by Juno Rushdan
The elevator doors opened. Keys jangled, and heels clickety-clacked across concrete.
“Richard, both of our girls can’t be mistaken about seeing Simone kiss you,” said the woman, her voice booming off the walls. “They’re six, not stupid. And I’m not being paranoid.”
The suburban snowflake prattled on ad nauseum as she passed the van without a glance in their direction. Omega nodded. Epsilon put the van in drive, trailing her.
She strolled toward the far end of the garage, blabbing on her cell phone, oblivious to the dark force bearing down on her. The pampered princess was insufferable, with her whiny complaints and complete lack of situational awareness. Her head was buried so deep in the sand, it was a wonder she hadn’t suffocated to death already.
“You have no idea the stress I’m under. After I finish a five-hour drive, I find out my father’s in a coma, the house burned down, and the cops are saying Willow did it! That brat ran off with some guy, leaving me to clean up her mess. I can’t handle any misunderstandings right now, Richard. I’ve been thinking, the girls are so big, we don’t need an au pair anymore.”
Lights flashed on a Jaguar as she hit the key fob. The elitist snob had parked in an isolated position, far from other vehicles, probably out of fear of an accidental scratch or ding.
Omega gave the hand signal to advance. Epsilon drove past the Jag into a position parallel to her vehicle with one empty spot between them. Her cloying perfume tainted the air, mixing with the earthy taste of his wretched smoothie.
She dropped her keys and bent to grab them. “I’m not overreacting or jumping the gun,” she snapped. “Yes, I know, but—” Rolling her eyes, she shook her head. “No, we don’t want you to be late for tee time.” She sighed. “I love you too. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Bye.”
After she disconnected, she swore in mommy-speak, “Fudging fiddlesticks.” She tossed her cell into the designer purse slung over her forearm.
That hothouse flower didn’t stand a chance. Omega gave the go sign, draining the last of his repugnant drink with a slurp. The side door of the van slid open. One second.
His men hopped out from the back. Two.
She gave a long, slow blink before their presence registered and she gasped.
Three.
Duct tape was slapped on her mouth, flex-cuffs around her wrists, a hood thrown over her head, and she was tossed into the van.
It took four seconds to bag her. Pathetic.
27
Atlantic Ocean
Saturday, July 6, 11:20 p.m. EDT
Gideon stirred, lying on the bench near the glass doors. The haze of sleep shrouding his brain cleared. Rain pelting the boat sounded like gunfire.
He longed to stretch his cramped legs and opened his eyes.
A bolt of lightning cracked the night. Choppy waves rocked the boat, almost sending him sliding out of the booth if not for the table in the way.
A loud thud came from the bedroom. He assumed it was Willow hitting the floor.
He sat up and pushed out from the seat. The rain hammered the vessel, and the wind had picked up.
“We must have sailed into a storm,” she said, coming out into the cabin, wearing one of his T-shirts and a long sweater.
It had started raining before he dozed off, but nothing more than a drizzle. “I think it’s worse than a storm. Wait here.” Gideon went out onto the deck.
Ominous clouds rolled across an angry, dark sky. Lightning flickered, and thunder roared on cue. Conditions had flipped from rainy to perilous while he slept. The tropical storm must’ve changed course and grown into a full-blown hurricane.
Willow slid the deck door open and came out into the rain.
“Go back below,” he said. “You shouldn’t be out here.”
“Neither should you.”
“This isn’t good.” He wasn’t an experienced helmsman or sailor or whatever the heck you called a boating expert, but he’d driven Knox’s houseboat a few times and picked up tips.
They were close to the shore of some barrier islands on the leeward side of the boat, which was dangerous. The gale could drive them onto land and wreck them. They had to get out of the teeth of the storm and needed sea room—a safe distance from anything they might crash into like the coastline. First, he needed to turn the bow into the waves to keep a swell from striking the side of the hull and capsizing the boat.
He steered Willow inside the cabin and handed her the life jacket from the locker. “Put it on.”
While she donned the yellow vest, he started the engine, cranked the wheel over to point the bow in the correct direction, and shifted into forward.
The boat jerked violently against the waves, the stern fishtailing. He throttled up, accelerating, but the vessel only pitched, refusing to move, as if the hull was caught on something.
Earlier, they’d been far enough out to sea that it would’ve been pointless to drop anchor since it wouldn’t have landed on the bottom. He had no clue why they weren’t moving.
“Do you smell that?” she asked.
Taking in a deep lungful, he detected the faintest scent of smoke and burnt oil. She had a very sensitive nose.
He killed the motor. “It’s the engine. I need to see what we’re hung up on.” He met her wide, panicked eyes. “Stay here.”
He slid the door open, bracing to go back out into the deluge. Driving rain whipped him. Grasping the handrail, he pulled himself toward the bow, checking over the side along the way. Strong gusts dragged at him, and he fought to keep his balance on the slick deck.
At the front of the cruiser, he checked the anchor. The chain stopper had broken off, unlocking the anchor. The storm had carried them close enough to shore for it to hook into the bottom. He pressed the button to reel in the anchor and waited for the distinct grumbling sound that never came. The boat dipped and rose with the waves.
A clinking sliced through the roar of the wind. The anchor was stuck.
He’d have to cut the nylon line to free the boat.
As he made his way back to the rear to get his bowie knife, the yacht did a wicked roll, going from thirty degrees heeled over one side to swing thirty degrees the other way within seconds.
He rounded the corner onto the back deck and ran into Willow.
“I was worried. You were gone so long.” Clutching the railing, she handed him another life jacket. “I found it in the closet. You shouldn’t be out here without one.”
The wind snapped with a sudden ferocity, turning the deck more treacherous. The yacht rose on the crest of a great swell, and they both braced. The tremendous wave broke, foaming over the handrail, and the boat came crashing down.
Gideon’s feet slid, but he held tight to the rail and reached for her. Willow lost her footing in the gush of water washing across the deck and slipped through his fingers.
A violent wave broadsided the cruiser, and she toppled over the railing into the darkness.
Gideon’s heart stopped; the whole world seemed to shift into a slower gear.
One moment she’d been right beside him, and the next she was gone. As if the wind and darkness and raging ocean had conspired to pluck her from the air.
Adrenaline kicked in, his pulse cranking up to a hammering beat. Training had hard-wired him never to panic, but alarm tore out of his vault and straight through his chest. He rushed to the aft railing and scanned the water.
There was nothing. Only thrashing waves and foamy white caps.
“Willow!” he called into the brutal storm, his chest constricting.
Rain pelted him as the wind buffeted the boat. Every second it took to find her, the sea would put more distance between them.
He dashed inside the cabin and fished out a white flare from the locker. Hustling into the rain, he pulled off the cap. He lit it the same way one would a match, rubbing
the end of the flare against the striking surface of the cap.
Ignited molten material sprayed like an angry tongue, casting a bright white light. Hoisting the flare high, he scanned one hundred eighty degrees.
There! A spot of yellow and flash of the vest’s white reflective strip.
An arm popped out of the turbulent water. She flailed at the surface, trying to keep her head up. Then a wave slapped her under a swell.
Gideon grabbed the life ring that was tethered to the boat and tossed it out like a Frisbee to the spot where he’d seen her. He launched himself from the stern into the savage sea.
The shock of hitting the chilled, pounding water snatched his breath. Frothing waves dragged at him, trying to suck him down into the water’s black heart, but he fought against them. He arrowed through the water in the direction of the life buoy, desperately searching for her.
The fierce current pulled on him, slowing him down. The metallic taste of fear mixed with brine in his mouth as the watery bowels contracted around him, jostling him like a toy trapped inside a humongous washing machine.
A ghostlike arm snaked hold of the orange ring. Willow hauled herself up, clinging to the flotation device.
Gusting winds sloshed water in his face, preventing him from catching a full breath. Spray stung his eyes. She was twenty feet away, the distance stretching in the turbulence as though it were a hundred.
He grabbed onto the line and pulled her closer. She reached for him. Their fingertips grazed. Jealous waves buffeted them, tearing them apart in an exhausting tease.
With fickle quickness, the sea swept them back together. This time, he caught hold of the buoy and helped Willow get a better grip.
She gagged, sputtering out water while the ocean force-fed her more. He got her higher onto the ring where she could get a breath. Keeping the flotation device between them, he started swimming, angling back toward the boat. She kicked, doing her best to assist him, with her arms looped over the ring.
Panic receded now that he had her. He kept his head up like a polo player, chin above water, sights trained on the bobbing yacht, struggling against the unrelenting current.
Wildfire burned in his side—he was in agony from his wound.
His arms and legs were growing heavier, but he gave each kick, each stroke everything he had, tugging the buoy along with him. He refused to lose.
Gritting his teeth, he pumped even harder for the last few feet, battling the ocean, the storm, Mother Nature herself, to get Willow to safety. He hooked his free hand onto the ladder and hauled her to his side. Straining, he heaved Willow up to the rail.
His gut screamed, and he grunted in anguish, but he didn’t let go of her until she made it to the deck.
A watery fist gripped him with impossible strength, trying to drag him under. Holding steadfast to the ladder, he had to go all the way, not permitting an ounce of weakness.
The metronome ticked in time with his heartbeat.
He wrestled the snarling swell and stretched for the higher rung on the ladder. Raking in a ragged breath, he climbed out, putting one foot above the other, the last of his strength leaching from him.
With his right hand on the rail and his left arm around Willow, he trudged carefully toward the cabin, ensuring they weren’t catapulted overboard by another surprise attack.
He slid the glass door open, ushering her inside, and shoved it closed behind him.
Breathless, they collapsed on the floor, half drowned. Trembling and clinging to one another, relief to be alive resonated in the tightness of their grips.
He still had to cut the line and free the boat, but he needed a moment to recover.
The storm raged around them, rain smacking the doors and windows loud as marbles thrown against glass. Only one thing mattered. Staying alive.
28
Atlantic Ocean
Sunday, July 7, 4:37 a.m. EDT
Gideon had cut the anchor and navigated them safely out of the storm.
It was still raining, but they were in calm waters.
Willow had been freezing and shaking uncontrollably even after drying off, putting on another of his T-shirts, and lying under the covers, curled in a tight knot.
He’d climbed into the bed alongside her, clothed. His only thought was to rid the chill from her with his body heat and ease her shock from nearly drowning. He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, spooning, her clutching his forearm, glued to one another.
Once his own skin and blood and bones had warmed, she stopped trembling. That was his cue to leave, but he couldn’t move. His limbs were heavy. He was utterly spent, and having her in his arms was one of the simplest yet greatest pleasures of his life.
She was nuzzled against him. The top of her head under his chin, her scent invading his senses. Lounging on fresh sheets warm from the dryer on a rainy Sunday morning. A clean breeze blowing from a garden. She smelled like heaven.
Made him want to die.
She lifted his arm, brushing her cheek over his bicep, and grazed his thumb and the rest of his fingers in turn, lingering on the ones with odd nails. He’d lost three fingernails, ripped from his right hand during a mission in Syria that had hiccups. He got bagged, and the torture had escalated before Reece and Maddox found him. It had taken seven months for the nails to grow back, and they’d never looked the same.
Women didn’t notice the funny shape and distorted color during a one-nighter.
But Willow kissed each fingernail, slowly, gently.
Her compassion seared through him. Pressing his face into her hair, he hugged her tight. He was tormented and confused, aching to be closer to her in the one way he knew how but not wanting to ruin things by being himself.
She rolled over in his arms, meeting his gaze with a soft, sensuous look, and stroked his hair. The air between them turned flammable as methane gas. His body hummed with arousal. The power she had, to have him unraveling with a look.
“You have such beautiful eyes. Does my staring make you uncomfortable?”
Not one little bit. “No.”
“You’ve saved my life multiple times. If I wasn’t your assignment, I’d be dead.” The dark whisper clawed through him. “I know I’m just a job for you and that you’re not interested in me sexually, but thank you. I really needed this, to be close to someone. To you.”
She took his stance as rejection? Why didn’t she see his impressive self-control as noble?
“Willow, I do want you.” Like a dying man wanted CPR. “I’m so attracted to you that it hurts. But emotions have been running high, and the tension and stress of the situation are distorting things.”
She was eight years younger—might as well round up to a decade—was so full of light and had so much to offer. Under different circumstances, she wouldn’t want this. Not with him, a man she feared on some level.
Gideon was a damaged piece of meat, scarred more on the inside than out. He didn’t have clean hands or a clean conscience, and one day, his demons would catch up with him. And when that happened, he didn’t want her near him, regretting anything they’d shared together.
“You don’t know what I’m capable of,” he said, “what this job requires of me. It brings out a darkness and feeds something terrible inside.”
He often purged that same energy during sex.
She stroked his cheek with the warmest, lightest touch, making the fine hairs on his body tingle. “You have a tough job, an ugly job most couldn’t handle. You help stop darkness and death and chaos from spreading, and I admire the fortitude it must take. Just because you’ve done monstrous things to protect our country doesn’t mean you’re a monster. You’re a good man.”
For the first time in a long time, he wanted to believe that was true.
Buttery-soft lips grazed his, but he held back. She kissed him and her tongue slipped inside hi
s mouth, searching for his. In this intimate bubble they’d somehow created, it seemed cruel not to give her the response they both craved. He wrapped his arm around her, his tongue finding hers, and consumed her with a slow hunger.
It’s just a kiss, but with giving in, there was this unexpected, intense relief. His heart bucked liked a horse against his rib cage, his pulse racing while the rest of him relaxed. As though a weight lifted and his entire body sighed with happiness.
He gripped her tighter, yearning for more in the tangle of dark wanting. The sweet heat from her was enough to melt the ice in his soul and fill up the dead spaces with warmth.
But when his hands roamed over her bare skin—up her smooth thigh and cupped the sensuous curve of her backside—the kiss was no longer just a kiss, and he stopped.
Longing broke over her face, and something equally forceful spilled through him.
“I don’t want you to stop,” she whispered. “Make love to me.”
Temptation was a steel cable tightening through him. “I want to, but…” No one had ever expected him to make love.
He was in way over his head. Sex, or rather fucking, was something he did well, but this thing with Willow left him so far out of his depth. At almost twice Willow’s weight, he needed self-control and a gentle approach to give her what she deserved without hurting her. But in some things, he simply wasn’t capable.
“We don’t have condoms. It’s for the best.” A dirty list of other things they could do flashed in his head, but he shook off the devilish thought.
“You had your last physical May 21. Your blood work was clean. Unless you’ve had unprotected sex with someone since, what’s the problem?”
Okay, she really knew a heck of a lot about him and was doing too fine a job painting him into a corner. “Do you hack into everyone’s records, or am I lucky?” His tone was rougher than he intended.
She reeled back, her features pinching. “I’m sorry. I was curious—”
He crushed his mouth to hers, silencing her with a kiss, and held her close. The breach of his privacy should’ve felt like a gross violation, but it was an excavation, freeing him. He’d spent years in a loveless marriage, hiding who he was because everything was classified, because he’d been taught too well never to share. The marathon of lies and omissions exhausted him and kept him at a distance from everyone else.
