Countdown

by Carey Baldwin

  “Trash the dress. Sign of a free spirit. Wish I were brave enough to throw convention to the wind like that.” She passed him up. “Hurry up. I’ve changed my mind. I’m all in.”

  She trotted ahead, not giving him a chance to remark that she was the bravest woman he’d ever known, or to ask what the hell trash the dress meant. But he didn’t have to wonder long. With the camera clicking away, the groom carried his bride waist deep into the water, and then the real action started. Making a big show of it, he dumped her into the waves. She screamed, a laughing, happy scream, and splashed water in his face. The wedding dress was definitely a goner, but the photos and the fun would preserve a priceless memory. Maybe more so than a fancy dress packed away in mothballs for a hypothetical daughter who probably wouldn’t want to wear her mother’s outdated gown at her own wedding anyway.

  Trash the dress. Got it.

  “You’re asking for it.” The groom’s deep voice boomed over a lull in the wind. He grabbed his bride by the hand and ran farther into the ocean. She resisted, trying to hang back, or maybe it only seemed that way because she was struggling against the train of her dress, which seemed to be tugging her down, as if it had caught on something underwater.

  A wave crashed over the couple, and the dress broke free from its unseen anchor, its long white train now topping the water like frosting on a cake.

  “Too far, Tommy!” The photographer stood at the edge of the sand, motioning the couple back in. “I need closer shots.”

  Tommy seemed not to hear.

  But the woman looked back . . . and when her gaze landed on Spense, adrenaline blasted through his body, shooting his pulse into the red zone.

  The groom dragged the bride against him, locked both arms around her and began swimming, towing her out to deep water, with the train floating behind.

  Spense kicked off his shoes so he could move fast.

  A person who hadn’t experienced the perils of this world firsthand might have hesitated. Might have reasoned away the rush of blood to his gut. Told himself the distress signal he picked up from the woman’s body language was a product of his imagination or just his eyes playing a trick on him.

  Spense did not.

  It didn’t matter that there might be a logical explanation for the groom hauling his bride farther and farther from shore.

  He didn’t hear the photographer over the wind.

  He didn’t realize how quickly the bottom would disappear.

  Nor did it matter that Spense couldn’t clearly see the woman’s expression. The moment she’d jerked her head around, he’d known, with a certainty that came from too many years of chasing down trouble:

  This woman was in it.

  Chapter 4

  Tuesday

  Plage Des Dauphins

  Tahiti Nui

  The photographer either sensed something was wrong or didn’t have a long enough lens for a decent shot. He lowered his camera and began pacing the shoreline.

  “FBI! Stop!” Spense shouted the words, so loud and hard his vocal cords continued to resonate afterward.

  The photographer dove for the sand.

  Guy must’ve thought he was talking to him.

  Elbows tucked to his sides, Spense sprinted into the ocean.

  Cold.

  And then warm.

  Far in front of him, the couple disappeared beneath the waves.

  Spense ran, knees high, all but hitting his chest, until he was in deep enough to get his six-foot-four body horizontal.

  His feet left the sand.

  Keeping his head up, he swam toward the long white train bobbing in and out of the water, his cupped hands motoring salt and water and wind into his open eyes. Despite the painful burning, he didn’t close them. He had to keep the target in sight. The telltale train might sink at any moment.

  The woman’s arms appeared, flailed, disappeared.

  The world went quiet.

  As if someone had dialed down the volume on a pair of headphones, the seagulls cawing, the ocean crashing around him, the voices shouting from somewhere behind him faded to black.

  His heart thumped powerfully in his chest.

  This, his body’s reaction to danger, felt safe, and familiar. Adrenaline fired up his muscles while his pulse beat strong and steady. His body didn’t panic.

  And neither did he.

  He was trained for this.

  His arms surged and pumped, like pistons, propelling him forward, through water that seemed to absorb his body heat. It felt hot and hard around him, like a cocoon of molten glass he had to break through over and over again.

  Until the silence broke.

  A distant voice—the only one he could never unhear—was calling his name.

  “Spense!”

  Caity.

  She’d be right behind him, he knew, but he didn’t turn, didn’t stop.

  He trusted her, not because he had to, though in a moment like this he really had no choice, but because she’d earned it. Whatever she meant to tell him, he couldn’t stop. Probably she was just letting him know she was here. By his side. Which was good.

  Always.

  But now especially, since both the bride and groom had disappeared beneath the water. There might be two people drowning.

  As he stroked furiously across the ocean, it occurred to him he had no idea what the hell kind of a mess he was swimming into.

  Caitlin’s feet kick boxed the surface of the water as she swam straight toward the waves, diving under before they broke to avoid being towed back toward the shoreline. Unlike Spense she wasn’t a strong enough swimmer to power over the cresting waves, but she was strategic. Each time she pulled her body beneath a wave, she lost her sight line for a moment, but it was worth it to maintain forward progress. And Spense was making enough of a splash up ahead to guide her, creating a road map of turbulence for her to follow. She’d have to trust that he had the couple in his sights even if she didn’t.

  Another wave broke and she dove a split second too late.

  A gush of salt water seared her nostrils, driving pain up her sinuses. The pull of the current was strong, and the muscles in her arms complained. She dove deeper, swimming under the surface, not coming up for air until her head threatened to explode from lack of oxygen.

  But her strategy was working. Swimming deep and under the waves, she was making progress. She’d caught up to Spense’s wake, and then she saw them.

  The bride and groom, underwater.

  The bride kicked hard, blasting to the surface, and the man, hanging on to her by one arm, went with her.

  Caity rocketed to the surface just in time to see the couple butt heads and go back under. She was dizzy from holding her breath, and her vision dimmed by the salt water. She’d only caught the briefest glimpse.

  Who had head butted whom?

  Spense reached the spot where he’d last had eyes on the couple.

  He dove beneath the surface and kicked in a circle, spotting them, underwater at 2:00.

  Gun!

  The bride had a gun in her hand.

  The groom’s foot flew up, catching her beneath the chin.

  Blood poured from her mouth, swirling in the water like red finger paint.

  The groom grabbed her by the elbow, applied torque, and they rolled, weightless in the water, moving with the rhythm of the ocean, gun pressed between their chests.

  Spense kicked toward them, his eyes locked on the compact pistol in the woman’s hand. There was a chance it wouldn’t fire under water, but it wasn’t one he was willing to take.

  Spense pulled water with all his might, kicking at the same time.

  The couple summersaulted.

  The woman jammed her knee into the man’s groin, used her feet to push off, and broke free, floating backward in a sea of blood.

  A muffled boom.

  A ball of gas in the water.

  The groom’s body flew back, knocking Spense in the chest, and they spun together like shirts in the wash
. With a series of tiny shockwaves reverberating in his ears, he locked an arm across the man’s chest and dragged his dead weight toward the light shining through a curtain of blood. When he popped through the ocean’s surface, his eyes scanned everywhere.

  No bride.

  No Caity.

  He mashed his fingers on the man’s neck checking for a pulse.

  Found one.

  His thoughts turned back to Caity. She was a good swimmer. She knew how to handle herself in just about any kind of mess, but he didn’t like how long . . .

  Caity popped out of the water and signaled an okay with her thumb and fingers.

  Spense could breathe again.

  In a few strokes she was by his side. He treaded water, half floating, with an unconscious man’s head on his chest. Guy was still in his tux. Breathing. He’d been knocked out only an instant before Spense got him to the surface. There was a lot of blood, but it didn’t seem to be coming from the groom.

  “Where is she?” Caity panted.

  He jerked his head in the direction of a white gown, its long train floating atop the water in a pool of red.

  “You’ve got your hands full.” Caity dove under.

  An eternity seemed to pass.

  Finally, she resurfaced, shaking her head. “Just the dress.”

  Still hanging onto the groom, Spense started swimming in a clockwise circle while Caity swam counterclockwise, trying to spot the woman. No luck. If she was under, she didn’t have long. He considered passing his guy off to Caity in order to search for the bride himself, but he didn’t want to risk the man coming to and in a panic taking Caity down with him.

  He was a really big guy.

  Spense noticed, for the first time, the muscles in his arms slackening, as if he’d just finished his last set of bench presses.

  “Caity . . .”

  But she was already under again, searching.

  Then dead ahead, Spense spotted something.

  He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision, but the view remained the same.

  He slapped the water, signaling Caity to come back up. He knew she’d have no luck, because the bride wasn’t underwater.

  She wasn’t drowning.

  And from what he could tell, she might be more in need of a lawyer than a lifeguard.

  When Caity resurfaced, he shook his head and pointed.

  “What the hell?” she asked breathlessly, then swam to his side to take some of the groom’s weight from him.

  Together, they watched in silence as off in the distance, the bride, dressed in her underwear, hefted her weight over the side of a yellow motorboat and fired up the engine.

  Chapter 5

  Tuesday

  Plage Des Dauphins

  Tahiti Nui

  Tommy Preston turned his head to the side and vomited. Like a fist slowly opening, fingers of fluid spread across the sand next to him. He wasn’t sure whether it was the ocean or his stomach contents that stank of fish, but whatever its source, the smell had him battling another wave of nausea. His vision floated in and out of focus. It hurt to breathe—like that time in college when he’d mouthed off to a bouncer at a strip club and paid for it with two cracked ribs.

  Someone was moaning.

  It took a minute, but then, recognition dawned—that whimpering loser was him. He was lying flat on his back on a beach with itchy sand crawling all over his body.

  “Sir, are you okay? Do you know your name? Can you tell me what day it is?”

  Who the hell cares?

  He rolled his head back and squinted up at a woman with great bone structure, killer blue eyes, and long dark hair—it was wet. She knelt beside him in a see-through dress. He swiped one hand over his eyes and checked again. Yeah. He could still see two peaked nipples and full, round breasts through her clinging, transparent dress. He decided she deserved an answer. “Tommy.”

  “Your name is Tommy. Good.”

  Her smile made him want to taste her lips. Most dancers couldn’t pull that off without lipstick, but this one was one of those natural beauties. Her breasts even looked real.

  “Do you know where you are?”

  She didn’t sound like a stripper. She sounded . . . official . . . or something . . . and he hadn’t been to a club in years. Didn’t behoove a man who was president of the Riverbend Better Business Bureau. He studied her, fog rolling on and off his brain. “What?”

  “Do you know where you are?”

  He raised up on one shoulder, then got himself into a full sitting position. The woman reached out and took his hand.

  Soft palms.

  Long fingers stretched over his wrist.

  “Tahiti.” He got that right. He was sure of it. Hopefully, she wouldn’t ask him what day it was again.

  “Good.” She seemed to be counting his pulse. “Seventy-five. Strong and steady. Respirations normal. Mental status improving.”

  She was some kind of doctor. If more doctors wore see-through clothes it would make the world a better place.

  “Tommy . . .” A deep voice set his ears ringing.

  He thumped them with his palms and water came out.

  “You’ve had an accident.” The man with the deep voice, also wet, squatted to meet his gaze. These eyes, he didn’t enjoy looking into. They were a nice enough brown, but too inquisitive. This fellow could be trouble. Tommy sensed it instantly.

  He shook his pounding head. “This was no damn accident. Rose shot me—on our wedding day. I can’t believe it.” He really couldn’t. Rose was capable of deception for sure. She was a con woman—but supposedly a reluctant one. Turned out she’d conned him. He’d believed her when she’d told him all she wanted to do was to go straight.

  Straight to hell.

  That’s where he’d send her as soon as he got his hands on the ungrateful woman. A man of his social standing needed a wife, and he’d picked Rose. To be chosen by him was a great honor, every woman’s dream. And he actually enjoyed her company. She was lively and smart—he had a weakness for smart women. He would’ve given her anything she desired. And this was how she’d repaid him.

  He squinted against the sun, trying and failing to recall exactly what had happened out there in the water. But beyond the gun in her hand, he wasn’t too sure.

  “Witnesses. There have to be witnesses and . . .” He looked down. His shirt was in pieces. A coating of sand covered the fine hairs on his chest, and there was a bright red dent near his left nipple.

  Shot through the heart.

  Her aim was decent.

  Bitch.

  And now his shirt was ruined. “This was a rental.”

  “Sorry. I had to tear it to check for any wounds you might have.” The big guy didn’t sound sorry.

  And he’d torn Tommy’s pants off, too. Damn brain fog rolling in again. “Who did you say you are?”

  “Name’s Spenser. I was in the water. And I saw some of what happened, but honestly, I couldn’t say for sure—”

  “My wife had a gun. I’ve been shot.” He pointed to the dent under his nipple.

  “You have been. And looks like she hit her target, but when the bullet met the resistance of the water, it lost velocity too fast to kill you. I’d say you got something more like a punch in the chest than anything. You’re lucky. At slightly closer range, you might’ve been killed.”

  Too bad for Rose he wasn’t dead, because she would be soon.

  She’d shot him, and he wasn’t even bleeding—but he remembered blood in the water. He hoped it had been Rose’s. He hoped he’d punched her in the nose or kicked her teeth in. The next breath he drew took too long and hurt like hell. “You seem to know a lot about underwater shootings.”

  “I’m FBI.” The man looked at the doctor with the nipples. “But not today. Dr. Cassidy and I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  Tommy could see from the look that passed between them, the doctor meant something to the FBI fellow. He filed the observation away for future referenc
e, just in case he needed to poke a potential weakness in him someday. Noticing what made others tick was a finely honed skill that, to Tommy, was automatic. He’d gotten where he was today because he knew how to work people, and working people meant paying attention, even when you had no agenda, even when you were confused and vulnerable.

  Especially when you were confused and vulnerable—and probably had a concussion.

  A flash of memory, his head butting Rose’s, came back to him along with a shooting pain behind his eyeballs.

  Then a man he recognized, mainly because he was carrying a tripod beneath one arm, appeared in his line of sight.

  How many people were in this nightmare of his?

  The wedding photographer did not get down to eye-level but stood over Tommy with a red puffy face, all screwed up like he was the one whose wife had just tried to murder him. “Agent Spenser pulled you out of the water. He saved your life.”

  Tommy made eye contact with Agent Spenser. As far as Tommy was concerned it was the man’s job to stop crime and rescue people from unnatural deaths, so he didn’t really deserve gratitude. On the other hand, there was no upside to not saying and doing what was expected in this situation. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  “Just doing my job.”

  “Not today you weren’t. You said you were just in the neighborhood.” Tommy put his hands together in a thank-you gesture, and for the first time, really looked around, getting a broad view of his surroundings. To this point, he’d been focusing only on what arrived in front of him, and he was getting tired of surprises. Little by little his brain function was returning, and he wanted to get a better grasp of his current predicament.

  Which was: He was sitting on the beach in what was left of his wet clothing after having his pants and shirt shredded by Agent Spenser. A few feet up the sand, a gendarme, dressed in uniform, held off a group of onlookers. To Tommy’s left, a lanky man with curly hair, a mustache, and spectacles that looked more like they belonged on a librarian than a grown man hovered, arms crossed, listening intently. So when this new player stepped into the inner circle, Tommy wasn’t caught off guard.