by Cate Noble
The marina’s broken-down charm appealed to Dante. That, and the peace and quiet. Though right now, the peace was being shattered by a certain yapping mutt.
“Yo, handsome.” The familiar female voice, raspy from decades of menthol cigarettes, sounded even harsher thanks to a recent bout of bronchitis.
He directed his attention to the sunbather perched atop the cabin of El Capitan, a forty-foot trawler. Iris and her husband, Truman, a former Vietnam vet, had owned the marina for more than fifty years. Dante had met them a month earlier, after finally tracking down his late father’s thirty-foot sailboat.
Of all the things he’d lost during his incarceration, the boat was the only one he’d truly regretted losing. Sold at auction, it had traded hands several times before Maddy, that absolute doll, tracked it to Paradise Lost and learned it was one of the few vessels to have actually survived the storms.
By the time Dante had showed up, Truman, having lost interest in its restoration, had been more than willing to sell. He’d also offered free dockage in exchange for Dan Hogan’s handyman skills.
“Afternoon, Iris.” Dante wiped the sweat from his brow onto his sleeve, the only dry spot on his T-shirt. “How you feeling?”
Iris raised her hands, shielding her eyes with the paperback she’d been reading. Then she went into a coughing spell.
“Oh, I’m just peachy,” she grumbled when she finally caught her breath. “You got company. D-dog ain’t too happy.”
Dante glanced at the lone stretch of cobbled-together dock that led out to the deepwater canal where his boat was moored.
Who the hell had the Agency sent this time? Steve Elliott, his new boss, had blocked his resignation, insisting instead on a leave of absence. As if that made a difference. They both knew he’d never fit in again.
Those who knew the truth at the Agency treated Dante guardedly now. He was tainted. He knew it. They all knew it. And the distrust widened each time he was interviewed about what he couldn’t recollect.
It hadn’t been like that at first. He’d been welcomed with open arms. But as he healed and was debriefed, that welcome cooled, became more formal.
Bottom line: He’d been in enemy hands too long to ever be completely trusted. Refusing to undergo further tests or one more round of questioning hadn’t won any points either.
Subsequently, he’d seemed to have become the scapegoat for every unexplained leak, real or imagined.
“Thanks for the warning, Iris.” Dante started to turn away, but she stopped him.
“Easy, Dano! This guy introduced himself as a friend. Said he preferred to wait at your slip—that you wouldn’t mind. I promised to kick his ass three ways to next Sunday if he’s a salesman or something.”
Or something. “Not if I beat you to it.”
She held up a pair of Army surplus binoculars. “I’ve been keeping an eye on him, just in case. And D-dog hasn’t let him near the boat.” She winked. “We got your back.”
The words, well meant, were a sad commentary on his life. “How did I survive before I met you?”
“Dunno. Maybe having friends like that one helped.” She tipped her head in the direction of his boat and fanned herself in an exaggerated fashion. “He’s a big ’un. Hot looking, too. I can barely concentrate on this novel now.”
Relief and surprise leached the tension from Dante’s shoulders. If he’d wanted proof of identity, he’d just gotten it. Rocco Taylor had that effect on all women. “Don’t let Truman hear you say that.”
Iris gave him an eye roll. “Puh-leese. I’m married, not blind. And speaking of my lord and master”—another eye roll, this one more lighthearted—“Truman mentioned that you’re done with PT. Does that mean you’ll be leaving us soon?”
Truman and Iris believed Dan Hogan, ex–Special Forces, had been injured while fighting overseas. Not exactly a lie.
Dante had completed his work-mandated physical therapy six weeks ago in Virginia, but he hadn’t been satisfied and had continued to work with a trainer while staying at the marina. High-calorie, high-fat, supersized meals helped him regain weight. Daily sessions at the gym, plus a run, plus a swim, made sure the fast food didn’t turn to flab.
The extra effort had paid off, too. His body and the boat were both nearly restored. Ready to execute.
“I’ll be around another week or two.” He shrugged, not wanting to commit. “Got to finish the teak. The rest depends on the weather.” Among other things.
Iris cleared her throat then settled back in her chair, effectively dismissing him. “In that case, I’ll pray for a storm. I like having you around, kid.”
Dante headed for his boat, grateful he didn’t have to reply. For some reason mild forms of affection felt uncomfortable; he preferred black and white. Love or hate. Words such as “like” gave him a rash.
He focused on seeing Rocco again. Though they’d exchanged e-mails and talked by phone, this would be the first time they’d been face to face in three months. This unannounced visit must mean his friend’s sentence had been commuted.
When Rocco’s superiors learned of his covert trips back into Thailand, searching for information on Max and Harry despite directives to the contrary, they’d taken a collective dump and banished him to a remote region of Afghanistan. The Agency’s equivalent of scrubbing toilets with your toothbrush.
As Dante stepped onto the last section of dock, D-dog, perched like a flea-bitten gargoyle on the ship’s deck, switched from barking to growling. An unsociable terrier-mixed mutt, the dog had the personality of a crab with entitlement issues.
The man sitting on the bait cooler a few yards from where Dante’s boat was moored looked up and grinned before climbing to his feet.
Dante held out a hand.
Rocco ignored the gesture, wrapping him in a bear hug instead. “Jesus, you look great! You smell like crap, though. You lose your key to the bathhouse?”
“Nice to see you, too.” This man had saved Dante’s life more than once over the years. Rocco claimed it was payback, but in Dante’s book the only thing that mattered was who scored last. Rocco was definitely on top. “When did you get back?”
“A few days ago. Been buried with damn reports.”
“I thought the digital revolution was supposed to eradicate all that.”
“Government pipe dream.”
Dante swung onto the boat and went below deck to grab two beers. When he returned, Rocco was still on the dock.
“Permission to board?”
Dante held out a bottle. “We’re not that formal.”
“I was talking to the mutt.” Rocco lifted his backpack and climbed aboard. “What’s his name?”
“D-dog. Use your imagination.”
“How long you had him?”
“Too long.”
“I might borrow him later for a run on the beach. Chicks dig scruffy-looking mutts.” D-dog scampered closer, tail wagging. Rocco bent to pet him. “Isn’t that right, little fella?”
Teeth bared, D-dog lunged. Snapped. Missed.
Rocco straightened. “Dude! What’s his problem?”
“He hates men. Me included.” Dante eyed the dog and pointed toward the bow. D-dog flattened his ears and stood his ground until Dante stomped his foot. Then, still growling, he trotted off. “He acts friendly just to throw you off. Sucks you in closer for the kill.”
“Why keep him?”
“The owner’s wife thinks he’s cute; with women he goes marshmallow.”
“We talking about that little old lady who threatened to kick my ass when I arrived?”
“Don’t underestimate Iris. And don’t use the O word in front of her either.”
“She’ll clean my clock, huh?”
“To stay on her good side, I worked out an arrangement with the mutt: I buy food, he sticks around and growls if anyone comes close.”
“Hmm. If he digs females, he may still be useful jogging. Can he fetch?”
“No. I’m telling you, the dog’s wo
rthless.” Dante shoved aside cans of marine varnish and solvent, clearing a bench for Rocco to sit on. Then he took a seat opposite. “Since when did you need a prop to meet women?”
“Since Maddy left. She broke my heart.”
“Maddy broke your ego.” As good as those two had been together, Dante knew Rocco’s heart wasn’t really available. “Maybe it’s time to move on.”
Nodding, Rocco ran a hand across a freshly sanded rail. “Speaking of moving on: The boat looks good. Hell of an improvement over the pictures you sent. Still planning to sail off into the sunset? Start a handyman biz in the islands?”
Dante snorted. “Assuming they unflag my passport. Bastards had no right to do that.”
“You’re preaching to the choir.”
“Well, they can tail my ass all they want.” He stared out over the water. “I’m going back.”
Rocco was silent a moment. “I want to believe as much as you do that Harry and Max may still be out there, but—”
“I know. Nothing indicates either of them survived.” Though Rocco’s last trip back to Southeast Asia yielded an eyewitness who claimed to have seen the explosion and dead bodies, overall it raised more questions.
“And I know that’s not the same as doing it yourself,” Rocco agreed. “I just want to remind you that in certain places over there, you’re still considered an escapee. If you’re caught in Thailand again, you’ll never see daylight. Lady Luck lifted her skirts once. Even I wouldn’t ask for seconds.” Rocco raised his beer, but didn’t drink. “That’s not going to stop you, is it?”
“It’s a matter of honor.”
“Yours or theirs?”
“I admit it—there’s an element of both. How else do I clear my name? It doesn’t seem the Agency has any interest in finding the people responsible unless I first agree to work, carte blanche, with Dr. Evil and Company.”
“And Company.” Rocco wagged his brows. “Did you ever put in a good word for me with that hottie, Houston?”
“She got transferred to another case.” Winchette had been pissed to learn Dr. Houston had made good on the promised files. Dante had left when she did.
“Seriously, have you considered telling them what they want to hear? Just to make it go away?”
“You mean play along?” Dante asked.
“If it gets you back in the field, yes. It keeps you in the loop—gives you access to certain resources.”
“I don’t want to be the Agency’s resident psychic.”
“So offer them a deal,” Rocco went on. “Tell them you’ll bend a few spoons after they sign off on your medical fitness release.”
“I wish it were that easy. Unfortunately, it’s not something I can turn on and off. And I think those seizures fried my circuitry.”
After agreeing to another round of tests, Dante had suffered a couple grand mal seizures. While short-lived, they seemed to have disrupted his flashbacks. They also left yet another black mark on his medical record.
“The real pisser is that that damn Winchette thinks I’m purposely suppressing my abilities. Bastard’s refusing to sign off on my psychological evaluation.” Which effectively hampered Dante in certain job markets, while leaving others—say, a career as a convenience store clerk—wide open.
“I’m telling you, you don’t need his stinking evaluation.” Rocco leaned forward, lowered his voice. “Travis can get you cleared like that.” He snapped his fingers.
Dante disagreed. “Helping me would be career suicide. Besides I haven’t talked with him since leaving the hospital. I, uh, know he’s had problems of his own.”
After recovering from the car wreck, Travis’s wife had reportedly walked out on him.
“Well, you didn’t hear this from me, but Travis is assembling a new team. Black ops. Just like the old days.”
Dante paused. The old days. Max, Harry, Rocco, and Cat. Jesus, he didn’t want to go there.
Travis putting together a team explained how and why Rocco had been sprung from Afghanistan. Travis was notorious with pulling strings.
“What makes you think he’d even consider me?”
“Underneath that heavy mantle of career aspirations, he’s still one of us.” Rocco retrieved his backpack and unzipped it. “I saw him yesterday, by the way. He sent this. Along with his regards.” He withdrew a paper sack.
Inside were two plastic cups and a bottle of Chinaco Emperador, a rare seven-year-old tequila. Twisting away the top with a flourish, Rocco splashed a generous amount into each cup. He passed one to Dante then held his cup aloft. “This is from Travis, too: ‘To lost brothers.’”
“Salud.” Dante downed half the tequila before Rocco cut in.
“You didn’t let me finish. ‘And to brothers found.’”
“Shit.”
“There’s a Hallmark moment.”
Dante emptied the cup, held it out for a refill. He toasted Travis, and then chased the tequila with beer. He grimaced. He needed to pick a poison. “How long you in town for?”
“I’ve got a late morning flight to Guantanamo. Travis thinks it’s best if I stay out of Langley’s crosshairs for a while. I’ve basically got one night to get drunk and find a willing wench to help me forget my sorrows.”
Dante drained his beer and jettisoned the bottle, barely hitting the trashcan. “Let me shower, then we’ll blow this place and head downtown.”
Two pitchers of beer later, they were shooting pool at a popular biker bar a few blocks from the marina. Dante was glad to quit talking shop. The subject left him raw.
Two blondes ambled over to the pool table. One smiled and winked, while the other giggled.
“Called.” Rocco nodded toward the right corner. He wasn’t talking about the pocket.
They quickly become a foursome, and over the course of the next few hours, Dante learned that Amber and Leslie were college students from Ohio.
“We heard Key West has the best fireworks,” Amber said.
While Rocco and Amber’s mutual interest threw off plenty of sparks, Leslie was upfront about just breaking off an engagement. Her lack of interest suited Dante.
But as the evening progressed, he had a harder time following the conversation, his thoughts drifting back to what Rocco said about Travis’s new team. As the crowd in the bar swelled, the noise level amplified. Dante’s other senses seemed to sharpen as well. The overstimulation put him on edge, left him wanting to pick a fight.
Wrong way to feel in this place, especially on a Friday night.
When the women left to find the ladies’ room, Rocco gave Dante a loopy grin. “I’m staying at the Oceanside. They’ve got a bar poolside. Why don’t we take the party back there?”
Dante shook his head, realized just how much he’d had to drink. “You go on. I’ve had enough for one night.”
“You’re gonna pass up the opportunity to get laid?”
“Leslie left a fiancé in Ohio.”
“Oh. Well, those two chicks at the bar have been eyeing you all night. You could do one of them. Maybe both.”
Dante’s gaze flicked toward the bar. When he first hit the Keys, he’d found that nameless, meaningless sex was just that. Meaningless.
“I think it’s you they want,” Dante said.
“Yeah, right. Admit it. You’re wussing out on me. See if I care.”
“Like you’ll miss me when Amber’s back.” Dante stood. “Call when you’re back from Gitmo. And tell Amber and Leslie that it was real.”
Outside, the streets were busy. Dante drifted past a couple of young Turks who seemed determined to harass the bar’s bouncer.
Away from the crowds, his hearing returned to normal and the tension in his neck eased.
It was barely one o’clock by the time he reached the quiet, dark marina. Truman and Iris always turned in early, always slept late. Dante envied their predictability. The orderliness of their existence. Iris claimed their simple life was a result of burnout, that they’d raised too much hell too early.
He looked up at the sky, taking in the stars. A sailor’s sky. The restlessness inside him swelled.
Why was he sticking around? His personal trainer had agreed he was as fit as he was going to get. And he’d already taken steps to procure a fake ID and passport. Perhaps it was time to start laying in supplies, get ready to shove off.
Except, damn it, part of him wanted to contact Travis.
Scratch that.
He wanted Travis to contact him.
Rocco had a point about being in the loop, but it was more complex than that.
Lost in thought, Dante made his way across the lawn, toward the dock. As he passed the bathhouse, the ancient pay phone mounted beside it started ringing.
He slowed, waited for it to stop. While he used the phone periodically for outgoing calls, it—like all pay phones—rang occasionally with a wrong number. Usually after a few rings it quit.
This time it didn’t.
Not wanting the noise to disturb Truman and Iris, he reached for the receiver. His hand froze in midmotion.
The scent of a woman’s cologne permeated the air, the fragrance thick, unmistakable. It was a scent he hadn’t smelled since…
He closed his eyes.
Cat.
She’d worn a signature scent. Dante used to complain that to smell it made him hard.
Now it nauseated him.
Anger heated his skin as the incessant ringing continued, growing louder, buzzing, roaring, like a beast inside his skull.
It brought it all back home. The flashbacks. The memories.
He recalled the video he’d been forced to watch in prison of her. She’d boldly stripped naked, clearly bent on seducing some off-camera lover while bragging about betraying Dante.
Or had she claimed to betray Max? Hell, maybe he wasn’t even remembering that part correctly anymore.
He stepped in closer to the telephone, found the scent of cologne even stronger. As if she’d just walked away after using the phone. Perhaps tucked it between her neck and shoulder.
What the hell? This was crazy. Catalina Dion was dead. She couldn’t have been here tonight.
Except how else did he explain the cologne? Wishful thinking?
