyed the area with its dense trees to their right, Keppel Club golf course on the left, and a wide grassy vacant tract separating the two properties. The perfect spot for a chopper to land.
“Let’s do it,” he said.
They jumped out of the car and jogged toward the copter, cutting through the dense mugginess and soggy turf left behind from the pop-up tropical storm they sped through to get here. Stooping as they neared, Mick pulled open the rear door, his voice raised to combat the roar of the blades. “Put your harness and ears on.” He pointed to the headsets hanging on hooks behind the seats.
“Got it.”
He climbed in up front next to the pilot and signaled with his thumb to take the bird up. Treetops rotated in agitation, buffeted by the downdraft. Stubborn golfers, weather be damned, teed up below. Cars that soon looked matchbox sized rushed along the Keppel Viaduct. She and Mick had raced across roadways she now viewed from her own Google Earth vantage point. At times, he had intentionally gone the wrong way down one-way streets or chewed across grass and gravel to make it on time to their pickup.
Then she spotted their getaway car driving away and pulled her mic into position. “Mick. Someone just stole the car we were in.”
His focus never wavered from the horizon ahead. “Nah, that’s just the cleanup crew. No loose ends.”
Motionless, she stared at the back of his closely trimmed head, thunderstruck again by the day’s startling events contrasted against his cool reactions, precision, and unshakable grit. Bearing witness to Mick’s abilities had given her an unexpected and indirect peek into her husband’s own strengths and capabilities that, now, reminded her of his recent words, I was built for this. Mind and body. With fresh insight, those prescient words, and the memory of that night, brought her a measure of solace amid the needling worries.
She returned her attention to the retreating island. A mass of land where her husband remained below, somewhere among the gnarl of roadways, sprawling residential and commercial zones, shipping yards—and killers.
Where are you at down there, Sean? What are you doing right now?
She pressed her palm to the window and issued a silent, impassioned plea. A bargain. A pact. A promise. Anything to see him again.
Alive.
Chapter 10
With its bright, multihued lights looped around spirals of steel, the DNA-inspired architecture of Singapore’s Helix Bridge dazzled nighttime onlookers like a massive digital billboard for a sci-fi blockbuster. The engineering marvel spanned over nine-hundred feet and connected pedestrians with Marina Center and Marina South in the bay.
Rising ever larger in Sean’s sight up ahead stood the towering tri-columned Marina Bay Sands hotel where his worst nightmare had almost come to life. His jaw and gut tensed at the thought of Dix’s men having come so close to taking Shayna. If they had succeeded, he would have burned down the world to find her.
Walking across the Helix, Sean spotted the third of four large cantilevered viewing pods attached to the footbridge and suspended over the bay. The one he chose was empty, by calculation, and he stepped out onto the low-lit, open-air platform. He had cast himself out as bait tonight, walking the area in the open, figuring he would get a bite or two. And he had been right, hooking his catch at the popular Merlion on the other side of the bay, and then allowing the operative to trail him on foot to the exact spot he wanted him on the Helix. Sean’s intentional pivot in his stalker’s direction forced the operative to spin around and face the six lanes of traffic on the Bayfront Bridge that ran parallel to the Helix.
Prickly irritation stabbed at Sean’s nerves, making it difficult to conceal his agitation. There was no sport in this anymore. He might as well be shooting fish in a barrel. Everything about this part of his life had lost its appeal. The adrenaline rush of past operations now replaced with restlessness and unfamiliar monotony. The former enthusiasm and old motivations no longer held sway with him. And he knew why: his new life, his second chance with Shayna.
There had been no communication from Mick since earlier in the day when he told him to get Shayna out; go dark for forty-eight-hours—except for a dire situation—is what they had outlined and agreed to in advance.
No news was good news. For now.
Pulling Marcus’ phone from his pocket, its battery snapped back in place hours earlier, he scrolled the contact list. The bright display illuminated the tense angles of his unshaven face. The GPS tracking was enabled, along with, no doubt, a surveillance ‘upgrade’, but he didn’t care, hadn’t even checked. He wasn’t trying to hide. He had one purpose tonight: flush out more of Dix’s flunkies. Leaning back against the
railing, he watched the agent inch closer toward the pod, still showing an absurd amount of interest in traffic.
Sean tapped a familiar name, Simon—an alias, spelled out on the screen. He expanded the contact information, then pressed the call icon. He pictured Dix alarmed to see a ‘dead man’s’ number light up his screen, strategizing his next move if his boy, Marcus, had not burned up in the car as reported on the news.
Except, by now, Dix knew who had the phone, and who was calling.
When Dix finally answered, Sean heard measured breathing along with muffled voices, music, and laughter in the background. It sounded like a party, growing more distant with each huff of the senator’s breath. Sean continued to eye the man on the bridge who now had an associate strolling from the other direction on the landmark walkway. Their body language was easy for someone with his skillset to decipher.
It was fucking amateur hour.
“Where do you find your recruits these days, Dix? Your dog-eared back issues of Soldier of Fortune?”
A laugh mixed with genuine admiration and deep loathing reverberated in Sean’s ear.
“Well, you always did like to tell me you’re the best. You’re still a cocky son-of-a-bitch. I can respect that. What I can’t respect is a man who goes back on his word.”
Their dishonorable history steeled his spine. “My word is as good as the man I give it to.”
More jaded laughter rumbled through the phone. “Oh yes, I forgot. You’re a killer with a conscience. Laudable—if it weren’t so laughable.”
Sean’s jaw ticked, eyes scanning the Helix for other threats. Still just the two. “We both know who the real killer is.”
The senator became uncharacteristically quiet.
“You lost a good one today: Marcus Black. I know that because Simon was his handler. A role you only assume for those you consider worthy of your time and imagined expertise. The same ones you neutralize later when you realize they’re a danger to you, because they have a conscience, and it threatens your dirtiest secrets.”
Dixon ignored the taunt. “Who hired you for the job in Mexico? I know it had to be you. Your fingerprints are all over it.”
“Maybe it was on the house.”
“You never struck me as the charitable type. Someone had to pay for your team and overhead. This whole thing is too squeaky clean. Who the hell do you have scrubbing your files?”
Sean brushed off the question. “Did you miss the evening news? Or are you just pretending not to care that a charred corpse in a torched car were linked back to you?”
“Security details for high-profile assets always risk being targeted. It’s in their job description and not even worth the airtime. And you won’t get anything of value out of the other one. He was just fodder,” he said with a grunt, his disdain plain.
“He’s marinating in chum buckets.” An easy lie his former commander would believe without hesitation.
Sean observed the two jacketed thugs from the corner of his eye, overdressed on such a humid night, posing as friends while they strode with a casual air onto the pod, talking and pointing in the opposite direction of him.
“You’re losing men left and right, Dix. They’re either defecting or getting themselves killed since your old buddy Hector got his ass handed to him. And tonight’s news makes you look even weaker. Your enemies smell blood in the water. Can you feel them circling?”
“Because of you, you son-of-a-bitch! Morales kept the network stable. Everyone knew their place. Now it’s an epic clusterfuck. And you’re going to make it all go away.”
Sean laughed out loud. The derisive sound drew cautious glances over the shoulders of the two men, backs turned, across the wide ovular-shaped platform.
“There’s no incentive for me to do that. We both know how this works. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. And your enemies seem to think you bankrolled the hit on Morales—that it was a power grab. I’m not inclined to tell them otherwise. In fact, I’m even more dug in on that position—given you went after my wife today.”
“Don’t get self-righteous with me. Leverage is the global currency. And you showed your hand today. You were ready for that move. Your bluff failed. I knew damn well you sent Black back to me with misinformation. And I’m goddamn sure you’re the one who’s been planting the rumors that I was involved in what happened in Mexico, you cocksucker!”
Senator Graham Dixon’s public veneer of propriety, apple pie, and good old-fashioned family values had crumbled like a toothy politician’s hollow campaign promises.
Sean remained unshaken. “You made a big miscalculation today, Dix. Any other time you could expect a quid pro quo. But considering I remember how you feel about your wife, I’m not about to do you any favors.”
“Don’t think I won’t tell people you’re responsible for the Morales hit,” he blustered.
The sweet sound of desperation lifted one corner of Sean’s mouth. “Go ahead. It’s a resume builder for me. A death warrant for you. They all know I used to work for you. It’ll play right into what they already believe about you giving the order.” Sean relished Dix’s notable silence at the inarguable truth. “The tables have turned, Senator. You were Morales’ bitch. Now you’re mine.”
“Go to hell!” The fury in his voice vibrated through the phone.
“This is between you and me. You try to pull my wife or anyone else into this again,” he said, teeth gritted, “and before I’m done, you’ll beg me to send you to hell.”
“Don’t threaten me, you Judas piece of shit. You need to remember who you’re talking to. I’ve held up my end of the bargain all these years, and now you’re going to fix this mess.” The distinct strike of a lighter’s spark wheel clicked over the phone, followed by a puff of air. “Then we can go back to business as usual. And take our secrets to the grave. Right, sailor?”
Sean’s jaw clenched in contempt at the reference to their corrupt past, iced with the snide jab at the end. Dix, a marine, only respected his own branch.
“Oh, I’m going to fix this—my way.”
“When? How? I need this handled—yesterday!”
He continued his assessment of Dix’s hired guns with their backs still turned on their target. Rookies? Hubris? Fools? He scoffed, his trained eyes surveilling the surrounding area. No water taxis docked below. The Helix had light foot traffic, unlike the Bayfront bridge with its noisy motor traffic. Any people on the viewing pods, two hundred feet to either side of him, were only obscure silhouettes against the backdrop of the Helix and the streaks of city lights. He would dispatch the pair, as planned. The two were already bagged and tagged. They just didn’t know it.
He pulled out a burner phone and thumbed a text, an order, and then hovered over the send button, while speaking into Black’s phone still pressed at his ear. “I’ll let you know the details, when I’m damn good and ready.”
“That’s not good enough, goddammit! I need to be a part of this. We need a face-to-face.”
“That’ll happen soon enough—when and where I say.” He ended the call with a stab of his thumb, and with the other, pushed send on the waiting text. He pocketed the burner and tossed Black’s phone—flashlight app shining—over the heads of Dix’s two stooges, a signal to the frogmen primed in the water below where it sank.
As intended, the ploy drew the pair’s attention just long enough for Sean to cover the distance in a few long, stealthy strides. He struck a sharp kidney punch to the closest, and a knee-shattering kick to the other. Groans, grunts, and expletives cut through the muggy evening air as Sean wrestled and then heaved the first thrashing assailant over the railing and down to the water. The second, face wracked with pain, braced against the railing, digging inside his jacket for a weapon. Sean torqued the attacker’s arm behind his back, snapping ligaments, and slammed his forehead against the steel rail before hauling him up and toppling him into the bay.
After the initial smack of heavy bodies plummeting fro
m thirty feet into the water, the turbulent surface coalesced into a calm, deceptive image, concealing the struggle below with the sailors. He envisioned Senator Dixon’s smug face, their past and present racing toward a collision. You’ll see my face. When I destroy you. Sean straightened his back, rolled out the hostility churning in his shoulders, and stretched the tension from his neck.
Excited chatter rolling across the distance from a dark, neighboring pod signaled that the commotion had drawn attention. He pulled a hat out of his back pocket and snapped it on his head, yanking the bill low over his brow. He left the platform, unhurried, stride confident, and crossed the wiry Helix, ignoring the smattering of gawkers.
When he reached the wide exit on the other side, leading to a sidewalk running parallel with the Bayfront Bridge, he turned left onto the walkway. Up ahead, he zeroed in on a disabled vehicle stalled along his side of the road, red hazard lights flashing.
It was a ploy.
As he approached, a man ducked out from under the hood, signaled him, then banged the heavy metal lid shut. Sean cleared the guardrail with ease and watched for oncoming traffic, then lowered into his seat, speeding away from the bay and melding into the red sea of taillights and anonymity.
Chapter 11
An array of maps and blueprints lay spread across a table in the makeshift situation room housed in a disused shelter on St. John Island, an islet floating four miles south of mainland Singapore.
With dawn spearing through the grubby louver panes, Marcus Black waited in silence with the men to whom he had been assigned, his focus boldly locked onto Sean’s hard, unblinking stare. Moments ago—at Sean’s directive, Marcus presented his part of the team’s plan for getting inside the private compound where the senator was staying on the main island. The goal, once inside: rescue the girl held captive there.
