“Never.”
Peter nudges Lola with his foot. Her body gives a shudder before slumping once again into inertia. “I shot her in the shoulder, but I doubt her lungs will be able to keep up with the shock of the injury for much longer. Decide quickly, Ms. Blue. She doesn’t have much time.”
“She’s your daughter,” I say. “What kind of monster are you?”
“The kind who doesn’t like to lose. What do you say? Are you willing to trade in all your chips for one miserable little girl’s life?”
Of course I am—and he knows it. He knows it and I know it and even his horrified-looking henchmen know it. The only person who has no idea how much she’s worth is lying there, bleeding out and unable to breathe.
“Grant?” I ask. I know which way I’m going to vote, but it’s not just my life that’s at stake here.
“I’ll follow your lead, Penelope. Just say the word.”
It’s the moment I’ve been waiting for. For what might be the first time in our lives, Grant and I are in complete solidarity. We’re unified, we’re a team, and nothing can tear us apart.
Too bad we might have to die before we can enjoy it.
“Untie us,” I say to Peter. My heart feels both heavy and light, a rock in the seconds before it slowly sinks to the bottom of the ocean. I’d always planned on getting Peter to the bridge, where Hijack has a gun taped to the underside of the captain’s chair, but not yet. And definitely not like this. “I’ll take you to Hijack, but I’m leaving Grant here to tend to Lola.”
“Not on your life. You’ll all stay exactly where I can see you. Your husband is free to carry her along with us, but we’ll make that trip to the bridge together.”
It’s not an ideal outcome, but I don’t see what else I can do. I agree with a slight nod.
Peter makes short work of cutting through our bonds, life returning to my limbs in a prickle of painful sensation. I have only to glance at Grant’s grimace to know that my face looks as bad as it feels, but there’s no time to worry about my appearance. There’s just enough time for Grant to scoop Lola into his arms before Peter shoves the gun in his back and commands him to start walking.
It’s the most depressing procession I’ve ever been in, this gun-propelled march to the bridge. Lola is way too limp, and her trailing arm leaves drops of blood with every careful step Grant takes. The ship is eerie, empty as it is, the halls ringing with silence. Even worse is when we arrive at our destination and I knock, calling to Hijack with a voice that’s almost as heavy as my heart. “Let us in, Hijack.”
“Pen?” he calls. “Is that you?”
“I’m sorry.” My voice cracks. “But there’s been a change of plans.”
25
The End
The captain’s bridge, like most of the rooms on board the Shady Lady, is neat and efficient. Located at the ship’s bow, the huge window overlooks the water, providing a long, clear view of the ocean ahead. There are also an alarming number of buttons and panels, but Hijack is nothing if not good at his job. He oversees them all with an almost joyous look on his face, the captain’s discarded hat tilted at a jaunty angle on his head.
I might admire the picture it makes—my old friend commandeering a multimillion-dollar cruise ship—if it weren’t for Peter transferring his gun to Hijack’s back instead. He also issues a curt command to the four henchmen he’s managed to round up—two posted outside the door and the more familiar Octavian and Laurie following us inside. “Lock the door and don’t move from it,” he tells the pair of them. To us, he adds, “Don’t even think about trying to escape. We’ll all stay right here until the ship turns around in the other direction.”
From a purely logistical standpoint, this situation is close to what I’d been trying to accomplish from the start. Neither Grant nor I is currently tied up. The good guys in the room technically outnumber the bad guys. And the ship, instead of heading for Florida like I told Peter it was, is actually headed on an express route to Cancun. With nothing but cerulean sea surrounding us, I doubt Peter will notice until too late that in turning the ship around, as he demands, he’s playing right into my plans to head for U.S. soil.
In short, these are good odds. They’re the exact odds I was playing for.
But I’d been figuring without Lola. I’d especially been figuring without Lola bleeding out all over my husband.
“Penelope, it looks like there’s a first aid kit mounted on the wall over there.” Grant casts aside a nautical map laid out on a table and places Lola down in its stead. She’s gone limp, and her lips have turned blue. “Will you grab it?”
I take it down and hand it to him. My first aid skills might not be top-notch, but I know they’re part of his regular field training, so I give myself over to the task of assistant. “What can I do?”
“Hand me the bandages so I can get her shoulder bound, and then look for an epinephrine pen.”
“An epinephrine pen?”
He doesn’t look up from his patient. He’s too busy ripping the shirt from her shoulder so he can better examine the wound. “Yes, or something like it. It should be with the allergy stuff—anything with adrenaline will do.”
“Got it.” I hesitate. “Grant, is she—”
“Alive.” His voice is grim. “For now.”
Up until that point, Peter and Hijack were content to stand back and watch our ministrations, one with disinterest, the other with a dawning realization of just how screwed we are. At the sound of Grant’s name, however, Hijack’s interest suddenly picks up.
“You called him Grant.”
Oh, geez. That’s what interests him right now? “Yeah. So?”
“This man’s name is Kit O’Kelly.”
I’m still frantically searching the medical kit for the pen Grant asked for, so the comment doesn’t register at first.
“And Grant is the name of your husband,” Hijack adds.
That gets me to look over. “You know his name?”
“Of course I know.” He glances at Grant with sharp interest. “Or at least I thought I did. Everything is suddenly starting to make sense.”
“Nothing is going to make sense if you don’t take this boat off its current trajectory,” Peter says with a snarl of irritation. “You have five seconds to turn us around, or I’ll shoot you where you stand. Don’t worry—I’m good for it.”
I nod without looking up. “He’s not kidding, Hijack. Do it. He’s the one who shot Lola.” I find the yellow cylinder underneath a rolled piece of gauze and release a shout. “Aha! Got it. Here.”
Grant doesn’t pause from his work. He extends his hand for the pen, accepts it, and jabs it into her thigh without once losing his concentration. I know it’s a terrible time to dwell on how much I love that man, but damn. He’s always at his sexiest when he’s hard at work. As if in evidence of this, Lola’s color starts to return, her chest moving up and down in a painful wheeze that’s music to my ears.
The ship lurches sharply to the left, almost sending Lola and the medical kit flying to the ground. Grant catches her before she falls, but the momentum of her weight hits him in the stomach and causes him to stagger.
In that moment, any hopes I’d had that he’d be able to take out the two guards while I grab Hijack’s gun disappear. As much as I’d love to rely on my big, strong, capable husband to save the day, he’s just not in the physical condition to do it. Especially not while his attention is so taken up with Lola.
Which means, of course, that I have to take out the two guards. Who are twice my size. And armed.
“Okay, now what?” I ask Peter. I also edge toward the door, though what I think I’m going to be able to do to Octavian and Laurie in our current predicament, I have no idea. Octavian keeps casting worried glances at Lola, his face almost as pale as hers, but I’m not sure how far to trust him. He is, after all, still blocking our o
nly escape route. “You have the boat, but I have the tiara. Shall we make this an even trade?”
“Nice try. Nothing less than your death will satisfy me now.”
“You’ll have to get in line,” Hijack says with mock outrage. “How could you, Pen? You told me your husband was short.”
I shake my head in warning, hoping to get Hijack to back off. I know what he’s doing—he’s trying to create a distraction. It was a failsafe built into the Tailortown job, built into all our jobs, actually. If ever I got stuck in a tight spot—literally—it was up to the wheelman to draw the attention so I could wriggle my way out.
Unfortunately, what I need is for Peter to focus less on Grant and more on literally anything else. From the looks of it, Lola is starting to show signs of life. With any luck, soon she’ll be stable enough that Grant won’t have to keep attending to her.
“And you,” Hijack says to Peter, still in that injured tone. “Letting federal agents wander around on your ship like that. I never would have come if I’d known how lax security was going to be. I thought this was supposed to be the safest place to surface.”
Peter stiffens. At first, I think he’s annoyed at the insult to his safety procedures—which, considering how easily we did take over his ship, is fairly ironic—but he’s watching Hijack with burgeoning interest.
“What did you say your name was, young man?” Peter asks.
“Hijack,” he says with a wink. “But it’s only a nickname. I’ve had it for just about ever, haven’t I, Pen?”
Peter ignores the question and leans forward. “Hi, Jack…short for John, perhaps?”
Oh, no. I cast a panicked look at Grant, who’s showing signs of both satisfaction and alarm. Satisfaction, because he tried to warn me about Hijack’s motives days ago; alarm, because if Hijack really is Johnny Francis, then the one thing keeping Grant alive—my lie that he’s the only person in the room who knows Johnny’s true identity—is, if you’ll pardon the pun, shot.
“Oh, my.” An evil smile curls Peter’s lips as he turns to us, his gun raising once again—this time in Grant’s direction. “Talk about a timely revelation.”
I dive.
Tucking and rolling is a skill that has served me well many times in the thieving circuit, and it doesn’t fail me now. I reach Peter’s gun just as he manages to get a shot off, nudging his aim enough to miss my husband.
“I am not sitting by that man’s bedside, watching him recover from another gunshot wound,” I say with a low, almost feral growl. I mean it, too. The first one almost killed him—and by extension, me.
The bullet lodges somewhere in the wall behind Grant’s head, but his safety is of a short duration. Octavian and Laurie are finally moved to action, propelled forward by the need to ensure their boss’s protection.
For a moment, I think their sudden movements are going to work in our favor and finally tip the power in the room toward our side. The hope doesn’t last long. Before I can even blink, Peter yanks me to my feet by the hair. My already sore temple protests the sudden, unyielding force, and my vision blurs. I try to kick and lash out and do something to make him loosen his grip, but it doesn’t work. By the time I’m fully on my feet and my nerve endings have stopped screaming, Peter is holding me against his chest as a shield. He even goes so far as to place the gun to my temple, the metal still hot enough from the last shot that it burns a scorching ring into my skin.
The scent of burnt hair mingles with the smoke, making the entire bridge smell like a fireworks show gone awry.
“Not another move,” he warns Grant and Hijack, both of whom are on the balls of their feet, fists up and seemingly determined to each take out one of the henchmen. “If you so much as twitch, I’ll shoot her where she stands.”
I want to say something brave—something like don’t listen to Peter or sacrifice my life for the greater good—but no words come out. Mostly because I don’t particularly want to die, but also because I doubt either of them would obey my orders anyway.
“Subdue them through any means necessary,” Peter tells his henchmen with a nod at Grant and Hijack. “You’ll have to leave Johnny’s hands free, but I doubt he’ll need all his toes to pilot the ship.”
“But I’m not J—” Hijack begins before Peter cocks the gun and presses it even harder against my skull. Something like a whimper escapes my throat, but I don’t have time to be ashamed of it. I’m too busy scouring the room, looking for some kind of weapon that will allow me to gain the upper hand.
Penelope Blue is not going down without a fight.
Peter yanks on me, dragging me backward. I’m not sure where he’s heading, but I dig my heels into the carpet to render his journey as hard on him as I possibly can. I’m struggling to find any kind of handhold to make his way even more difficult when a loud bang sounds.
I jump, sure that I’ve just been shot and killed, when the now-unguarded door slams against the interior wall. That feeling of detachment from my surroundings only increases as a tall, elegant female form fills the doorway, a gun in her hand.
“Eden?” Hijack cries.
All attention—including that of my captor—turns to the door. In his sudden surprise at seeing Eden standing where there should have been a locked door guarded by two of his henchmen, Peter’s grip on me slackens. It’s not much, but it’s enough for me to go limp. I learned it as a self-defense move to use when cops and security guards think they’ve got you. It turns out it also does the trick just fine in life-or-death hostage situations. Peter’s gun hand comes down, so I use the only weapon I can find—my teeth—and sink them into his meaty forearm.
His yelp of pain doesn’t last long. After another resounding thud, he falls to the ground in a heavy slump. I whirl, confused at what could have caused his sudden stumble. I mean, I know I bit him hard, and the salty taste of skin and flesh will linger in my mouth for a long time, but Grant and Hijack are busy taking out a now-bewildered Octavian and Laurie, and Eden continues standing in the doorway with what I swear is a smirk on her beautiful face.
Which is why I’m only slightly surprised to find Lola standing with the metal first aid kit in hand, her breathing hitched and her posture stooped, ready to strike her father over the head again.
“I told you already, Daddy,” she says, perspiration beading her upper lip. I don’t know what it’s costing her to stay standing, but I imagine it’s a lot. She’s strong, this girl. I knew it from the start. “I’m not leaving here without my friends.”
26
The Wild Card
The scene that follows says a lot about our respective roles in the takedown.
As soon as Octavian and Laurie are subdued, Grant assumes his natural air of authority. I can’t help but be grateful for it, as I’m still not a hundred percent sure what happened.
And who can blame me? My face throbs, and my temple burns. My arm is wrapped around Lola’s waist as I try to hold her aloft.
Yet through it all, I can’t stop staring at Eden St. James’s impassive face, which seems to be growing more impassive by the second. Her timely arrival may very well have been the thing that saved us. I’d kiss her if I didn’t hate her so much.
“Would it be asking too much for you to have a pair of handcuffs on you?” Grant asks her as presses his knee hard into Peter Sanchez’s back. From all appearances, the man is knocked out cold, but my husband isn’t the sort to take any chances.
I think, at first, that he’s talking to me, but Eden replies in her cool, clipped voice. “Not on me, no. You’ll have to forgive me, but I was in something of a hurry to find you.”
“Hijack? Penelope?”
“I have gauze,” I offer doubtfully, looking at Lola’s dented first aid kit.
“Clipped to my belt,” a gruff voice says.
As one, we all glance over to the source of that voice. It’s Octavian, sitting against the
wall next to Laurie, the pair of them bleeding profusely from the mouth and nose. Hijack has them covered with a gun in each hand, but I don’t know how necessary his vigilance is. From the state of their hanging heads, I’ve never seen a pair less likely to rise up in arms.
“On the right side,” Octavian adds. “But be careful. I think Mr. O’Kelly broke a few ribs.”
I hesitate, wondering which of us gets the dubious honor of frisking the giant. Before anyone can volunteer, Lola detaches herself from my grasp and moves haltingly toward him, dropping to her knees with an expression of sympathy. “Oh, Octavian. Are you okay?”
He winces, though not, I think, from physical pain. “I’m sorry, Lola. You know how it is. We were just following orders.”
I have no idea what she whispers to him, but it must be something kind, because he doesn’t look quite so miserable by the time she extracts the handcuffs. I mean, he’s still bleeding and has a gun pointed at his head, and I doubt he’s going to walk away from this room in anything but federal custody, but the hangdog look is gone.
I almost feel bad for the guy, honestly. Working for a man like Peter Sanchez can’t be a pleasant task.
“I was trying to kill him, you know,” Lola says as she passes the handcuffs to Grant. “I wanted him to die.” It’s difficult to tell if she feels guilty at her own daring or sad that she didn’t accomplish her goal.
“It was a good strike,” Grant replies with a warm smile. “It landed right where it needed to knock him out cold.”
“You’re the heroine of the day,” I add.
Eden coughs gently. “This is all very touching, I’m sure, but can we please tone down the theatrics?” She turns to Grant with a tight smile. “Unfortunately, you seem to have made a terrible botch of this, O’Kelly, as I suspected you would. It’s a good thing I was able to take out those two guards before you all managed to get yourselves killed.”
Although impressed by the sight of the two huddled forms outside the bridge door, a prickling sense of annoyance takes over. “Excuse you,” I protest. Where does this woman get off, putting the blame on my husband? This was my terrible botch, thank you very much.
Seeking Mr. Wrong Page 29
