In Dark Water (Rarity Cove Book 3)

by Leslie Tentler

  He leaned forward on the sofa, head bowed slightly and forearms braced on his thighs, obviously still struggling with the decision that had been made for him. “But I was kidding myself. Keeping you here wasn’t a sustainable plan for the long-term and now the Marshals Service is taking over. What they want, they generally get. It’s just too much to fight.”

  An ache in her throat, Mercer was aware of the tension in Noah’s frame. Finally, he blew out a breath and sat back.

  “How’re you doing?” he asked.

  “Trying to hold on.” Her composure was fragile and she paused to collect herself before speaking again. “But I’m afraid,” she admitted softly. “Since losing Jonathan, I’ve been leaning on my family a lot. I don’t know how I’ll get through this all alone.”

  Sympathy filled his eyes. “I wish it were just the two of us tonight,” he said quietly.

  “You aren’t superhuman, Noah. You can’t stay up all night and lead an investigation by day. I’m glad Tom will be here with us so you can sleep.” She did her best to smile. “Getting rid of me is the best thing for you.”

  “Don’t say that,” he rasped.

  He placed his arm on the cushion behind her. Even if he had hurt her pride when he had turned her down sexually, she needed Noah’s presence right now. She wanted to be angry with him, but she needed to draw from his strength while she still could. They sat together in silence, neither of them speaking and instead listening to the old house’s stillness and the occasional tinkle of a wind chime coming from a neighboring home.

  Mercer had barely slept last night and she must have drifted off. She came awake only when Noah gently moved her away from him in response to the knock on the back door. She had fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder, she realized. As he went to let Tom inside, her anxiety rekindled like driftwood tossed onto a bonfire. Disoriented, she checked her wristwatch and saw that nearly an hour had passed.

  Which meant that she was another hour closer to an uncertain fate. Her stomach churned.

  By this time tomorrow, Mercer Leighton would cease to exist.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Please don’t cry, Mom,” Mercer whispered as Olivia hugged her. Despite the early morning hour, her mother was dressed in a skirt and coordinating jacket, the gardenia-like scent of the perfume she had worn since Mercer’s childhood evoking bittersweet memories. It concerned her that her mother felt thin through her clothing, reminding Mercer of how fragile life was.

  “This isn’t fair!” Olivia sniffled, still holding on to her daughter. “You were just trying to do the right thing, and now—”

  “It can’t be helped, okay? Everything will be fine, I promise.” Mercer tried to sound upbeat. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Olivia finally released her and Mercer looked at Anders, a tremor in her voice. “Take care of my mom?”

  “It’s my pleasure, dear.” Wearing a sport coat and his trademark, bow-string tie, he stepped forward and kissed Mercer’s cheek. “Don’t you worry about us at all. We’ll be right here when you come home. And you will come home, Mercer. Try to focus on that.”

  She was aware of Noah, grim-faced, standing with Detective Beaufain on the far side of the marina’s office. The marina was located just outside Rarity Cove and was among the many commercial properties that the St. Clair family owned. Mercer had been ushered here under cover of darkness, her family arriving a short time later. The early hour meant that the harbor was largely uninhabited, save for the seagulls and terns fishing for breakfast. Through the picture window, Mercer could see several dozen pleasure crafts and other boats bobbing in their moorings alongside the dock. She looked out over the tranquil setting, a lump in her throat as she thought of her father and brothers teaching her to sail here. Mercer turned her gaze to Mark.

  “It’s a beautiful, young family that’s buying the house,” she said, referring to the home where she had lived with Jonathan in Atlanta. She tried not to think of the good years they’d had there, fearing it would bring her to tears. “He’s a new surgeon at Emory University Hospital and she’s a stay-at-home mom with a toddler and a baby. Their other home is already under contract, so I don’t want there to be any delays.”

  “I have your power of attorney.” Mark squeezed her shoulders softly in assurance. “I can handle the closing and anything else that comes up with Jonathan’s estate. You don’t have to worry about any of that.”

  She bit her lip and nodded. Mark had had his attorney draw up papers yesterday that would enable him to act on her behalf in her absence. He had brought the documents here and Mercer had signed them.

  Samantha stepped closer, sadness in her eyes. “We’ll miss you.”

  Detective Beaufain cleared his throat. “We have to go soon, Ms. Leighton,” he reminded gently. “We have a schedule to keep.”

  “I need to see Carter and Quinn,” Mercer pleaded to the detectives.

  “They’re not going to make it, honey.” Mark broke the news. “I just checked the arrival times at the Charleston airport. They’re still an hour away, not including the drive here.”

  Her heart squeezed. Carter had tried his best to be here, but the overnight flight had had mechanical issues and had been delayed. His trip would be in vain if she left now. She turned hopeful eyes to Noah. But he appeared resigned, his stance unmoving.

  “Detective Beaufain’s right. We can’t stay much longer.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “I can give you all five more minutes. We’ll go outside to transfer the rest of her luggage and make sure the area’s still clear.”

  Hand poised on the butt of the holstered gun at his hip, attired in trousers, a white dress shirt and dark blue tie, he departed the office with Detective Beaufain. Mercer talked with her family a while longer before finding herself being hugged again by each of them in turn. Mark was the last to embrace her.

  “Tell Carter I’m sorry.” Her voice shook. “And…please tell the children that their Aunt Mercer loves them.”

  Mark’s eyes held pain. “Do exactly what the Marshals Service tells you. We all love you and we’ll be praying for you, every day. Just hang on. We’ll see you again when this is finally over.”

  She fought back panic as Noah and Detective Beaufain reappeared. Squaring her shoulders and gathering what was left of her courage, she scanned the faces of her family once more. Then Mercer turned away, her vision blurring. If not for Noah’s hand low on her back, guiding her as they left the office, she feared that she might collapse, overwhelmed with dread for what lay ahead. The sun had risen a short time ago and as they walked from the office, staying covertly under the building’s eaves, she was aware of the sky that was just beginning to brighten with shades of pink and orange, the briny scent of seawater, and the sound of water slapping against the dock. She tried to memorize all of it by heart.

  “You did good,” Noah assured her as they stepped into the crushed-shell parking lot where Detective Beaufain’s sedan sat waiting, its engine running. Mercer didn’t respond, her throat too tight to speak. Noah opened the rear door of the vehicle for her. She climbed inside, aware of his concerned gaze on her, then he closed the door behind her.

  It wasn’t the metallic clang of prison bars, but it might as well have been.

  A hollowness in the pit of her stomach, she fastened her seatbelt as the two men entered the vehicle, Detective Beaufain behind the steering wheel and Noah next to him on the passenger side. Their collective moods were somber. The lot’s shells crunched under the car’s tires as it pulled from the harbor and headed out.

  The rendezvous point was a non-descript diner located off the interstate, a few miles outside of the tiny town of St. Matthews, South Carolina. Noah sat in a vinyl-upholstered booth with Mercer, Tyson, and the two U.S. marshals. After making introductions and signing the transfer papers, they had ordered coffee, although Noah’s sat mostly untouched in front of him. The conversation of other customers and the clink of cutlery against plates surrounded them. Mercer,
however, stared absently out through the diner’s windows.

  Noah tensed as one of the marshals, a big, red-haired man named O’Hannon, spoke to her. “There’ll also be papers that we’ll need you to read and sign, Ms. Leighton. They indicate your understanding of the program and acceptance of our rules.”

  She looked at him. “Where am I going, Marshal?”

  “For now, back to Columbia with us for a few days,” the other marshal replied. A dour, prematurely balding male whose last name was Termin, he took another sip from a chipped, white mug before continuing. “You’ll receive your new identity there as well as the supporting documents. You’ll be staying at a hotel while being oriented to the program. After that, we’ll be escorting you to Cedar Rapids.”

  Noah frowned. That was a long way from home.

  “Iowa?” Mercer paled. “What am I supposed to do there?”

  “Keep a low profile.” O’Hannon signaled to the waitress to bring the check. “Obey the cardinal rule—stay out of contact with anyone from your former life—and you’ll be fine. As your handlers, Marshal Termin and I will be checking in with you periodically. We’ll bring you back to Charleston in the event there’s a trial. But aside from that, you’ll be on your own. An apartment and a stipend will be provided for the first several months, but WITSEC participants are expected to find employment and eventually take care of themselves.” O’Hannon scratched at his cheek as he appeared to assess her. “You’re a special case, of course, Ms. Leighton. Our understanding is that you have money of your own, some of which will be wired to a bank account set up in the name of your new identity so that you can access it.”

  Mercer merely looked out at the parking lot again through the diner’s dust-covered blinds, her expression bleak. An ache inside him, Noah felt powerless to protect her. It surprised him that Termin had divulged where she was being sent. WITSEC information was highly classified and even police were typically kept in the dark regarding the location of witnesses.

  Termin drained the last of his coffee. “We should get going.”

  “Excuse me.” Tyson slid from the booth and stood. “I’ll meet up with you by the cars so that we can transfer Ms. Leighton’s things.” As he headed off toward the restrooms, a white-aproned waitress laid the check on the table. Noah reached for his wallet, but O’Hannon picked up the check.

  “We’ve got this, Detective Ford. You drove the farthest distance. It’s the least we can do.” Leaning to one side, O’Hannon produced a gold money clip that held several bills from his trouser pocket. His thick fingers concealed most of the clip, but a coldness ran down Noah’s spine as he got a partial glimpse of it before it was stuffed away again.

  It had some kind of design, maybe Celtic? It looked like a cross inside a circle…

  The money clip had an engraving on its front. Was it the same design that Mercer had described on Draper’s ring? At the prospect, Noah’s heart began to race. He tried to process what he thought he had seen, at the same time considering the possibility that he was mistaken. Furtively, he scanned the diner, which contained a dozen or so people, including waitresses, a family with several young children, and a row of truck drivers who sat on stools at a long counter. Uncertainty tore at him. Was he wrong? These men had the proper U.S. Marshals Service identifications, including photo IDs. And O’Hannon and Termin were the names of the marshals who had been assigned to the case.

  But if he wasn’t wrong, this was no place for an exchange of gunfire.

  “I meant to ask,” Noah said with forced nonchalance. “How’s Assistant Deputy Director McCann doing?” After several beats of silence, he added, “After his heart attack, I mean. Has he returned to duty?”

  Termin squinted at him. “You know McCann?”

  Noah’s muscles went rigid. He had made up the name. He remained outwardly calm, however. “We served together. ANGLICO.”

  “Marines Special Ops,” O’Hannon remarked knowingly. “Good on you, Detective. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that McCann’s already back behind the desk. He’s one tough son of a bitch. We’ll tell him you said hello.”

  Noah’s mind searched for a way out of this that wouldn’t leave Mercer and the others around them at risk. But there wasn’t a chance in hell that he was letting them leave with her.

  “Keep the change,” O’Hannon said as the waitress came by to pick up the money that he had tossed onto the table.

  “Have a nice day, officers.” She smiled as she tucked the money into her apron pocket, apparently having noticed the badges and holstered guns the men wore. Once she had moved to another table, O’Hannon slid from the booth with Termin following. Noah stood, as well, although his insides were churning. Mercer emerged last. Appearing tired and drawn, she didn’t look at him. He glanced to the restrooms, mentally urging Tyson to emerge. When he didn’t, Noah followed behind the two armed men with Mercer between them as they exited the diner through smudged-glass double doors and stepped out into the gravel parking lot. At least it was devoid of others. The lot was shared with an insurance office and nail salon, and Noah hoped that no one would exit from them. As O’Hannon placed his hand on Mercer’s back to guide her to their waiting sedan, Noah unsnapped the safety on his holster. Nerves crackling like live wires, he withdrew his Glock and moved into a shooting stance.

  “That’s far enough,” he ordered in a loud voice, adrenaline making his skin pulse. “Turn around slowly with your hands up!”

  The men as well as Mercer halted and turned. “Noah?” Mercer squeaked out, her eyes wide with confusion.

  “What the hell are you doing, Detective?” O’Hannon’s thick eyebrows clamped down over his eyes. “Have you lost your goddamn mind—”

  “I said get your hands up and away from your weapons!” Noah advanced a step, his gun trained. “Now! I won’t ask again!”

  The men’s expressions had turned to stone. A woman emerged from the nail salon. Her scream pierced the air.

  “Get back inside!” Noah yelled at her. In the distraction, O’Hannon yanked Mercer in front of him, locking her against his chest with a beefy arm around her throat so that she was caught between him and Noah’s gun. Noah tamped down panic as she struggled, dropping her purse and scratching and kicking at O’Hannon, who tightened his chokehold until she stopped fighting and wheezed for air. He began dragging her backward toward his car, which was parked near a line of eighteen-wheelers.

  “Let her go!” The diner’s door swung open behind Noah, and he heard Tyson’s hard curse. In the chaos, Termin drew his gun and fired.

  Noah fired back and dropped him.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off O’Hannon, but Noah knew in his gut that Tyson had been hit. Cold fear spread through him, but he kept his focus. O’Hannon had drawn his gun during the commotion, too, its tip now pressed under Mercer’s jaw. She gasped against the hold on her throat, terror in her eyes.

  “I said, let her go!” Noah advanced one step at a time, his gun still braced in both hands in front of him.

  “She’s coming with me! Unless you want to watch me blow her head off right here! Either way, you need to stand down! There’re more of us up the road!”

  Noah’s heartbeat thrashed in his ears. If he let O’Hannon leave with Mercer, she was dead, anyway. He was using her as a human shield to make his escape or he would have already killed her. A trickle of perspiration rolled down Noah’s back. He had to take the risk. Another six feet and O’Hannon would reach his car. Jaw clenched in determination, Noah advanced several more steps, steadied his aim and fired.

  Relief nearly brought him to his knees as O’Hannon fell to the gravel, leaving Mercer standing. Noah had shot him in the forehead. Appearing shell-shocked, Mercer swayed, then put her hands over her face. His ears ringing from his weapon’s discharge, Noah turned and ran to Tyson, who had fallen in front of one of the diner’s glass doors. Dropping down beside him, Noah released a shaky breath. Blood soaked the lower left quadrant of Tyson’s shirt, but he ap
peared conscious. He groaned as Noah ripped the garment open to see the wound. His stomach dropped. Blood leaked heavily from a hole in Tyson’s abdomen.

  Screams had come from inside the diner when the shooting had started and people were now peering out through the windows. An African-American male in a white cook’s uniform stood cautiously at the second glass door. When Noah held up his shield, the man opened the door and leaned out.

  “I’ve got an ambulance on the way! Police, too! He gonna make it?” He stared down at Tyson.

  “I need clean towels. Go get them. Now.”

  The man disappeared.

  “How’d you…know they weren’t marshals, Noah?” Tyson choked out.

  “Don’t try to talk. You’re going to be okay, Ty.” A lump in his throat, Noah glanced up at Mercer, who had moved unsteadily to where they were, her face ashen. The glass door reopened and the cook returned with a stack of white kitchen towels. Mercer took them and, kneeling beside Tyson, she gave them to Noah, who pressed them over the wound with his hands. Tyson moaned and writhed in pain.

  “You were right about the leak, Noah,” he managed hoarsely.

  The screech of tires caught Noah’s attention. Three vehicles were turning off the highway exit about a half-mile away and were traveling toward them at a high rate of speed.

  There’re more of us up the road…

  Dread fluttered in Noah’s chest. The others had heard the shooting and were moving in. And there was still no wail of approaching squad cars.

  “We’ve got company,” Noah said tensely.

  Tyson opened his eyes. “You’ve got to get her out of here, man.”

  Noah shook his head, aware of the blood already soaking through the towels. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “Take my keys and go!” Voice weak, Tyson grabbed at Noah’s shirt, pulling him closer so that only he and Mercer could hear. “Take her to the cabin. It’s not that far from here. Lay low until you can figure out who to trust.”