by Brynn Kelly
She inhaled—spice, man, salt, wet earth. Someone should bottle that. She swept her fingers through the soft curls on Rafe’s chest. He grunted in his sleep. Would the hair on his head curl like that too, if he grew it? Delicious dark-chocolate swirls she could lose her fingers in—and use as traction to rein him in. If he’d been in the French Foreign Legion since his teens, his poor hair probably hadn’t been allowed to grow longer than a buzz cut for a decade or two.
Not that she’d ever see him looking any way but this. She pressed her lips together. If they’d been chapped before last night they were pretty much grated now. Not that it hadn’t been worth it. And, dammit, she’d left her ChapStick in the cabin. Surely she could risk going back to get it? With a strong onshore wind she’d hear any boat’s engine before it came into the lagoon, and the tide would be too low to make the jetty serviceable. Rafe wouldn’t be expecting the militia for hours.
Muting her body’s protests, she eased off the hammock. Nothing sexier than a hunky man sleeping, the masculinity tempered by innocence. No need to wake him—yet. She closed the mosquito net behind her and yanked on her closest clothes. Her pocketknife and the pirate’s phone weighed down the baggy pockets of her cargoes.
She shivered, missing the heat of Rafe’s body, and hunted through her backpack for the outsized sweater she’d barely worn. It was about the only clothing she had that wasn’t stained, ripped or dirty. Her hair was thick with salt and she could feel it sticking out in several directions, but at least it was out of the way. If she didn’t have a mirror, what did it matter?
She walked slowly, giving her swollen knee a chance to ease up. Last night’s acrobatics hadn’t helped it, but the odd bolt of pain had only intensified the other feelings. Muscles ached in her inner thighs and all sorts of other forgotten places.
At the clearing, she sheltered for a moment under a stand of palm trees, their heads tossing in the wind, to convince herself a boat wasn’t about to round the fingers of land that hugged the lagoon. The wind carved salt spray off the water, the mist stinging her eyes and lips. The generator hummed. A drop of rain splattered on her eyelid, and more pattered on the leaves and ground around her. She hurried up the steps to the cabin—she ached to be back in the hammock, in Rafe’s warm arms.
She found the ChapStick, eventually, on the floorboards under her bed. The generator grew progressively louder, the noise rising from a hum to a rhythmic thumping even louder than the wind, like it was about to blow. Weird. She’d better tell Rafe. If it exploded, their food would rot in hours.
She smeared on a thick coat of the salve. Ah, better. Her eye caught movement outside—the shape of a man jogging across the clearing. Rafe must have heard the generator. He’d sure gotten there quick.
She walked to the screen door and pushed it open. “Rafe, the generat—”
He looked up, straight into her eyes. Her scalp tightened. Not Rafe. The creepy pilot from the other night, dressed in a jumpsuit. That thumping—it wasn’t the generator. A helicopter hovered above them. It must have come from the west, its approach masked by the easterly. Shit, shit, shit.
Chapter 19
The man closed in. As he reached the steps, Holly sprinted along the veranda and leaped on the grass. Her knee split with pain and collapsed under her. The guy followed, landing with a thump inches behind.
She pushed herself up, but he tackled her, his full weight punching her down and knocking the air from her lungs. He shoved her face in the grass and wrenched her arms behind her. She gasped for oxygen, thrashing like a fish on a line. Something cut into her wrists, yanking them together. Cable ties. Too late, she remembered her knife. Something clicked, right behind her head. A gun. She tried to sweep her feet around behind her, but he grabbed a handful of her hair and wrenched it back. Dammit, Rafe, I need you.
Another man’s voice sounded behind her. A dark figure in heavy boots stomped past in the direction of the body, shouldering a big black rifle. They yabbered loudly in the staccato language Rafe had used with Angry Birds and the other goon. More shouts pelted from the helicopter. She’d messed with their game plan. Would they kill her now, or take her with them? Wait—would they think Rafe was in the tarp? It was padded enough they might not realize the corpse was too small.
“The body—it’s not Rafe,” she shouted, her voice a squeak against the helicopter’s roar.
The pilot ground her nose and mouth into the damp earth. It was all she could do to breathe through her one clear nostril. “Quiet, whore. Or I make you quiet.”
He returned to the argument, ramming the gun barrel into the back of her skull in time with his shouts. She picked up the word Gabriel. Would they seek new orders, buying time for Rafe to get there? And even if he did, what the hell could he do against these guys?
* * *
Rafe sprinted through the undergrowth, his pulse in overdrive from the shock of lurching from sleep to action. Where the hell was Holly, and why hadn’t he thought Gabriel’s men might bring a helicopter? Imbécile. He’d assumed they’d stick to the plan and use a boat. But if Gabriel had his own plane, Rafe should have figured he had a helicopter, too. He had more funds than anyone had given him credit for. Just because there was no room to land a plane on the island, didn’t mean there wasn’t enough to hover a helicopter. Perhaps they’d made the call to come early, before the storm peaked.
Holly had better have just gone for a nature call, and be hiding somewhere. In a matter of minutes, he’d be on that helicopter and on his way to his son. He had to get there before they started looking for him, in case they found Holly first. He’d secured her safety, for now. Time to secure Theo’s.
The helicopter whined and rose, its metal glinting sunlight into Rafe’s eyes through the canopy. Why was it lifting? They wouldn’t give up on him that quickly.
“Hey!” he bellowed, though they had no chance of hearing. “Stop!” He pumped his arms to increase his pace.
The helicopter hovered. The scene strobed by in flashes between the overhanging branches and lurching palms. They were winching something up. The body? No, two bodies, clipped together. Live ones. The smaller one jerked around, spinning in circles while the other grabbed at it. Holly. Putain! With that son of a bitch Chamuel.
She screamed Rafe’s name. He changed direction, shoved through the undergrowth, and skidded to a halt on the beach. “No!” he yelled, jumping and waving. They had to take him, too. Up in the air, Chamuel’s fist flew out and smashed into Holly’s face. Her arms and legs went limp.
Rafe roared, his hands fisted by his sides, the muscles in his torso and arms snapping tight. Two men leaned out of the chopper, too intent on pulling in their cargo to notice him. The machine tilted and headed off to the west, disappearing from view behind the canopy. He raced after it, his breath heaving in and whooshing out. By the time he reached the island’s western fringe, the helicopter was a speck against the gray sky, way out over the horizon. He sank to his knees, clutched his head and swore so loudly his throat burned.
* * *
Holly’s cheek was shoved against the dimpled rubber floor of the chopper, a hand tight around the base of her neck, a knee in her back. Her lungs struggled to fill under the guy’s weight. Her head throbbed. She couldn’t tell if it was coming from inside her brain or from the thrumming of the chopper. She woozily recalled being punched. The burn in her temple backed it up—right on the spot the pirate had pistol-whipped her. Had she blacked out? For how long?
The men shouted at each other. Speckles of light zipped and zapped through the blackness. She opened her eyes a crack. A shard of pain shot into her brain. She counted two men, plus the guy flying the chopper and the guy on top of her—the plane pilot, no doubt. No point struggling, for now. What could she do—overcome four men and learn to fly a helicopter? Jump in the ocean?
The man shifted his weight, long enough for her to in
hale deeply. She gagged on the smell of rotting flesh, and fought to shut off the impulse to vomit. The body was laid out next to her, still wrapped. Maybe they’d wait to open it until they reached their base. Then they’d have to go back for Rafe, and there would be two of them, if they didn’t kill her straight off. Two against how many?
Or could Rafe’s friend get him off the island? But then what—they wouldn’t know where she was being taken.
“It’s not him,” she cried, but her words came out as a hoarse mutter. “It’s not—”
The plane pilot bore down on her neck, threatening to cut off her windpipe. Another man dropped down next to the body and flicked open a switchblade. They’d find out in a second, anyway. The plane pilot shoved him with his free hand and barked a few words. The guy shrugged and folded the blade. The third man tossed him something white and plastic. He unfurled it on the floor. A body bag? Grunting, he rolled the corpse into it, and hauled it to the open door of the chopper.
His friend heaved something up from the middle of the floor, staggering under its weight. A piece of machinery, red-brown with rust. He dropped it onto the body, with a squelch. Ugh. Holly’s gut heaved. Just as well she hadn’t eaten.
He repeated the process with a second piece of junk, then a large rock. The guy beside the body bag zipped it up and shouted to the helicopter pilot. Burial at sea—a routine they were evidently familiar with. They weren’t going to ID the body.
“Stop!” she gurgled. “It’s not Rafe.”
The plane pilot shouted at one of the goons, who chucked him something. A piece of fabric. He forced it into her mouth, and tied it around her head.
The two men each took an end of the bag. They chanted in unison, and on the third count they swung it out the door. She let go a breath. Had Rafe carried out his instructions, that would have been her funeral.
The pilot shifted his weight, bringing his face to her upturned cheek. “No capitaine here,” he said, the words barely decipherable through his accent. “You and me. My name Chamuel. Your name Mrs. Chamuel.” He slid down her back and humped her butt. The other men laughed. She clenched her teeth. The creep had an erection. “Later, Miss America. You and me.”
* * *
Rafe fired up Google Maps on the laptop, drumming his fingertips on the picnic table as it loaded, ignoring the flashing battery light. He’d charge it in a minute. First he had to figure this out while it was fresh in his brain, then brief Flynn about the change of plan. The helicopter had flown west, not toward the mainland. That narrowed it down. What was out there? He typed Penipuan into the search. The screen froze. The computer’s fan whirred, as if the effort was too much. He leaped up and linked his fingers behind his head, his teeth grinding.
If Gabriel thought Rafe was dead, there was nothing to stop him beginning Theo’s induction. He’d do it personally—induction was an intimate relationship between the commander and the boy. He’d start with the first beating, telling Theo it would release his demons. Afterward, he’d ritually wash the boy and dress his wounds, chanting blessings over him as he nursed him back to health. As soon as he was healed, the beating would begin again. The cycle would repeat until the mental breakdown equaled the physical. The visible wounds would heal but the psychological harm was intended to last. Then would come the test. The first kill. The moment Rafe had held the machete over Gabriel as his friend had looked him in the eye and begged for his life was the moment Rafe became one of them. He’d wanted to earn the commander’s respect more than he’d wanted Gabriel to live. That fucked-up decision would haunt him forever. No wonder Gabriel wanted revenge.
And what would those sons of bitches do to Holly? They had no reason to keep her alive, long-term. His jaw tightened. He knew just what they did to their female victims. He’d been lucky to be rescued from the militia before he became old enough to be forced to join their rape squads. He’d never forget the day Gabriel returned from his first one. He’d pushed past Rafe and headed straight for the scrub on the outer edges of the militia’s compound. Rafe was sure his eyes had been wet with tears. Hours later, when he returned, the last drop of goodness in him had evaporated. Rafe knew enough about the gang’s activities in recent years to confirm their modus operandi hadn’t changed.
Anger throbbed in his chest. Control yourself. He couldn’t lose it. Tu agis sans passion—even with two innocent lives at stake. Especially with two innocent lives at stake.
Holly must have left the island with the iPhone, at least—it was nowhere to be found in their camp. Last he saw it’d gone into her trouser pocket, with the knife. She was smart enough to make the most of the smallest advantage. Damn, he should have programmed the sat phone number into the iPhone. He’d have to text it to her—she’d have no reason to have memorized the full fourteen digits.
The computer screen blinked. He clicked onto satellite view, closing his eyes as it loaded. Breathe. Think. The helicopter was an older model Russian Kazan. Maximum range with a full load would have to be four hundred kilometers and they must have already flown half the journey, which gave him a starting point for the landing zone of within two hundred kilometers. They wouldn’t want to push that, with a storm brewing, so he could count on a shorter trip. He opened his eyes. At least three dozen islands showed up on the map—but Gabriel’s headquarters likely had an airstrip. He zoomed in, forcing his brain to stay in charge, tamping down the pressure under his ribs. The picture trickled onto the screen.
After a patience-testing half hour, he narrowed the possibilities to four islands, slung over a territory of forty thousand square kilometers. Two were resort islands, one larger with several villages on it and a whole lot of jungle. One was a smaller inhabited island, another an abandoned World War II base. Factoring in the time it’d take Flynn to acquire a boat and pick Rafe up, it could be another two days before they could search them all.
He changed screens and starting typing a message to Flynn. Once he was done, he’d text Holly.
The screen went white. An error message: the internet had dropped out. The sat phone also showed an alert. This device has been blocked by your service provider. Please contact your provider.
He froze. The Americans had cut the connection. Putain de merde. He was stranded.
Chapter 20
Chamuel shoved Holly out of the helicopter, his hand clamped around the back of her neck. She landed awkwardly on hard sand, pain scooting up her blown knee, forcing her to juggle her feet to maintain balance. They’d landed in a compound—a ring of simple thatched timber huts, dominated by a bigger building. He pushed her forward, shoving her head low.
Once they’d escaped the radius of the blades, the chopper’s whine changed pitch and the machine lifted, pelting a million grains of sand into her face. She ignored the sting in her eyes and the drilling pain in her temple. She had to get a handle on her surroundings, figure out where she could be, find opportunities for escape. The sandy ground meant they were near a beach. A hazy blue-green mountain rose in the distance, its peak shrouded by cloud. A volcanic island, or the edge of a continent? Didn’t look like Australia, but it could be anywhere in Southeast Asia.
Damn, she should have grilled Rafe about where their island was—it would at least have given her a starting point. One of the many things she should have sussed out, rather than getting distracted by his glorious body. As the helicopter noise receded, crashing surf and thrashing trees took its place. A dozen dull-eyed men and boys sat or stood on the balconies of the huts, some smoking, every one decked out with serious firepower. One guy had skin as dark as midnight, two were Asian, the others had Rafe’s coloring. The Lost Boys? She’d pictured them in uniforms—but why would an underground militia advertise itself? Chamuel shouted to one of them, gesturing. He used Gabriel’s name.
Tears streamed from her burning eyes. She fought to keep them open as far as a slit. Through the blur that was left of h
er vision, she picked up the outline of a man walking to her with an unhurried, confident stride. He snapped out a few words, directed at Chamuel. Her heart raced. Rafe?
Not Rafe, you moron. This guy had a similar build and walk, and his language and commanding tone sounded the same, but he was shorter, his voice raspier and nasal. Gabriel? The footfalls of another guy thumped away through the sand and clonked up the steps leading to one of the huts.
The man loomed over her. He placed two fingers under her chin and raised it. The sun pierced the cloud cover, searing her corneas. Someone jogged up—the guy who’d run into the hut—and handed him something small and white, too bright to look at. The man brought it toward Holly’s face. She flinched and shut her eyes tight. Chamuel gripped her hair with one hand and her waist with another, yanking her backward into his body.
“Relax, my dear,” whispered the man holding her face, in a thicker version of Rafe’s accent. “This will help.”
Something cool and wet touched her eyes. A washcloth? The man squeezed it, sending water running across her eyelids to pool in the hollow by her nose and slide down her cheeks, soaking the gag. He swept the thick, soft cloth across one eye, from temple to nose, and then the other, dribbling out water as he went. A peppery cologne drifted from him. His fingers left her chin and alighted on her forehead, coaxing her head down. He pressed the cloth across her eyes, while cradling the back of her head, dislodging Chamuel’s hand.
“Better?” said the man, drawing the cloth away.
She opened her eyes, tentatively, wincing at the light bouncing off the guy’s white shirt. Fighting the bright, blurry haze, she forced herself to focus on his face. Intelligent brown eyes crinkled. Dark curly hair touched the open collar of his crisp shirt. Late thirties, she guessed. His nose was disfigured, as if it’d been cut cleanly straight across and had joined back together wrong. If not for that, he’d come under the label of classically handsome. He wiped a rivulet of water from her cheek with a delicate finger. This was Gabriel?
