Troubleshooters 04 Out of Control

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Jones kissed her, filled with a curious mix of emotions. Elation. Dread. Anger. Sooner or later, he was going to leave. Sooner or later, if he stayed too long, the past would catch up with him. He’d have to disappear before that happened.

  He would disappear before that happened.

  He tried to remember what it felt like to be missed, but Molly whispered, “Make love to me again, Grady.”

  Grady.

  It felt better than it should have to be someone he’d long since buried in the past, and he kissed her again, angry both with himself and with her for making him feel things he shouldn’t need to feel anymore.

  He wanted to put on another condom, to lose himself in her again, hard and fast and rough, but he stopped himself. He slowed himself down, got back in control.

  This time, he was going to do her really right.

  Yeah, this time, he was going to make her miss him for the entire rest of her life.

  Savannah would have been convinced that Ken was moments from falling asleep—if it weren’t for the fact that he gently disengaged his fingers from hers.

  His head was back and for the past hour he’d been staring blankly out the open door at the sameness of the jungle below as if hypnotized. He looked as if every muscle in his body were completely relaxed.

  So she was caught off-guard as he suddenly launched himself across the helicopter’s cabin. The men with the big guns were caught off-guard, too, and before anyone could do anything, Kenny opened the chopper’s second sliding door—she hadn’t even realized it was there—grabbed her briefcase and the crate that was holding it in place, and threw them both out of the chopper.

  From where she sat, if she craned her neck, she could see both the crate and the case, tumbling toward the ground. The sun reflected crazily off the briefcase’s metal surface.

  The bigger of the gunmen—the Russian man who seemed to be in charge—was furious. He gave an order, and all four of the guns went up, aimed at Ken, who seemed to be inches from following the briefcase out the door, holding tightly to some kind of net attached to the wall.

  “Kenny!” Savannah knew he’d gone too far this time. She didn’t speak Russian, but it was obvious that in a matter of seconds Ken’s bullet-riddled body was going to plunge toward the ground.

  And it was a long way down.

  “If you want that money, you better keep both of us alive,” Ken shouted at the big Russian. “That briefcase doesn’t just have a combination lock on the outside. There’s also an interior lock that’s voice activated—and it won’t open unless the commands are given by both Savannah and me. Do you understand? Kill us—kill just one of us—and you won’t get a dime of that money.”

  One of the gunmen shouted something in Russian.

  “No, I’m not lying,” Ken countered. Did he speak Russian? Savannah realized that there was so much she didn’t know about him, so much she wanted to know. Please God, don’t let him die!

  “The lock’s got a built-in security device,” he continued. “The money inside’s been treated with a chemical that’ll cause it to burn very quickly at a very high temperature upon exposure to oxygen. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, but you don’t actually believe I could make this shit up, do you?”

  Yes. Savannah knew he was making it all up. She’d bought the case herself just a few days ago and there was no interior lock. But the Russian didn’t know that, and Ken’s delivery was so convincing, she nearly found herself believing him.

  “If the case is tampered with, or if you try to override or bypass the lock in any way,” he warned them, “it’ll fail to trigger the release of an agent to counteract that chemical, and your two hundred and fifty K will be ashes. This is SOP—standard op—for traveling with sensitive documents. It’s not usually done for money, but we wanted an insurance policy.”

  The gunmen were having a heated argument in Russian. The tall man shut them up with a single hand in the air. “Why did you throw the briefcase from the chopper? Why not simply show us this second lock?”

  “And have you force us to open the case right here and now?” Ken shook his head as he laughed. Four guns were pointed at him, and he was laughing. Yes, there was a lot Savannah didn’t know about this man. “No, this way we land, and you and I and Ms. von Hopf here can discuss alternative solutions to all of our problems while the four Stooges take a few hours to find the money.”

  The Russian looked to the front of the chopper and shouted something. The pilot shouted something back.

  Again, Ken spoke as if he understood. “Yes, there is,” he shouted. “There’s a river about five kilometers back the way we came. I saw a clearing big enough to set this helo down. It’ll be tight but if your guy’s any good, he should be able to do it.”

  The Russian didn’t look happy.

  Ken shrugged. “Either that, or forget about the money.”

  The Russian shouted a command to the pilot, and the chopper—or helo as Kenny called it—headed back the way they’d come.

  Ken looked at her then, for the first time since he’d released her hand. He looked her in the eyes, then looked at her shoes, then back into her eyes.

  He was obviously sending her a silent message, and it could only mean one thing.

  Those stupid-ass shoes . . . weren’t designed for running . . .

  Heart pounding, Savannah slipped off first one shoe and then the other.

  And Kenny nodded at her. It was almost imperceptible. But she saw it. And she knew for sure.

  As soon as this helo set down, it was going to be time to run.

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Eight

  I turned to see exactly what her idea of a “Euro-God” was this week.

  And nearly dropped my champagne flute.

  It was Heinrich von Hopf. Right here in Manhattan, Jones read aloud. He looked over the top of the book at Molly. Needless to say, he wasn’t wearing his SS uniform. “Dah, dah dum!”

  He sang what was supposed to be dark, suspenseful music, and Molly had to laugh. “Don’t stop there,” she said.

  “It’s the end of the chapter.”

  “So turn the page. I want to find out what happens next.”

  Jones put the book down and pulled her into his arms. “Guess what? She survives the war.” He kissed her. “She lives to the ripe old age of eighty-something and writes a book. And oh, yeah, her name—on the cover—is Ingerose Rainer von Hopf. I hate to break it to you, but that’s a pretty large hint about how things are going to turn out between her and old Hank. It kind of kills the suspense, don’t you think?”

  “Can you imagine being an American spy during World War Two and actually marrying a man you knew was a Nazi spy?” Molly asked as he skimmed his hands down her body. For a man with such big, roughly callused hands, he had a remarkably soft touch.

  “Is that really what she did?” Jones countered, far more interested in the curve of her waist than their conversation.

  Molly pulled back from him and sat up. This deserved his full attention. “I don’t know because—gee—even though I do know she survived the war and married Hank somewhere down the line, I don’t know the details because I haven’t read the entire book. Was she still in love with him when they got married, or did she do it purely out of love of country? I think she must’ve loved him on some level, don’t you? I mean, she lived with him as man and wife, so . . .”

  “You said they were hot for each other right from the start,” he pointed out. He’d propped himself up on one elbow, the better to look at her. His gaze was almost as palpable as his touch, and hardly less distracting. “Lust at first sight.” He smiled into her eyes. “I know what that feels like.”

  He was so beautiful and completely relaxed lying there. Dark hair, dark eyes, rugged features, hard body, open mind . . .

  As long as she couldn’t see the scars on his shoulders and the backs of his legs, she could pretend he was no different than
any other man she’d found attractive enough to make love to. She could ignore his other scars as well—the emotional ones that had turned him into a grim, angry, defensive man who claimed he was more comfortable when he was alone.

  A man who didn’t have friends because—he said—friends could get him killed.

  Without her friends, Molly would’ve shriveled up and died years ago.

  “I think you better keep reading,” she told him.

  “I can think of better things to do while naked and floating on a boat in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Really?” she said. “Because I was going to start a naked floating readers’ group and see if you wanted to join. You know, hold regular meetings here on the boat . . . ?”

  She was teasing, but he answered as if she’d spoken seriously. “You know, I was actually wondering if . . .” He cleared his throat, and she realized he was working hard to come across as nonchalant. She had to wonder if his entire relaxed pose was also just an act. “If this—today—was just, uh, a one time thing.” He made himself smile. “A bout of temporary insanity.”

  He was trying hard to hide it, but she saw it anyway. A flash of hope in his eyes. Hope that this thing between them—their friendship, their relationship, whatever it was—was something real.

  No doubt he didn’t realize exactly what he was feeling. If he did, he’d run away so fast, she wouldn’t see more than a blur before he vanished for good. No, if she wanted him to stick around for a while—and she did—it wouldn’t do to tip him off to the fact that somewhere between the day he’d first appeared in the village and this incredibly precious moment, she’d managed to fall in love with him.

  Not that that was such a big surprise. Molly knew herself well, knew she had the ability to find something to love in everyone she knew. But her feelings for this particular man were heart-stoppingly intense.

  He honestly hadn’t understood why her having a daughter who’d just had a daughter might’ve been a potential problem. Some men—some people—were so overcome by their fear of aging, all she had to do was whisper the word grandmother and they would’ve dived overboard to get away from her. But Jones—dear, sweet Jones, who tried so hard to be the tough guy, who’d actually shamed himself in his attempt to take the intimacy out of their physical relationship by making it purely monetary—probably wasn’t going to give it a second thought.

  Molly was far too practical to hope their relationship would last. How could it? She wasn’t going to stay on Parwati Island forever. In fact, her job here was nearly done. She was going to leave. And he was going to leave, too. Probably first.

  Instead of wishing for what couldn’t be, she was resigned to cherishing her memories of this day, and all the beautiful days with him yet to come, long after they both were gone.

  He was waiting for her to respond, so she laughed. Keep it light, Molly. Don’t scare him.

  “It’s definitely insanity,” she told him. “But I was thinking this was—to be embarrassingly cliché—the start of a beautiful friendship.”

  His smile was much more real now. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. That’s pretty much what I was thinking, too.”

  “Now would be a really good time for you to invite me to your place for dinner,” Molly suggested.

  “Dinner? Jesus, you don’t want to come for dinner. I can’t cook for shit.”

  “I won’t be coming for the food.”

  His eyes got even hotter. “How’s tomorrow?”

  “What time?” she asked.

  “As soon as you can get there because I know that by six A.M., I’m already going to want to fuck you so bad I’ll be half blind.”

  She had to laugh. “You know, forget about the name Dave. I think from now on I’m going to call you Mr. Romance because you have such an elegant way with words.”

  He grinned. He actually grinned as if he were having fun with their banter, and Molly’s heart turned to total mush.

  “You wanted honesty,” he said. “I’m just being honest.”

  “I think you need to borrow a few of my romance novels,” Molly told him, “to learn how to be honest and confess your secret ardent desire for me in a less . . . earthy manner.”

  “My ardent desire’s not too much of a secret at this particular moment.”

  No, indeed, it most certainly wasn’t.

  Molly handed him the book he’d been reading to her. “Where were we?”

  Jones snorted. “For a do-gooder, you really get off on torture, don’t you?”

  She smiled happily at him. “I remember. Rose and Hank meet for the first time in years.”

  “You’re pretty twisted. Of course, I happen to really love that about you.”

  He loved that about her. It was crazy the way her heart leapt at his words.

  “You said you enjoyed anticipation,” she countered. “I, on the other hand, love it when you read aloud to me. This way we should both be completely happy.”

  Jones crawled closer. “I was lying, remember?”

  She kept him at bay with her foot. “You have such a sexy voice. Hearing you read makes me . . . hot.”

  “Yeah, go on, devil woman. Look at me like that and lick your lips. You think I don’t know you do that just to torment me? We both know that driving me crazy is what makes you hot.”

  “Either way,” she pointed out, “after five, ten pages—tops—I’m going to want to fuck you so bad I’ll be half blind.” She smiled at him as sweetly as possible. “Did I get that right, Mr. Romance?”

  Jones laughed. “Jesus, Molly, I—” He stopped laughing, stopped speaking. He just looked at her with the funniest expression on his face.

  “What?” she pressed, wanting to know what he could possibly be thinking.

  But he shook his head and opened the book. “Did you come here tonight with your husband?” he read aloud.

  It was the first thing Heinrich von Hopf said to me. It had been three and a half very long years since I’d seen him last, and he didn’t even start with hello.

  At first I didn’t know what he was talking about. “I’m not married,” I told him before I remembered exactly what he was referring to.

  Shortly after my return to New York in the summer of ’39, I’d started receiving letters from him. Love letters reminding me of our dreams of travel and adventure. Passionate letters proclaiming his love and devotion, telling me how much he missed me, just what he would give to kiss me again.

  I would read his letters, and my heart would break all over again. I knew his words were nothing but lies.

  So I finally wrote back to him, and I lied, too. I told him that I was very sorry, but my love affair with a young man I knew from college had been rekindled, and we were engaged to be married.

  After that, his letters stopped.

  “It didn’t work out between me and . . .” I couldn’t remember my fictional intended’s name.

  “Charles.” Heinrich actually knew it.

  “Yes,” I said. “Because he . . . well, he died. In the war. At Pearl Harbor. It was horrible—shocking. I’ve tried hard to forget him—I guess it worked.”

  Jones stopped reading, looking up toward the canopy that stretched over their heads.

  Molly pushed herself up on one elbow. “What—”

  “Shhh,” he cut her off and she realized he was listening, intently.

  And then, just as she could begin to hear something rumbling in the distance, he said. “Chopper. I heard it earlier, heading east, off in the distance, but now it’s coming back and it’s coming right this way.”

  He put down the book, and reached for his clothes, tossing her skirt and blouse toward her as well, as the noise from the approaching helicopter grew steadily louder.

  Molly didn’t bother with her underwear. She just hid it under the air mattress, along with the condom wrappers they’d discarded.

  Jones had taken his gun from wherever he’d been hiding it, and was checking to see that it was properly loaded.

 
“You don’t really think you’re going to need that, do you?” she couldn’t keep from asking.

  “Only people I know on this island who have access to a chopper are the gun runners, the drug lords and crazy-ass General Badaruddin’s troops. None of them are the type I’d want to have so much as a phone conversation with, without being armed.”

  The boat was drifting close to the middle of the river. They had reached one of spots where it was wide and relatively shallow.

  Jones started the outboard motor with a roar and quickly steered them to the shore where the trees and brush of the jungle bent over the water. Cutting the engine, he pulled them under the canopy of low hanging branches.