“Chris! I’m so glad I reached you on this damned phone!” Natalie’s voice sounded harsh over the international connection the following evening. Her words were nearly overwhelmed by a pulsing, pounding background beat.
“Are you okay?” Chris surveyed the early evening sky, which lay clouded and brooding above the flybridge where she stood. “Is something wrong?”
“No!” Natalie shouted. “I’ve got news.”
Sound casual, Chris reminded herself as she settled into the captain’s chair and propped her legs on the helm console. Jerome might be listening, even in the middle of a party. “What kind of news?” she asked.
Sound dropout cut in, coming back only on the word, “Igor.”
“What did you say?” Chris asked.
“I said I’ve got a new bodyguard. Igor’s been canned.”
“How’d you manage that?” Chris’s throat throbbed with her quickened pulse.
“I told Jerome Igor made a move on me.”
“Did he?”
“Of course not! But it got rid of Igor.”
No doubt at the expense of the man’s life, Chris thought. “That’s a dangerous game, Natalie.”
“Why shouldn’t I use Jerome’s paranoia against him? Now he thinks I’m a good little wife and he’s given me more leash to play on.” Her laugh trilled, incongruous with the seriousness of the situation. “But you could say I’ve found a guardian angel.”
Chris’s fear spun quickly into annoyance. Did Natalie not understand how treacherous this was? “What are you talking about?”
“Jerome let me get a new bodyguard. His name’s Gabriel and he’s helping me do things. I still have to use these damned disposable phones to call you, but at least I can call you without taking my life in my hands.”
Chris forgot about being annoyed. “So you can tell me where you are now?” Good God, that would solve everything. “Do you know where you’ll be over the next couple of days? I know some people, we can get you out—”
“No! Jerome’s still keeping me in the dark.” Natalie paused while the music lagged and a DJ shouted something in another language. Then she said, “I’m still stuck, Chris. Gabriel’s nicer, but he’s still Jerome’s employee. Not mine.”
And possibly had been told to give Natalie just enough leash to hang herself. Chris scrubbed her face with her hand. “I don’t know, Nat. Maybe it would have been better to keep Igor.”
“Why?”
“Better the devil you know.”
“I disagree. Gabriel has possibilities.”
Possibilities. That was how Natalie always characterized a man she intended to sleep with.
“God, Natalie—”
“It’s okay. I’m careful,” Natalie insisted, just as she always had when she’d skated on thin ice.
Chris half envied her blissfully ignorant confidence; it had to be easier on the nerves than her own ponderous planning and worrying.
“But here’s the best part,” Natalie continued. “I got into Jerome’s briefcase this morning. I think I’ve got the lat-longs for the island.”
The lat-longs?
But then, if Natalie had been working her feminine magic on the bodyguard… As Chris had told Smitty and Garza, her sister understood power.
“What are they?” Chris asked hurriedly as she shot out of the captain’s chair. Don’t go dead, she begged the terrible phone connection. She grabbed a ballpoint pen from the side table and scribbled the numbers on the back cover of McLellan’s Yachting magazine as Natalie rattled them off. They looked right, but she wouldn’t know for sure until she plugged them into a GPS. And even then, they could be wrong.
She’d just have to take them at their word. Not as if she had a choice.
“And exactly when are you going be on the island?” Chris asked.
“In a few days, I think. But I don’t know if we’re going straight to Isladonata or if we’re going to stop in New York first.”
If they stopped in New York, the DEA could catch them coming through Customs, Chris thought. Maybe she wouldn’t have to take Obsession to Isladonata. Maybe it would all be over, that simply.
“When will you know?” she asked.
“I’ll try to find out and call you again tomorrow. All I know for sure is that we’ll be on the island next weekend.”
“Then I’ll plan to be there.”
Natalie sighed. “You always have a plan.” Then as drums started pounding, she shouted, “I’d better go!”
Chris barely had time to say goodbye before the phone clicked. She settled back on the bench seat, watching the sky darken and calculating the timetable. Anticipate the worst, she ordered herself. Assume Jerome Scintella stayed out of New York, which a smart man who knew he was also a wanted man would.
After a day of normal bilge pump activity and no sign of more leaks, Obsession lay at anchor off the ICW tonight. They simply couldn’t take the chance of traveling the busy ICW at night on only one engine. They’d limp into New Orleans tomorrow, a full day behind schedule despite their one day head start. Once safely there, they would see about the hull damage. Hortense’s exhaust leak would have to be pinpointed. Chris hoped to hell it’d be a scratch-and-patch job. They didn’t have time for a complete exhaust system replacement. The window for snatching Natalie back from Jerome Scintella had already shortened enough to make Chris nervous.
Chris intended to have a look at the exhaust system when McLellan and Smitty went ashore in New Orleans. If they would let her be alone in New Orleans. They thought they were supposed to protect her from Eugene Falks, but the cadaver wouldn’t have followed her across the gulf, would he?
Falks hadn’t found what he had been looking for, she reminded herself. Whatever the hell that was. And she was still alive. So yes, it was possible he’d followed them, even though she’d kept an eye on the radar today, which had betrayed no sign of their being tailed.
Maybe she’d ask Natalie about Falks when she called tomorrow. If Nat knew the man’s name, they’d know for sure whether Falks worked for Scintella. And if so, maybe why he’d attacked Chris.
Or would even asking the question put Natalie in more trouble, as Garza had suggested? Chris’s need to know wrestled with the dread of causing her sister to put herself in more danger. Chris trusted this Gabriel about as far as she could throw him. Natalie so easily took people at their word, especially when they offered something she wanted. Her guardian angel might turn out to have a much darker side.
“I wish you’d chosen better,” Chris told her sister aloud. Had Natalie taken the time to get to know her husband instead of being ruled by hormones, she might have discovered Jerome’s paranoia. Or that he was a drug smuggler.
Now the only thing between Natalie and death was Chris. Just like the only thing between Natalie and the consequences of her earlier bad decisions—cars, relationships—had been Chris. The woman just didn’t think of the future.
Yes, Chris admitted, she herself always had a plan, every piece painstakingly laid out in order. The only problem with this trip was that the pieces weren’t cooperating.
She’d lost a full day on the schedule, the yacht required repairs and she’d have to check the lat-longs Natalie had given her to see if they were correct. God only knew if they’d be able to bluff their way onto the island and whether they’d get themselves gunned down in the process. Or sunk.
On impulse, she reached into the helm’s cabinet to pull out a handheld Global Positioning System device. Might as well find out if the lat-longs were good. She plugged in the numbers. The display flickered, then showed her a definite dot on a large scale map, south of Key West. Chris zoomed in. The dot quickly became an oval-shaped island with an inlet cut into the south side. So the island did exist, and the lat-longs were valid. Or appeared to be. It could be a setup, just some random island out there with a crew of men waiting to gun them down when they arrived.
But what if the lat-longs were correct? What would happen if she did manage to bri
ng Natalie home in one piece? If McLellan and Smitty failed to capture Jerome again, would he come after his wife? Would he send hired men out to track her down and bring her back? Would she and Natalie have to leave town? How would they live? She hadn’t thought beyond the immediate rescue, getting Natalie away safe. Now, the future’s black maw yawned before her, a place where no light penetrated and no light escaped.
She watched the cumulus clouds that hovered in the west darken into gray. The storm was catching up, inexorable and haunting. A cool gust of wind, laden with the steely scent of distant rain, swept over her cheeks. Finally, as the sky faded into true night, she wept.
Chapter 7
Dawn broke over the Harborside Marina channel as Chris turned Obsession into it. She throttled back for the channel’s no-wake zone. Predawn mist lay thick across the water. Two ghostly fishermen bobbed in a flat-bottomed boat near the reeds, their poles extended out both sides like spider legs. She took one hand off the wheel to wave. The men gawked, flashed waist-high waves, and got back to the serious work of drowning worms.
Obsession passed the first red channel marker, her bow shouldering aside the brown-green water. Smitty and McLellan stood together down on the foredeck, Smitty in his shorts and muscle T-shirt leaning on the bow rail with his bare foot propped up on the bowsprit, McLellan in classic white linen slacks and navy golf shirt. Occasionally Smitty motioned to the anchor or to the cleat where he tied off the port bowline, but Chris couldn’t hear what they were saying. From the back they looked like Robinson Crusoe and Cary Grant discussing the vagaries of the yachting life.
Chris’s gaze slid off to the marina’s breakwater, where the last herons of night were lifting from the bright wooden posts, long legs trailing like snapped kite strings. A flash of movement caught her eye. She scanned the far, reedy bank until she found it: a seagull sitting quietly in the water. The bird suddenly struggled, rose half a foot into the air, then collapsed. Fishing line maybe. All tangled up, Chris thought. I know how you feel. I’ll be back for you, girlfriend.
Below her, McLellan pointed at the approaching breakwater while Smitty made up-and-down wave motions with his hands, then cupped his hands in the shape of a boat’s hull and demonstrated a bow cutting water. McLellan had turned into a full-fledged boat geek, spending most of the past two days under way poking around the yacht, asking questions, generally making a nuisance of himself.
Nuisance. She’d always assumed that DEA agents kept to themselves, cleaned their guns and generally didn’t show an interest in anything but firepower and arrest techniques. McLellan was very different.
Christina, he’d breathed against her cheek.
Her core warmed several degrees. Note to self: Acquire flameproof chastity belt.
Mist scattered in front of Obsession’s bow as they reached the last channel marker heading into the marina. For the first time in three days, the boat parted the liquid mirror behind a breakwater, gliding effortlessly. Even Claire sounded subdued, muffled by the light fog. A lone cormorant surfaced well ahead, its black-feathered body riding low in the water as it surveyed the scene, then dove again, wings stroking it deep underwater for its breakfast. Chris gathered the waters around New Orleans were making a comeback after last year’s devastating hurricane.
She picked up the VHF mic. “Harborside, this is Obsession. Over.”
“Obsession, I gotcha,” the radio blared. “Head straight on down yer left there, Cap’n. Slip 43 will be to yer right toward the end, over.”
“Slip 43, over.”
“I got yer diver, too. He’ll be down at eight t’have a look atcha hull.”
“And a mechanic?”
“He’s booked this mornin’ but’ll be out after dinner.”
Dinner? She started to object, then remembered. Dinner meant lunch in these parts. She grinned as she said, “Thank you, sir. I see you’ve got some new pilings and docks.”
“Ya,” the harbormaster replied. “All this was built back up ’bout a month ago. We glad to see ya.”
“I’m glad to be here. Obsession out.” She put the mic down and fished a headset out of the console cabinet. “Good morning, Smitty,” she said when she had it on.
“Howdy, ma’am.” Smitty gave her a thumbs-up from the foredeck where he’d donned a matching headset for taking orders and giving her piloting feedback.
“Slip 43.”
“Yep.”
She drew the yacht alongside the open slip. Kind of a tight fit, she noted, but doable, even for a girl Obsession’s size. The trick was using the engines instead of the wheel to pivot the boat. Given she didn’t have Hortense to work with, it’d be a little trickier. She spun the wheel hard to port and tapped Claire forward. Obsession obediently pivoted her nose to the left. Then Chris rapidly spun the wheel to starboard while she shifted Claire into reverse. The yacht’s stern started to pull over to the right. Chris continued to jimmy the wheel and engine until the yacht was backed neatly into the slip.
When she looked down, she spotted McLellan on the deck helping Smitty with the lines, fore and aft. So now he wants to be a first mate. Smitty came back to the foredeck in plain view.
“Through with the engine?” she asked, and he slashed his hand across his throat.
Chris killed Claire, then removed the engine keys from the ignition and pocketed them. After stripping off her headset, she set about her normal duties: turned off the instruments, recorded the journey data in the log, and calculated fuel usage for the two engines and the generator. Claire had really sucked down the diesel during the trip, but given the detour outside the ICW they’d had to take and the accident that had taken Hortense out of action, the gallons per hour were acceptable, within what she’d expect for one engine at cruising speed.
She was putting the canvas console cover over the helm when her core fired up and she knew McLellan had joined her on the flybridge.
“I know you don’t need any help, so I won’t offer.” He dropped onto the bench next to the console. “I’d just be in the way.”
She tossed a shy smile his way. “Thanks for thinking about offering.”
“My pleasure. Since I can’t help putting the boat to bed, maybe I can help with something else.”
“What’s that?” Chris fastened the last cover snap.
“Let me get you a hotel room in town tonight.”
She reached out to polish a smudge off the stainless steel throttle lever on the console next to her. Was he propositioning her? “I appreciate the gesture but it’s not necessary.”
“You deserve a break. It was a rough night.” His eyes registered only a calm anticipation. Nothing more or less.
“I’m fine,” she said quietly. “The excitement’s over and done with.”
He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “You deserve a chance to relax. I’ll take you out to dinner. It’s the least you could do since you won’t let me get you a doctor.”
She glanced at her still-reddish knuckles. Friction burn, probably. That close to getting her hand chewed off by the propeller shaft. “I’m okay.”
“You’re not okay, dammit, you were almost killed,” he snapped, straightening. “You breathed in so much smoke you nearly passed out.”
“It turned out fi—”
“You got lucky.” He irritably stood and took two steps away, then turned back. “Good God, woman, don’t you let anyone help?”
“If I thought you could help, yes, I’d let you,” she answered. “It’s all said and done. I don’t know why you’re making this an issue.”
“I need you to get us to that godforsaken island.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “You’re the one who knows this boat inside out. I’ve watched you pilot for the past three days. Smitty was impressed as hell that you backed the yacht into the slip just now on only one engine. We could get by without you, but we’d look like a bunch of amateurs even if we didn’t trash the boat in the process.”
“Smitty could pilot—”
&n
bsp; “Smitty’s got a high opinion of himself but even he admits he sucks in close quarters. You just kissed the dock with a hundred tons of boat. He’d ram it into the next state.”
Competence. Yes, that’s what he’d appreciate most in her. That’s why they needed to keep their distance, to concentrate on the job at hand.
First things first.
“Don’t worry,” she replied. “I’ll perform when it’s time.”
“Christina.” He opened his mouth, then closed it, eyes darkening. “Do you want breakfast up here?”
She nodded, trying not to feel bereft as his lips pressed into a line, shutting her out. Those firm lips she remembered so well, capturing her while the wild wind filled her ears and emptied her mind. Rough and demanding on her after she’d nearly died, his hand hot on her breast. Since that moment two nights ago, he hadn’t tried to touch her. But his expression now provoked a loneliness she hadn’t felt in a long time.
Chris studied McLellan’s broad back as he headed for the stairs to the pilothouse. He could be as dangerous as Jerome Scintella, she thought, just on the right side of the law. Magnetic, challenging, rough around the edges.
Carries a gun. Gets shot in the line of duty. Chases much better-funded bad guys who wield small armies. Would never take a desk job or, from remarks Smitty had made, settle down. Wanted to take his vengeance on his brother’s murderer.
In his own way, McLellan was a dragyne, too. At least to her.
But they needed to be a team. She needed to trust his judgment just as he needed to trust hers. They’d never do that as long as they were both being pigheaded.
Even if it did mean chancing a piece of her heart.
“Connor.”
He paused at the stairs and turned his head to look at her.
She stroked the throttle absently, thinking about best laid plans and the chances you took sometimes to get things right, even when it seemed like a terrible risk.
“Why don’t you join me for breakfast?” she asked. She shifted the throttles full forward. “Then we can talk about dinner.”
Dead Reckoning Page 10
