by Dana Marton
Or maybe not.
He turned to hold up the window with his back and lit a cigarette, grumbling to himself and cursing the cyclone.
She could hear the other one in the hallway. She had less than a minute.
She stepped up on the table without making a sound, reached for the nearest ceiling panel and pushed it out of place, then pulled herself up, holding her breath so she wouldn’t sneeze from the dust she was stirring up. Oh, man. The structure was awfully rickety up there. And pitch-dark. She didn’t want to think about the inventory of tropical bugs that likely shared the space with her. She put the ceiling tile back, then spread her weight as best she could. She didn’t have much time to find a comfortable spot; the door was opening below.
Somebody came in. Paused.
“Wind blew in a bunch of dust,” window guy said right beneath her and moved something around on the desk. “You’ll need both hands. You think you can put down that smoke for another minute or two?”
Something crawled across Gina’s leg in the darkness. She shuddered. When she’d been a cop, she’d faced down deranged criminals without trouble. But the thought of palm-size tarantulas cozying up to her freaked her out. So much for the tough-chick act she’d worn since she’d signed up for the police academy then perfected on the force and polished in federal prison.
She’d been too jumpy this morning already. Stupid nightmares had come back again. Probably from the stress. Their mission was nearing its end and the stakes couldn’t have been higher. She hated waking up drenched in sweat; she hated the dark swamp of guilt, the disappointment she felt in herself for having done what she’d done. The time she’d spent at Brighton should have eased her conscience, but it hadn’t.
She listened to the men below and did her best to put the past out of her mind. Now wasn’t the time to get distracted.
Thankfully whatever the two guys needed to do didn’t take long. They were leaving within five minutes. She decided to wait another five before taking off, in case they were still cleaning up outside.
Unfortunately the door opened again before she could make her move.
“Gentlemen, please take a seat,” a slightly accented voice said. It definitely didn’t belong to either the window guy or the roofer, the voice more cultured, more professional. “How do you like the island so far? Sorry about the mess.” Papers flapped, sounding as though he was shaking off files.
Was he wondering about the dust on his desk? Would he look up and figure out where it had come from? Gina held her breath. She’d been in tight situations before and bluffed like a pro or fought her way out if nothing else worked. But this one was stickier than the average mess-up. She would have a hard time coming up with a believable story if they caught her stuck in the ceiling. Yet panicking over the spot she was in never entered her mind. Keeping calm went a long way toward coming out of a bad situation alive.
“We’re just cleaning up after the storm. Everything should be back in order within a day or two,” the man said, and Gina allowed herself to relax for the moment. Didn’t sound as though the guy was about to investigate the dust.
“That’s fine. Doesn’t look like the island was hit too badly. And it’s gorgeous even with the residual damage. Thanks for having us here, Mark,” someone responded.
She recognized the name. And then the voice, too, fell into place.
“And your housing?” Mark asked. As far as she could tell, he was the overseer of the island. He had greeted them in the harbor upon arrival.
“I still don’t understand why we are here. There are maybe forty people on the island. You don’t need two full-time doctors, not like us, anyway. There’s a hospital in Papeete. I understand Mr. Towers has a helipad and an Agusta and a Bell to go with it.”
So the other two were the doctors.
Gina stored the information and wondered where the helipad was and if Tsernyakov’s two choppers were on the island. She didn’t know much about helicopters but recognized the names of the models at least. Something else they had to investigate.
They’d been keeping an eye on the bay for arrivals from the sea. They had to get a location on the helipad, keep an ear out for any birds coming or going.
“Where is Mr. Towers?” the doctor with the deeper voice was asking.
She held her breath for the answer.
“He was held up in a meeting in Venezuela. He is expected here shortly. I have your contracts.”
There was some paper crinkling below, then silence, the doctors probably skimming over what they were being offered.
Somebody cleared his throat. “What you need is a primary physician. Or even a paramedic would be sufficient. We are both specialists. Not that the offer is not generous,” he rushed to add.
Gina held her breath as dust tickled her nose. Tsernyakov was bringing in two medical specialists. She would have given anything to find out what their specialties were. It might present a clue about the large-scale weapon Tsernyakov was selling, whether it was biological, chemical or a dirty bomb.
The island had a helipad and two choppers and some serious-looking bunkers. He was beefing up staff and fixing up housing. Did that mean he planned on riding out the attack here?
“Would you at least agree to wait for Mr. Towers to discuss this with him?” Mark asked.
He sounded deceptively mild and professional. But if he was working for Tsernyakov, the doctors didn’t have much of a chance. He was merely giving them the illusion that the choice was theirs. In any case, if they stayed long enough, once the attack happened, it might be impossible for them to leave.
Gina repressed a shudder, thinking of her friends and herself. What about them? If they couldn’t stop the terrorist attack, would they be marooned here with Tsernyakov and his band of criminals?
Today was November twentieth. Seven more days until the red-letter day, but what was it? Was it the date for the handover of the weapon or the date for the actual attack? How were they supposed to succeed with their mission when they knew so little?
They had Philippe Cavanaugh in custody, but Cavanaugh wasn’t talking. At least security had relaxed at his estate in his absence, his guards easing into complacency. The team had been successful in pulling off a night mission and gained access to both of his safes, found enough clues to confirm that Cavanaugh indeed was one of Tsernyakov’s right-hand men. Not that it was that special of a position. Tsernyakov had more right hands than the goddess Shiva.
“Of course. Spending time here is no hardship,” the younger-sounding doctor said below. “I just—”
“We are probably not a good fit for the post, that’s all. If Mr. Towers would like us to make a recommendation for someone who has the right skills for the type of injuries that are most likely to need treatment in a place like this, we’d be happy to help.”
She turned her head in hopes of getting it out of the dust patch and stretched her arm in the process. It touched something hairy. And warm.
She bit her lip to keep from yelping. What was that? The thing didn’t move. She cautiously stretched her fingers toward it again. Skin with sparse hair. A sick animal? A healthy one would have hightailed it out of here when she came up. The skin twitched. Whatever it was, it was alive. She pulled her fingers back again and tried to put the picture of a giant rat out of her mind. Not enough hair for a rat, she told herself. Still, the air caught in her lungs.
She wasn’t claustrophobic, but all of a sudden it seemed there was not enough air to breathe in the small space. Every horror movie she’d ever watched came back to her with goose-bump-raising detail.
Things she could see she could take on, no matter how formidable or dangerous they seemed. The hairy thing in the dark, however, got her imagination working—and it went to places she didn’t want to follow.
“You should probably read through the contract in the meanwhile, anyway. No harm in that,” Mark was saying just as something closed around Gina’s wrist with a sudden quick strike.
It took
all her willpower not to jump, not to betray her presence to those below. Then her brain clicked back to working after the first moment of pure fright, and she registered the fingers around her wrist.
A human hand. It held her as tight as a vise.
WHO IN BLOODY HELL was that? A thief?
Cal Spencer held on to the slim wrist. A woman, for certain. The light flowery scent that emanated from the intruder’s direction confirmed that.
He’d seen about a dozen female guests on the island so far, plus the five on the staff his cousin kept here.
Which one was she? What did she want?
All he wanted was for her not to blow his cover. He squeezed her wrist in a silent warning. She tugged. Not a chance. He wasn’t about to let her go.
“Enjoy the beach, then. Look at this as a mini vacation,” Mark was saying below them.
Chairs were shuffled, then came the sound of the door closing. Did they all leave or had Mark stayed behind to work?
The interstice where two ceiling tiles met drew Cal for a peek through, but he couldn’t edge closer without letting the hand go. He tried anyway. She responded by jerking against him, hard. The structure they were suspended on trembled.
He went completely still and listened for any reaction from below.
The hellcat next to him wasn’t as cautious. She kicked out, catching him in the side. He bit back a groan, then yanked her toward him. She had to be restrained before she did damage.
He felt soft naked skin, then curves as he pulled her closer. Intriguing. Then met the power of hard muscle as she elbowed his stomach. Bloody hell. He tried to put an arm around her to hold her down.
The next thing he knew, they were crashing through the ceiling in a shower of debris.
He let her go on reflex just a moment before he landed across the desk in a hard fall that could have easily snapped his back. She seemed luckier with the floor. She was on her feet before he was, breathing hard, her gold-mocha eyes throwing sparks as she rounded on him.
All right. He remembered this one—a compact, gorgeous fireball of a woman he’d been introduced to the night before. Her face was covered in dust, her sassy dark bob of hair sticking up and dusted with a bit of foam pieces, but the hot body was ID enough. Gina Torno. She was with a consulting company his cousin was interested in doing business with.
The ladies were on his list of things that needed further checking out. Looked as though he had to give them a higher priority than he had first thought. This one was definitely up to something shady.
“What are you doing here?” he asked at the same time she spit out, “Who are you?”
Since he thought she was the sexiest woman on the island, the fact that she didn’t remember him from the night before stung a little. But not nearly as much as her well-aimed kick to his chin the next second.
He staggered back a few inches and stared at her, dumbfounded. How on earth did she kick that high? She was five-five at best; he was five-eleven.
“All right, that’s enough, luv.” He put out a placating hand and stepped closer. It seemed safest to try and grab her arms and hold them to her side while he asked some questions. And kept an eye on those legs. They were lethal.
They circled each other.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
“Ladies first.” He smiled, actually enjoying the cat-and-mouse game. Hey, what guy didn’t want to wrestle with a hot woman in a bikini?
Her narrowed eyes said she wasn’t nearly as delighted. He caught a hint of desperation as she feinted to the right. Not bad. But not good enough to fool him. He’d been on the boxing team at Cambridge. A long time ago, granted, but some things you didn’t forget.
Where had she learned her stuff? He tried to remember what he could. She was a security expert. American. Her company was based on Grand Cayman. They’d done business with one of his cousin’s “friends.”
“Look, let’s—”
The sound of footsteps came from the hallway. Mark probably. The man had a way of being a bloody nuisance half the time. Couldn’t blame him, really. It was his job to keep an eye on things on the island and make sure everything ran smoothly.
Unfortunately this objective stood in direct opposition with Cal’s to search the island as thoroughly as he could and figure out a way to sabotage the plans of Mark’s boss, who also happened to be Cal’s second cousin. He felt a twinge of guilt as always when he thought of Joseph. He had to believe he was doing the right thing. But still, he wished with all his heart that the SIS had been wrong about this. He could not, however, in good conscience choose to live in that fantasy. He’d seen proof and plenty of it.
The sounds from outside the door neared. Gina froze in front of the window and used her position to open it, then vault clear through before he could have gotten a clue to her intention.
He blinked. Damn, she was fast.
He stared after her, then, for the first time since they’d fallen, glanced around the destroyed room, dust and broken-up ceiling tiles everywhere. No way to make this mess disappear in the next minute.
He could follow Ms. Torno out the window, but when Mark saw this chaos there would be questions. He didn’t want anyone to get suspicious and start an investigation. The last thing he needed was for security to be tightened.
He glanced up and saw a water pipe through the gaping hole above, stood on the desk and grabbed onto it, then pulled with his full weight. It bent somewhat. Then a little more. Water trickled down his arm. The next second, the pipe burst all over the place, and he slipped to the floor just as the door opened.
“Mark. Good.” He was pulling the computer out of harm’s way. “I just stopped by to see you. I think you had a pipe burst up there.”
“I was just in here a minute ago.” Mark swore and jumped to clear the papers on his desk, which were getting soaked through. Everything was now a soggy mess, quickly covering up any signs of the fight moments ago.
“When the cyclone shook the roof, it probably rattled the pipes,” Mark ground out, grabbing what he could. He stopped only to yell out the door, “Turn the water main off!”
“Let me try something, mate.” Cal jumped back on the desk and reached for the pipe to hold it together, reducing the water by more than half.
“Thanks,” Mark said below, collecting whatever items he could salvage. “I’m glad you were here.”
He searched the man’s face for any sign of suspicion but found nothing beyond a massive dose of annoyance. He glanced out the window, had a clear view of the bushy area behind the building. No sign of Mata Hari.
Too bad. If he had to wrestle with anyone, she was definitely his top choice. And it might come to that again, since he had to talk to her.
A vivid picture of her scantily clad curves flashed through his mind, bringing on a smile. She didn’t seem like the type who would just roll over and give up whatever information he asked for. No matter. He had to find a way to make her talk. She was a serious threat to his cover and, as such, his life. Most importantly, she was a serious threat to his mission.
“What the hell happened in here?” Jeff, one of Mark’s men, was coming in and jumped to give them a hand.
“Cyclone shook the pipes,” Mark gritted out, having saved as much as he could, standing in the middle of the mess now and surveying the damage.
“Sergey should have looked.” Jeff was still picking up soaked sheets of paper from the floor. “He was just up there fixing the roof.”
“Let’s check the other buildings—before we have more damage on our hands,” Mark barked.
Jeff gave a submissive nod and took off.
Mark looked up to Cal. “I’ll go drain the water so whatever is left in the pipes doesn’t have to come out through here.” He left without waiting for a response, used to being in charge and doing things his way.
Cal didn’t mind. Even though he was the boss’s cousin, he’d made no move to make himself seem important or in any way above the others since he had a
rrived. His goal was to blend in, to be happy-go-lucky and unassuming, gain Mark’s confidence and that of the others. He was here to gather information.
And right now he wanted information on Gina Torno.
He glanced through the window again, squeezing the pipe ends together, ignoring the water that ran down his arms and into his already soaked short-sleeved shirt. What was keeping Mark?
He needed to get out of here and find that woman.
Chapter Two
“What do you mean, he caught you?” Anita’s forehead tightened with tension.
Gina took a deep breath and recounted the events of the last hour, watching the path that led to their bungalow, standing in the cover of the half-open door.
“So who was he?” Sam kept an eye on the back through the bathroom window.
“What kind of computer was it?” came from Carly, who already had a gleam in her eyes. She was going through the kitchen, looking for makeshift weapons. They’d identified as many as they could upon arrival. She was now distributing them so they would be on hand if anything happened.
“You’ll get your turn with the PC, I’m sure.” Gina shook her head with a half smile. Carly was computer crazy. Not surprising from a former hacker.
“You bet I will.” She paused midtask and reached for a cookie on the kitchen counter under the window through which she kept an eye on the beach. “Sugarcane cookies.” She made a face. “I could kill for a doughnut.”
Gina winced at the word choice. Because of her, their chances of this mission ending badly just increased tenfold. How had she been stupid enough to get caught snooping around? She was surprised security wasn’t already breaking down the door.
“Are you hurt?” Anita had noticed the scratch on her skin.
She shrugged it off but walked over to the kitchen to wipe off the dried blood with a wet paper towel, then returned to her post.
They were all back in the bungalow that had been provided for their use upon arrival, rustic but efficient—four bedrooms with a double bed in each and a small living room with an even smaller kitchen, plus bathroom.
