by Sue Wilder
I remembered Garrett telling me how he’d gone back for the case because he needed the rush. The way his lips had twisted with self-loathing.
My throat clenched.
Tad continued. “I’m really proud of him, you know? What he did, how he tries to make it nothing. But that woman—she didn’t even realize the intel was there. She’d been taking pictures of other dumb things.”
“He said she was a photojournalist.”
“Hah,” Tad scoffed. “My ass—sorry, but it wasn’t dude’s fault people got killed—it was hers. He was the first man down because of her, but his guys wouldn’t leave him like he ordered. They came back. Dude says they were all private, not like in war, and that made it different, losing men. But he was their leader. He was Ibiza. Still is, and I talked to Max once. He said he was proud of dude, too.”
“Max is a good friend.” My throat had closed up too tightly for more than five words.
Tad didn’t notice. His mouth turned down in anger, and carefully, he took the black case from my numb hands. Returned it to the shelf. Swiped at the surface to make sure there were no fingerprints.
I breathed in, telling myself at least Garrett would think his secrets were safe. He could believe that lie.
Tad walked back to the kitchen, reaching for a glass and filling it with water. “I saw that woman on some talk show,” he said after taking a quick sip. “Thinks she’s special because her father is a diplomat. But dude damn saved her. Two men died and his back was screwed and did she care? Hell no. Now he’s like one of those CIA guys with no name. Just a star on the wall—ghosted,” Tad added with a slicing gesture across his throat.
“They’re trying to make a movie about it,” I said to keep Tad talking.
He shrugged. “Total white-wash fiction. That book she wrote—it was, like, short. I finished reading in two days. It was all about how she got herself kidnapped and how brave she was, surviving torture—hah. The only torture had to be listening to her talk about herself.” Tad dumped the water and set the glass in the dishwasher. “Dude and I kinda talked about it. I could tell he didn’t like what she said.”
I was still processing the details Garrett left out when a soft ding drew Tad’s attention. He crossed to a desk, jiggled a computer mouse. “Marsh,” he said, looking up, puzzled. “He’s walking up the street, coming toward the house cuz there ain’t any other houses on this part of the hill.”
“Are you sure?” I moved until I could see the computer image, black-and-white, but with amazing clarity, down to the wrinkles in Marsh’s clothes.
“You see what I see.” Tad leaned closer, clicked a few computer keys to enlarge the different camera views, and I realized what Garrett meant when he said Tad knew how to operate the security system while I didn’t. “He was going into mom’s as I was leaving, looking all flustered. I had my cell out—I was still taking to dude—and Marsh bumps into me, looks up, real funny.” Tad straightened. “The guy sets off vibes.”
“Vibes?”
“Creepy.”
“He’s socially awkward,” I agreed, realizing I said that too many times to excuse Marsh’s behavior, when maybe I shouldn’t. Marsh was starting up the first flight of steps to the house, and I knew the approach wasn’t straightforward. Garrett probably planned it that way—another set of obstacles, delaying the time it took to reach the front door.
“He probably just wants to talk,” I said.
“Dacree…” Tad swiveled his head to stare at me. “He shouldn’t even know you’re here.”
My face tightened. “He probably guessed. This morning, Garrett came with his duffel bag. I had mine, and Marsh saw us together.”
“He couldn’t have guessed from that, but okay, cool.” Tad’s hand closed around my arm. “The guy gets to you like a lost puppy. At least let me answer the door.”
“So he knows I’m not alone?” But I gave in, not liking the lost puppy reference since I’d come to the same conclusion the day I met Marsh. I stood aside when Tad opened the door.
March reached through the opening, and it took me a few precious seconds to realize he gripped Tad’s wrist, held it in a backward position while he shoved Tad hard enough to block the doorway.
“Hello, Soleil. Tell your boy here to stand down before I have to put him down.”
“Marsh?” Both Marsh’s action and his words seemed surreal, and I searched for context—like why he wasn’t wearing the glasses that always slipped.
I found nothing, and looked at the way Marsh was twisting Tad’s thumb as if he wanted a dislocation. “What are you doing?”
“Telling you to hold out your hand.”
My skin damped. “Why?”
“Because...” His pause was an insulting judgment against my capacity to listen. “There are cameras everywhere. So, I am going to let go of him, Soleil. Then I’ll take your wrist, and you’re going to let me like the good little actress you are—or I’ll shoot him.”
Gray metal drew my attention, and stupidly, I wondered why Marsh held a gun close to his waist. I felt beyond dull, as if I hadn’t slept. “You wouldn’t.”
“Why not? I’ll do it close range, in the stomach. Hurts like hell and takes him hours to die, but, oh well.”
Saliva pooled in my mouth that I couldn’t swallow because of the nausea cramping in my stomach. Context was spilling all over the place like a wound bleeding out—Marsh’s expression that morning while he pretended concern. The way Tad said he’d bumped against him at Missy’s. Showing up here where Garrett insisted he could contain the situation, until Ty called, and he left me here.
With Tad.
I breathed in shallowly. Hit your mark, Soleil.
“Someone will come.”
“No one will come.”
Marsh twisted Tad’s arm until the boy hissed a breath between his teeth, and the sound made my pulse rage into my throat, driven by a single concern—Tad. How I had to protect him.
“What do you want?” I asked, extending my hand. “Is this about losing your agent and I wouldn’t help you? Or are you secretly pissed that you got caught outside my house last night?”
March’s clammy fingers bracketed my wrist and his thumb pressed against mine, bending my wrist the same way he’d done with Tad, a restraining hold with enough pain to make sweat pool in the small of my back.
“Keep up the banter, Soleil. The cameras outside this house don’t pick up sound, but they’ll record us talking like nothing’s wrong while the kid goes inside, gets the keys to Kincade’s boat. And he knows where they are because he can’t keep his damn mouth shut.”
Marsh’s gaze slid back to Tad. “The shit you can pick up just sitting there, drinking coffee. Do it.” He glared as Tad held his position beside me, then waggled the gun, half-hidden by the jacket he wore. “I can gut-shoot her just as easily as I can you, kid. No time to play hero.”
Tad held up both hands. “Okay. Cool.” He backed away, but before he’d taken three steps, Marsh twisted my arm until I gasped. At the sound, Tad turned back.
“Stop with the hand gestures,” Marsh warned. “Act nice and easy, or it gets worse for her. You got two minutes to walk in, get the keys and then get back here.”
“Why do you want boat keys, Marsh?” I’d noticed the perspiration beading on his upper lip. The oily look to his skin, and his refusal to answer didn’t surprise me.
Tad returned with the Ibiza’s keys in his hand. I remembered how they were attached to bulky floats, and Garrett said the floats kept the keys from sinking if they accidentally fell overboard, and I’d thought, how could keys fall overboard if they were stuck in the key slots, how silly, the way they dangled from Tad’s hand, and then, with a jolt, I realized fear made my thoughts drift.
“Tad doesn’t have to come with us.” I forced myself to refocus. “I’ll go with you. Do what you want.”
Marsh shook his head. “Need him, unless you miraculously learned how to operate a boat. No, didn’t think you had.”
He motioned with the gun. Tad pulled the door closed behind him, but I didn’t hear it lock. My attention remained on Marsh like he was a snake I’d nearly stepped on. We walked side-by-side down the sloping road, then the short distance to the private marina where Garrett kept the Ibiza. The middle-aged attendant waved as we approached. He wore overalls and wiped at his hands with a rag, and I thought—normal again. This is normal, Soleil.
“Ms. St. Clair,” he called out. “Tad. Didn’t think Mr. Kincade was taking the Ibiza out today.”
“He’s still at the bar,” Tad said, and I envied the quick response while my thoughts kept faltering. “Dude said I can handle her that far.”
“Well, I surely know that since you’ve done it before.”
“We’re going to pick him up.” Tad kept talking, even though the marina attendant looked puzzled. “Fuel level okay?”
The man scratched at his head. “You’ve seen the way he always tops it off, Tad. Didn’t think you had to ask.”
“No, you’re right. I just forgot.”
Marsh was getting impatient, and I pressed lightly against Tad’s back to get him moving. We hurried along the dock until I recognized the lighted mooring post. Marsh pressed the gun to my back as I stepped through the open tuna door and on to the gently rocking deck of Garrett’s boat.
“Get the mooring ropes,” Marsh told Tad harshly. “I’ll be watching. No talking. No looking around. Nice and easy. I’ve got the keys, and maybe you should think about me, taking Dacree out on her own, since you’re so eager to protect her.”
Tad nodded. I stared at Marsh, sick at the idea that I’d felt sorry for him. Wanted to give him cookies because I’d been rude. “Why are you doing this?”
“Inside.” He shoved me up the steps to the salon, and I crossed to the far end. Waited, breathing in the faint, lingering scent of Garrett. He’d tossed a shirt over the couch, which meant he’d slept here recently. The nightmares flashed into my mind, and how Garrett rolled over and gripped my arms when he threw us both from the bed. His hazel eyes had been wildly unfocused, then flint-hard with self-loathing for losing control.
I wrapped my arms around my waist to stop the shivering—and Luna’s voice floated through memory. When faced with the impossible, you become a different person, and I want that for you, Sunny. Accomplish what you never thought possible.
I wondered if that was true, or if it was more of her feel-good therapy advice.
Tad walked into the salon, and Marsh waved the gun toward the stairs. He herded us to the bridge deck, where he wandered around, mocking the small refrigerator filled with bottled water. He poked at the cushioned seating, defiling Garrett’s private space, and my stomach churned.
When Tad slid into the left side captain’s chair, Marsh stood behind him and sneered at the electronic array, the monitors when they came online. He used the gun to jab at the overhead VHS radio, then called the bridge some kind of “fake aircraft” while I gripped the upholstered edge of my seat. Forced myself to listen—not to Marsh, but to the rumbling engines as Tad engaged the controls.
With skill, Tad moved the Ibiza out into the bay. Marsh braced, as if he had no sea legs, and I filed the information in my memory. Use everything, Soleil. The smallest detail. Work the scene like a pro. Go in, nail it, then leave.
“Head for the channel, kid,” Marsh ordered. “And if I get sketchy over something you do, she gets a bullet first.”
Tad did as he asked, and we were beneath the bridge before Marsh spoke again. “We’re going all the way out. Stay in the middle of the channel and away from those rocks. No accidental grounding to call attention.”
Tad nodded, in control, and I drew comfort from the way he checked the monitors and corrected the engine speed. Ahead, warning signs for the bar crossing were—thankfully—not flashing, but my chest tightened as the Ibiza ran with the retreating tide.
I knew when we reached deeper water because the ocean surge changed. The waves were stronger, rolling the Ibiza up and down with a continuous glide. Marsh paced, staring through the wide windows, and I remembered all the times I’d excused his behavior. When he’d made me uneasy from the beginning.
But I’d been stubborn, trying not to judge by appearances the way I’d misjudged Brand. Other men.
The realization had me pressing unsteady fingers against my temples. Only an unstable man would confront two people with a gun. Force them onto a boat he couldn’t operate. My thoughts scattered, then centered on the questions.
How did you confront a crazy person? Did you sympathize? Fight?
Luna floated into my mind again, and I longed for the sound of her voice. The way she eased my anxiety. If I could talk to her, she’d point out false fear, help me through the chaos, and I thought desperately—Luna, if you can sense me now… I need help.
I’d never believed in the twin communication, but Luna was intuitive. My fingers squeezed against the cushion beneath me, needing to hold on to something besides hope, and I stared at the cupboard where Garrett kept the life vests. There’d been a toolbox at the bottom, and I remembered other items. Garrett said he’d customized the Ibiza, and his experience, both with Oz and the security work he did, meant he would be thorough in his safety measures.
The Ibiza would have equipment in place, and as inexperienced as Marsh was, he might not realize what he was looking at—but Tad would. He knew the Ibiza the way Garrett did, and I moistened my chapped lips. “Tad, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Shut up,” Marsh ordered.
Tad nodded stiffly. He flipped one switch on the overhead array. “Gotta have some idea where we’re going, though, like a heading, with GPS coordinates. Unless we’re on a random cruise to nowhere.”
“You always were a little punk,” Marsh sneered. “Head north, along the Yaquina reef. I’ll give you coordinates when I’m ready.”
“Okay, but there’s a lot of north out there.”
The radio above Tad’s head suddenly squawked, sending alarm jolting through me. A male voice broke through the sharp static.
“Ibiza. Ibiza. Hay Day. Over.”
“Ignore it,” Marsh snarled, while Tad stared straight ahead, adjusting the speed of the engines as we hit a swell.
“Sure. Cool.” Tad’s hands were steady on the controls. “But if I don’t answer in two minutes, he’ll call again. Fifteen minutes after that, he’ll call the Coast Guard. Standard safety protocol, since he sees us out here, not answering his hail.”
Marsh wiped at his mouth, then said, “Do it. But I’ll have the gun on your precious Dacree, so don’t make me twitchy.”
Tad reached for the VHS radio and turned the dial, then picked up the mic. “Hay Day. This is Ibiza Trident. Over.”
“Tad, that you?”
“Sure thing—hey, thanks for the check-in, we’re all fine, all three of us, and while I’ve got you, can you tell your captain something for me? Tell Oz?”
“Oz Botero? What the heck, Tad—”
“I get it, totally inappropriate. Sorry.” Tad flinched when Marsh stepped behind him and pressed the gun to his nape. “Like I said, no time, but have Oz tell his kid we’re sorry we missed the memorial a few weeks ago—Gotta go.”
Tad flipped the channel on the radio and returned the mic. “No worries. We’re all cool. It’s the kind of chatter they expect out here. He would have noticed if I hadn’t talked.”
“Don’t believe you, kid.” The gun whipped back, then forward, leaving a bloody streak through Tad’s hair—and I was across the small space, throwing my body against Marsh as if I had the weight needed to unbalance him.
But he swung around with a backhand, full momentum, sending me sprawling to the deck. Saliva pooled against my cheek as I lay there, gasping from the pain.
“Do that again, bitch, and one of you gets bloody—bloodier,” he added with an amused smirk.
“M-Marsh.” I swallowed the bile in my throat. “Don’t take this out on Tad.”
/> “Don’t fuck-tell me what to do.” He swung back toward Tad and rattled off numbers that sounded like GPS coordinates. “Tell me when we get there.”
With an unsteady hand, Tad punched numbers on a console screen. I pushed up with my palms, trying to keep my arms from shaking. Blood matted Tad’s hair, but I didn’t dare go to him. Instead, I crawled back onto the built-in seating, huddled, while Marsh paced around.
He opened drawers, cupboards, tossing items in a frenzy that held no purpose.
The Ibiza’s engines rumbled.
As we gained speed, I turned my head and stared through the windows. The horizon stretched, endless and blue.
Then Marsh stormed toward Tad again, and I rose to my feet, started forward until Marsh raised the gun in my direction.
“Sit… down.”
“Leave her alone.” The maturity in Tad’s voice calmed and alarmed at the same time. Calmed, because Tad was keeping it together when I wasn’t. But the defiance worried me when Marsh was so unstable, and I needed his attention back on me.
“What are we doing here, Marsh?” I used every insult—the tone of my voice, the sneer in my smile. The way I tilted my head and looked down at him.
His lip curled. “I’m dealing with this little punk, and you—” He leveled the gun toward my face. “You are getting what you deserve.”
“I’m getting what I deserve?” I took an aggressive step, propelled toward him by anger, and the need to make him aware of me, the threat I posed. Because I realized what Tad had just done with the radio transmission, the normal banter that wasn’t normal at all, not when Tad mentioned Ibiza Trident and Oz Botero.
We were on the Ibiza because the Ibiza Trident sank fifteen years ago, and everyone who sailed out of Newport would know the name. They’d know Oz Botero, and Marsh could not find out.
I had to keep him distracted. I’m right here, you crazy ass. Chase me like a stupid bull in a fighting ring, not Tad.
“Can you guess how many people try to give me what I deserve?” I cringed at the over-acting, the dripping sarcasm in my voice. “Thousands, but I’m still here, so, tell me, Marsh—what the hell did I do to offend you? Did I kill off your favorite character on The Four Kingdoms? Maybe it was bad acting. Or I wouldn’t read your script, or sign your damn book, or open any doors in Hollywood for you.”
