by Brynn Kelly
“I can see how Raphael had trouble killing you.” He smiled, revealing unnaturally perfect teeth.
He spoke sharply to Chamuel. Holly picked out the name Raphael. The pilot answered with a single word. Gabriel’s neck flushed, corded veins sticking out. As their conversation heated, spit peppered Holly—Gabriel’s on her face, Chamuel’s on her neck.
Gabriel had to be getting the news about Rafe’s apparent death. He bared his teeth and clawed at his hair with his fingers, like he was morphing into an animal in some paranormal movie. So he’d wanted Rafe alive. Would he blame her for messing up his plans? Her stomach curled. With her hands bound and her knee busted, her defenses were flimsy.
Chamuel pushed her, pitching her into Gabriel. Her vision cleared, just in time to see Gabriel raise a hand. Instinctively, she tried to pull her arms over her head, but the cable ties gouged her wrists. He shoved her head sideways, wrenching her neck, then kicked her hip. She smacked into the sand, pain bouncing around her body. He stood over her, shouting indecipherable words, like he was insane. With anger or grief? Safe to say Rafe was central to his plans, whatever they were. She squealed into the fabric jammed in her mouth, widening her eyes. Take off the fucking gag.
He yelled instructions toward one of the huts, as she pushed up into an awkward sitting position. A guy on the porch relayed the directions inside. It could have been English, but the wind and waves masked the words. A whippet of a young Asian woman appeared in the doorway, wearing a dirty pink dress. From behind her emerged a boy, clasping her hand, brown eyes wide with fear. Oh, God. Rafe, in miniature. An amulet hung from his neck—a match for the pendant hidden under her sweater.
Gabriel shouted at the woman, and she hurriedly nudged Theo down the steps, whispering to him. He sauntered to the boy and knelt, brushing the kid’s hair back with his palm. Theo froze.
“Tell him his father is dead,” Gabriel hissed to the woman.
Holly went cold.
The woman slapped her hand over her mouth. The guy on the porch behind her jabbed her with the point of his rifle.
“Ton papa est mort,” she said, her quiet voice wavering.
Mort, like la petite mort. Meaning, death.
The boy stared at the ground, trembling. A strangled whimper escaped him. Holly’s eyes stung as she watched the hope drain from his little body, leaving it slumped. She shouted into the gag. A force punched into her lower back, smacking her belly-first onto the ground. Someone had kicked her. Chamuel? She swayed to her knees, her injured one tight and protesting. Rafe’s kid at least appeared physically unharmed—clean and healthy, and his T-shirt looked new, still creased with the manufacturer’s folds. But those wild, scared eyes...
“Tell him she killed his father.” Gabriel took his eyes off Theo long enough to nod toward Holly.
Crap. The woman’s mouth dropped open.
“Tell him,” Gabriel ordered.
As she translated, Theo slowly raised his head and stared at Holly like he couldn’t absorb the information. She yelled but it came out as a strangled whine. All she could do was shake her head. Don’t believe them, kid. His mouth contorted, the edges of his lips sinking. He blinked hard to clear the tears. Oh, God, he thought his father had died and he was trying not to cry? That was one tough kid. Or maybe just a terrified one.
Gabriel cradled Theo’s cheeks with both hands, forcing the boy to meet his gaze. “Tell him this is his home now, with us. I am his father, and these are his brothers.”
The woman stammered out the translation. Theo whimpered, his eyes huge.
“We will start his training tomorrow. Tomorrow he begins to be a man.” Gabriel kissed Theo’s forehead. “Tell him!” he shouted at the woman, adding what sounded like a string of curses.
Fat drops of rain spattered on the ground and on Holly’s head. As the woman translated, Gabriel issued instructions to the men. He strode into the largest building. The woman herded Theo back to the hut, her butt nudged by a soldier’s rifle. Shit. Holly would have to find a way to tell him the truth, and soon. A kid shouldn’t have to feel that kind of pain.
A small dusty truck raced into the clearing. Holly made out dive tanks and surfboards in the back. Weird. She couldn’t see these guys catching waves.
Chamuel kicked Holly’s lower back. “Up,” he said. She staggered to her feet, testing her knee. He shoved her in the direction of the building Gabriel had entered. She collapsed into the sand and had to haul herself up. Two armed men on the doorstep separated just far enough to let her squeeze through, one of them grabbing her ass as she passed. She gritted her teeth. Better they get a handful of that than the iPhone or knife. Thank God she’d pulled on her cargoes that morning, not her shorts.
Water pelted the tin roof. In the distance, thunder rolled. She stumbled into a large room with a dark timber floor, the pitched roof held up by roughly hewn wooden columns, with sliding shutters around the perimeter for walls. Most of the shutters were drawn back, leaving three sides open to the outdoors. Several long dining tables were lined up, their chairs neatly pushed in. Lounge chairs were arranged in a nook. Through an internal door, she glimpsed a gleaming commercial kitchen. Another door was closed. This was no rustic camp.
Chamuel pushed her onto her knees. Rain cascaded down the hut’s open sides, creating walls of water. With his back to her, Gabriel surveyed a blur of green jungle and charcoal skies, his hands slung in the pockets of sharply pressed chinos.
He spoke to Chamuel, who clicked open a knife. She swallowed. Shit. He yanked her neck back and sliced off her gag, nicking her jaw in the process, then shoved her forward and sawed off the cable ties. Something wet and soft touched the nape of her neck. His tongue. Creep. She flipped around and scooted backward, out of his reach. He checked Gabriel wasn’t watching and made a show of circling his tongue, leaving a strand of saliva drooping from his lips. “Later, Miss America.”
He left. The two guards leaned against the doorway, eyeing her with casual arrogance.
Gabriel sauntered to a table, poured two glasses from a bottle of mineral water in an ice bucket, and, using stainless steel tongs, clinked in ice cubes. “You must be thirsty, my dear. Please, sit.” He nodded at a bamboo lounge chair. She sat warily, rubbing her wrists. A dull ache gripped her head. He handed her a glass and sank into a chair opposite, resting snakeskin shoes on a leather ottoman. She downed the water, her throat so dry it hurt to swallow. Gabriel looked like a millionaire on holiday, not the dangerous warlord Rafe had painted him as. She wasn’t fooled—the appearance of respectability could be an asset to a criminal.
“I have seen many killers in my life. You do not look like one,” he said, his words sounding careful and clipped.
“Neither do you.” She chewed her cheek. “And I’m not a killer. He’s still alive.”
“You are lying. My men disposed of his body.”
“That wasn’t his body.”
Gabriel lifted an eyebrow.
“It was a pirate, who came to rob us.”
“Pirates do not rob my islands.”
His islands? “Well, they tried. And a guy died, and that was his body your men got rid of. Rafe is back on the island.”
“Rafe...?” He grunted. “I do not know why you tell me this lie.”
“It’s not a lie, I swear. You have to go back and get him.”
“You are trying to trick me, somehow. You think I would believe your word over my men’s?”
“You seriously don’t care that your friend is alive?”
“He was no friend.” His eyes narrowed. “You think I care.”
“I see you do.”
A flash of darkness crossed his face. The werewolf in him, ready to lunge. “I set Raphael a test and he failed. It is always disappointing when people fail me. His death is of no consequence.”
A test. So
he had wanted Rafe back in the Lost Boys? “He was supposed to kill me.”
“He was ordered to kidnap a senator’s daughter. His first failure. His second failure was not killing you. And I see he told you far too much, including his new name. He is no good at following orders, these days.” He waved a manicured hand. “It does not matter now. I suspected he would let me down. It is a shame, but I am very good at adapting.”
“Do you plan to kill me?”
“Ah, so that is your intention, in lying to me. You think it will buy you time.”
“I’m telling the truth. Do you really believe I could kill someone like him?”
He pressed two manicured fingers to his lips, his gaze landing on her wounded temple. “You have had the misfortune of suffering a blow to the head. That may account for your confusion. My lieutenant confirmed the identity of the body. He is a...troubled man, but I will believe his word over yours.
“My cleaning staff will arrive at the island in a few days, weather permitting. Maybe Raphael will give them a surprise.” He shrugged. “And maybe he will not. Do not worry, my dear, I would rather not kill you. Where is the profit in that? There are many uses for a woman like you, and I have costs to recoup.” He smiled, his eyes dead—a man practiced in faking emotions. “You may come to wish Raphael had done his job, my dear.”
She jammed her fingernails into her fisted palms. A few days. She just needed to stay alive for that long. “People are looking for me.”
He smiled. “That is the curious thing. I have eyes all around the Indian Ocean and Asia. As soon as Laura Hyland was...found, all activity to find her stopped. No one is looking for you, there is no mention of another missing woman in the global media. The senator and his people have returned to America, and a crew is sailing the yacht back. Whoever you are, you are of no value to your country. I believe very few people know of your little deception, and those who know do not care. That makes you very valuable to me—there is something very appealing about a lost person, do you not think?”
Holly inhaled slowly and steadily. Don’t show fear.
“How is such a pretty woman not missed? I am very curious. Who are you?”
“A close friend of Laura.”
His smile didn’t waver. “Not so close, I think.” He nodded to a TV mounted on an internal wall. “Her celebrations at being rescued were not ruined by any concern for you. No. I think you have served the purpose you were hired for, and they have abandoned you to your fate. Do not be sad, you will be worth something to me. A beautiful white American whore will fetch me a record price.”
Her cheeks iced over.
“Do not worry, my dear. You will enjoy it.” His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible above the rain. “American women love being tied up in dungeons and whipped and raped, yes? It is the fantasy you all read about in your safe lives, in your expensive houses. In other countries, women fear this treatment. You Americans crave it. I find this strange.”
She swallowed. Where did he get that whacked-out impression? He pushed up to standing, casually crossed the space between them, and ran a finger over her temple. The skin near her eye felt puffy and numb under his touch. How many seconds would it take to whip out the knife, unfold it and plunge it into his throat? Too many. His observant thugs in the doorway would be on top of her in a blink. She’d lose the knife and the phone—and possibly her life—before she got the blade anywhere near him. Better to bide her time. If they were planning to search her, they’d likely have done it before now. No point relinquishing the best defenses she had.
His finger traveled to the bruise on her forehead, where she’d clonked heads with Rafe on the inflatable. “How about that? Did that give you a thrill?” She jerked her head away. He laughed. “My lieutenant, Chamuel, would love to show you some more good times. It would be a shame to have my stock defiled, but a good commander keeps his men happy. I can ask him not to leave any marks—you are worth more to me in good condition. What is your name?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not where you are going. Your new...employer will no doubt give you something he finds suitable.”
He gripped her chin and yanked it up, forcing her to meet his empty gaze. His fingertips ground into her jaw. “Do not think that because you have a value to me I will not kill you if I discover you are too much trouble. I like to give people choices, and this one is yours—live or die, it is up to you.” He rapped an instruction to his men. “Now, my dear, my soldiers will look after you carefully while we find a more permanent home for you, with someone who will give you all the attention you desire. A pity your American girlfriends will never find out what became of you. They would be envious, yes?”
Chapter 21
Even in the foaming shallows of the ocean beach, the undertow tugged at Rafe’s legs, forcing him to sidestep to stay upright. Merde—was he really going to attempt this? Gusts snapped at the Windsurfer’s sail. If he let go of the boom it’d be airborne in seconds.
Crossing open ocean on a Windsurfer was a crazy risk. And in a cyclone? Insane. But if the militia hadn’t come back for him by now he could assume they wouldn’t. And Flynn would hold out several days at least between losing communication with Rafe and defying orders to come after him. Several days was several days too many. Now that Gabriel’s plans had been disrupted, he’d change them, fast.
Somewhere beyond the cloud-smothered horizon was Rafe’s first target—an uninhabited sandy cay that marked the northern end of the island chain he’d set his sights on. It wouldn’t offer much shelter, but it would allow him a breather before he searched from island to island. How long would it take to get there? Three hours, best case? Six, if the wind turned against him?
He tugged the backpack straps, tightening them. The dusty life jacket he’d strapped on was two sizes too small but it’d do in an emergency. The Windsurfer harness hugged his waist. It’d be a miracle if the laptop survived the trip, even inside the plastic. Not that it was any use without the phone. He did a mental stocktaking—water and food, clothes, boots, bug spray, the Makarov, the sharpest of the kitchen knives. Holly’s portable GPS was taped to the mast, just above the boom, its little LCD screen already smeared with salt.
He tightened his grip on the boom. If they hurt Theo or Holly he’d slaughter the lot of them, code of honor or not. He squinted out to sea. Isolated gusts skidded over the shallows, marked by dark patches in the dull water. Nothing predictable enough to ride. With the gale-force easterly shooting over the island and hitting the water five hundred meters out, he’d have a bitch of a time getting started. In the distance, the wind announced its descent with a mass of black sea torn with whitecaps and whipped by spray. That’s where he’d pick up the pace.
He blew out a breath. Time to see if this contraption worked. And to find out if he remembered how to windsurf. He closed his eyes, hearing over the surf the soft music of Simone’s southern French accent, peppered with Corsican expressions. The summer she’d taught him the sport while he was on leave was the best of his life. Her lilting voice and those carefree days had lured him into thinking he could attempt a normal existence in which he flirted with a woman, fell in love and lived a regular life.
Like hell. With one foot on the floating board, he looked over his shoulder, fixed his gaze on the tops of the palm trees and waited. However strained his relationship with Simone, she at least had given him the skills he needed to save their son right now. And to save his...captive? Ally? Lover? What exactly was Holly? A few days ago she’d been a stranger. Until yesterday he’d believed she was someone else entirely. Now, the thought of her being in pain and danger delivered the same sickening kick to his gut that he got at the thought of Theo in Gabriel’s control.
He’d never felt that strongly about anyone but his son. It wasn’t just the guilt that he hadn’t prevented her capture, or that he’d dragged her into thi
s situation to begin with. He didn’t just want to save Holly for her sake. He wanted to save her for his sake, because a world in which he knew she existed, in which he might see her again, was better than a world where he’d never known her.
The palm trees doubled over in a bolt of wind. He gripped the boom with both hands. Showtime. As the gust punched into the sail, he lifted his anchor foot onto the Windsurfer. It took off, skipping over the water. His forearms tightened, fighting the strain from the bucking sail. Then, bam—the fin spun out, sliding the board sideways. He wobbled. The edge of the board caught the water, and the whole thing flipped, thumping his skull into the mast and catapulting him into the water. He staggered to his feet, spitting out a lungful of ocean. Putain. The water wasn’t even up to his thighs.
He slapped the surface. He was a specialist in amphibious warfare, a parachute commando, and he was letting a Windsurfer defeat him? He lifted his gaze to the heavy blue-black clouds. Somewhere out there, two people waited for him—the only person he’d ever loved and a woman who’d cut right to the center of him like no other. The two people who proved he could still be human. If he couldn’t save them, his life would be worthless.
La mission est sacrée, tu l’exécutes jusqu’au bout et si besoin, en opérations, au péril de ta vie. The mission is sacred, you carry it out until the end and, if necessary, at the risk of your life.
On his second attempt, he made it past the lee and settled into his harness. His forearms were burning already. Half an hour later he was still upright, syncing with the rhythm of the waves, with a strong, consistent wind pushing him on. Heading hard downwind at high speed, he only had to pull out the occasional jibe—and just as well, because the surging swells were enough of a challenge. At this pace the slightest error could somersault the board end-to-end.
