by Cate Noble
He snatched the receiver up, squeezing it.
The ringing ceased immediately, leaving a tangible silence in the night.
A silence that lasted three seconds.
Then his boat exploded.
God, just like…
Chapter 7
West Cambodian Jungle
September 20
(Twenty-Two Months Ago)
“What the hell was Max thinking, taking off this late?” Harry Gambrel snapped.
Dante glanced up from the stick he whittled. It was hard to tell whether this late was meant literally—it was barely 10 p.m.—or relatively—the last few hours of their mission. The closer they got to wrapping a job, the shorter Harry’s fuse.
They were holed up in a two-room, mud wall shack, a mile south of their final destination. From there they’d head home. To another bleak fall.
“Relax. He’ll be back soon.” A curl of wood drifted to the floor as Dante drew his knife downward again. If Rocco were here, they’d be playing cards. Harry preferred to pace.
“If we don’t make it to the extraction point by morning, we’re in deep shit.”
“We’ll either make it or get word out to postpone. Depends on what Max learns.”
“What do you know about his so-called source? And how come we’re just now hearing about it?”
“I trust Max. Thanks to his sources, we got a real lead on Minh Tran.”
Tran had been a key player in Southeast Asia’s illegal arms pipeline for years, moving across borders, between countries with ease. More recently, though, he’d joined an elite group of smugglers that specialized in chemicals and bioweapons. And while the United States and her Allies had been aggressively shutting them down, the ones left were getting protection from certain third world dictators.
Harry wasn’t satisfied. “Yeah? Am I the only one who finds it a tad too coincidental that Tran got tipped off before we got there?”
Dante’s knife paused. “What are you implying?”
“Hell! I don’t know. I guess I’m just pissed Tran got away. And I’m tired of this place.”
“We’re all pissed. And we’re all tired.”
“Fuck. I know. Guess I’ll hit the rack. Wake me when it’s my watch.” Harry disappeared into the next room.
Dante checked the time, then slipped outside to do a perimeter check. The temperature had dropped. The stars he’d seen earlier were obscured with clouds. He scanned the thick jungle with night vision binocs, spotting nothing unusual.
While he hadn’t told Harry this, Dante had decided they’d move on to the extraction point as soon as Max returned. Providing, of course, he had no news.
They’d been in Cambodia nearly six weeks and Dante was as ready as Harry to leave. Eager to know if Cat had responded to the birthday card he’d sent in care of Remi St. James’s firm. The wondering, the second-guessing, made time here seem eternal.
Damn it, he missed Cat. Which surprised him considering they’d spent more time apart than together. She’d definitely gotten under his skin; dominating his thoughts when he let his guard down.
He’d really thought they’d had something special, too. An understanding that didn’t require a commitment. Didn’t require words like “love” or “I promise.” She hadn’t liked hearing that…and they’d agreed to disagree.
But after he’d cooled off, he’d felt like he’d made the biggest mistake of his life. And it was more than just the sex—not that that hadn’t been spectacular. Sex with Cat had been his new religion. Now he felt excommunicated.
Memories of her lurked everywhere. Songs held hidden meanings. Hell, he couldn’t eat without recalling the way she’d stare almost reverently at her plate before picking up her fork. He’d thought she was praying. Just appreciating the abundance, the beauty of my food, she’d say.
God, he really missed that, her raucous appreciation of practically everything. She loved the fucking air she breathed! She loved being out in the sun almost more than he did. They’d parasailed, ridden horses, biked, jogged. They did anything and everything…except talk. Really talk.
Hi, honey, how was your day? Kill anybody good?
Oh, man, you should have seen the freakin’ fireball when it blew. Made me wish you were there, too.
Shit. Getting mushy had been taboo. In his world, intimate talk meant phone sex.
But life without her was unbearably bleak. He decided he wanted more. Decided to take the gamble. Jesus, he’d even decided to apologize. Okay, beg.
But when he’d tried to call—he’d found her cell number was disconnected. Ouch. He finally broke down and asked Max for her new number, only to learn Max didn’t have it either. Which had launched one of those what-the-fuck-did-you-do-to-her conversations.
In a weak moment, Dante had even bought a diamond ring and written a long, please-come-back-to-me-I’ll-do-anything e-mail. He’d agonized over sending it, had deleted sappy parts only to replace them with even sappier fare. Then he’d hit SEND and immediately regretted it. That started a whole new cycle of agony and recrimination.
Ultimately, the e-mail was returned. MAIL DAEMON: UNDELIVERABLE.
Being here, now, with lots of time to think, made him contemplate the future. Something he avoided since he generally expected to die in a hail of bullets, preferably after doing something brave. His parents’ lifelong dream had been to sail around the world after they retired. That dream died prematurely in a car wreck that killed them. Was that why Dante never planned for a future? Why he lived in the now?
Back inside the shack, he began whittling another stick. With two, he could gouge out his eyes.
Three raps at the door alerted him before Max Duncan, dressed all in black, slipped inside.
“It’s darker than the devil’s asshole out there,” Max said.
“I’ll take your word for it. About the devil’s arse. Got anything?”
“My guy says Tran’s in Thailand. Maybe headed for Burma.”
Dante grunted. “Pretty wide area.”
“Yeah. Apparently Tran knows someone’s on him now, so he’s gone underground.”
“We figured as much. Look, the sooner we leave, the sooner he’ll feel safe enough to resume.”
“We’ll get him next time then.”
Dante nodded. “Wake Harry. Let’s pack up.”
Max disappeared into the next room, just before the ceiling exploded.
Dante slammed to the ground, ears thumping from the rocket blast. He was vaguely aware that his clothes were on fire. He rolled, landing beneath the table as a second shell hit, collapsing the walls. Thick smoke stung his eyes. The chemical smell choked his lungs.
“Max! Harry!” Dante tried to kick free, but the rubble had his legs pinned. Orange flames surrounded him.
“Dante, I’m—No!” Max’s shout turned to a scream of agony.
That went on and on and on…
Chapter 8
Key West, Florida
July 3
(Present Day)
Dante twisted away from the explosion. Blazing bits of debris stung his neck, burned his skin. A red-hot rage seared through his alcohol buzz.
A split second before the actual blast, he’d known. In his mind, he’d seen the fireball even before it had happened. Just like it happened.
The cloying scent of cologne taunted him. Catch me if you can.
He didn’t care what any fucking file said. Catalina Dion was as alive as he was. He knew it. Felt it. And if it took the rest of his days, he’d find her and get answers. For this. For everything.
He turned, his shoulders stiffening as he took in the sight before him. The scene matched his vision perfectly.
His boat, half the dock—were gone. Orange-glow flames leaped into the air, illuminating the water, the darkness. Beyond the reach of the flames, the sky swallowed up the billowing black smoke.
A smaller, secondary explosion ripped through the night. The nearly empty gas tank.
A whining caught his ear
. Jesus! “D-dog!”
He dashed out onto what remained of the dock and dove into the water, swimming as fast as he could toward the wreckage.
When he reached what seemed like the center of the debris, he stopped, treading water as he listened.
Shit! Where was the damn dog?
“D-dog?” He whistled. “Come ’ere, boy!”
He heard an answering bark, saw a small figure breaking the water up ahead, to the left. He swam toward the animal.
D-dog growled as Dante eased one arm beneath the dog’s stomach. “I got you, boy.”
It was the first time the animal had ever allowed his touch.
Towing the dog, he sidestroked toward shore. He had to negotiate around the larger pieces of floating wreckage, some of which were still burning and putting off smoke heavy with chemicals.
Sirens screamed as emergency vehicles roared up the drive. A small crowd had already gathered at the far end of the sea wall.
Spotting Truman and Iris among them, Dante called out.
“There he is,” Truman pointed.
As soon as his feet brushed sand, he stood.
Truman waded out to meet him. “Holy crap! I thought you were dead. You okay?”
“Fine.” Dante nodded toward the dog. “He’s hurt, though. I need to get him to a vet.”
A fireman came up as they were climbing out. “Anyone else on board?”
“No. Just the dog.”
Iris gasped at the sight of the injured animal, then started coughing and wheezing. “Let me get dressed,” she croaked. “I’ll drive.”
“You’re in no shape…” Truman’s voice faded as he took off after her.
Before Dante could stop him, the fireman reached to take the dog. D-dog growled.
The fireman stepped back but seemed unfazed by the aggressive behavior. “Donna Kramer’s good with animals. I’ll get her over here.” He turned and looked at the knot of emergency workers. “Hey, Donna,” he yelled. “I got another dog for you.”
A few seconds later, Donna, obviously an EMT, appeared.
“Careful,” the fireman warned. “He’s in bite mode.”
Yet when Donna extended her hand, D-dog quieted and after several seconds allowed her to take him from Dante.
“Guess he likes women,” she quipped, offering an amused smile.
“It’ll be the death of him,” the fireman replied.
You have no idea, Dante thought grimly.
Donna placed D-dog on a gurney, giving Dante his first look at the animal’s injuries. The fur was burned off the left hindquarter, the skin beneath raw. A jagged cut snaked down his back.
Meeting Dante’s concerned gaze, Donna shook her head. “This is pretty bad. I’m not sure if he’s going to make it.”
“Just tell me where I can take him.”
“My dad’s the emergency vet hereabouts. I’ll handle getting him over to the clinic.”
“I appreciate that, but I’ll—”
She tipped her head toward an approaching officer. “Actually, you need to stay here to answer questions.”
“You’re right. Thanks. Tell your dad to do whatever it takes. I’m good for it.” Dante watched her leave, then turned back and took in the panorama.
In the eerie shimmer of sodium spotlights, the scene looked surreal. With the flames fully extinguished, the space where his boat had been was a black void.
His gut tightened as the full impact of loss hit. Jesus! All his hard work, his last—only—tie to his father—just gone. Another kick in the teeth.
“Excuse me, Dan Hogan? This your boat, sir?”
Dante turned to the officer who’d asked the question. That’s not my name. “Yeah, it was mine.”
“My name is Chris Furbs. I’m an investigator with the fire department. Any idea what happened?”
“No. I’d been downtown with a friend and was just coming in when it blew.”
“I understand from the marina owner that you were restoring the boat,” Furbs said. “What can you tell me about the solvents and paints on board—or on the dock?”
Dante rattled off a list of products. Any combination could easily be responsible for the fire, and for now it was easier to let everyone believe that chemicals had caused the explosion.
Of course, once Furbs did some digging, it was going to get tricky explaining the sophisticated device that had undoubtedly been utilized as a detonator.
“Much personal property on board?”
Dante took a quick mental inventory of his worldly possessions. Any really important papers, like his currently useless passport and insurance policies, were locked up in a bank deposit box.
“Hand tools, but nothing really valuable. Clothes and toiletries are in the bathhouse.”
And since he used a local coffee shop for Internet access, he kept his laptop in his truck. He’d had his keys, his wallet, and his cell phone with him.
Shit! He patted down his pockets. No phone. He probably lost it when he dove in. Not that it would have survived the dunking.
Furbs asked a few additional questions and then assured Dante he’d return in the morning. “It’s too dark tonight, but I’ve taped off the scene to keep everyone out until I can get back in the morning and complete my investigation.”
That meant Dante had to complete his own before then.
As Furbs turned to leave, he motioned toward Dante’s arm. “Maybe you should get that looked at.”
Glancing down, Dante realized he had a long gash on his upper arm. “I will.”
Once the emergency personnel wrapped up and took off, the marina cleared out quickly. Dante made his way back to where Truman and Iris stood. “I will pay to have everything rebuilt,” he began.
“Don’t worry about it,” Truman said. “It needed tearing down anyway. I’m just sorry about the boat. I know what it meant to you.” He nodded toward the trawler. “You’re welcome to sleep over at our place tonight.”
Sleep was the last thing Dante wanted. “Thanks. But I’ll be fine.”
“Change your mind, you know what door to knock on,” Truman said before he and Iris headed back to their boat.
Dante turned toward the dock.
“Wait up!” Hearing Rocco’s voice, he paused.
Upon reaching him, his friend bent forward and sucked in air, clearly having run from Front Street.
“Too much tequila, too little beer.” Rocco straightened, then surveyed the scene. “Tell me that wasn’t your boat.”
“No can do.”
“Damn! We heard the explosion downtown, but weren’t sure what it was. The bartender had a scanner, heard them mention this address. You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. A scratch or two maybe.”
“Any idea what caused it?”
“A little C-4.”
“A little what?” Rocco cocked his head. “This was deliberate?”
“Yeah. And this is going to sound crazy, but…” Dante told him about the phone and the cologne.
“Whoa. You’re saying Cat Dion was here? Tonight? That she’s alive?”
“That or someone wearing her cologne.”
“Sounds vindictive as hell. No offense, but did you really break her heart that badly?”
If Dante had been asked that question two years ago, his first answer would have been that Cat had broken his heart. Prison changed all that. “She didn’t have a heart.”
“Maybe what you smelled was something similar to what she wore.”
“No. This stuff was unique. Cat was the only woman I ever smelled it on.” Dante made his way to the bathhouse, an ancient wood frame structure built in the fifties.
Rocco followed. He sniffed the air and then snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute. I can still smell it, faintly. I remember this stuff now. Flowery as hell. You could smell her coming and going.”
“When she wanted you to. As distinctive as it was, she was careful where and when she wore it.”
“You know, maybe it’s the liquor,
but I can’t get my mind around it. First the video of Cat while you’re in prison, now this?”
“Yeah, I know.” The whole thing reeked of overkill. A setup? “If somebody’s fucking with me, they know Cat and I were an item.”
“It wasn’t exactly secret. After the Belarus job, you two never worked together.”
After the Belarus job, Dante and Cat had gone off alone, to Anguilla. He changed subjects. “Whoever it was knows I wasn’t killed overseas.”
Rocco studied the pay phone mounted to the wall of the bathhouse. “I don’t suppose we’d get lucky in the fingerprint department?”
“I doubt it. Besides, I picked up the phone to answer it.”
“Do you think that was the trigger?”
Dante had given that some thought. “Perhaps, but someone would have to be watching to know when to dial the number. It didn’t start ringing until I hit there.” He pointed.
“Any chance you were followed from downtown?” Rocco asked.
He recalled how much they’d had to drink. “Maybe. Dumbass move.”
“That makes two of us.”
Dante retraced his steps, then stared out at the water, looking around for likely vantage points. The place was remote, hidden. He pointed to the line of mangroves opposite the marina. “My money says she came in by boat, probably swam up and attached a detonator to the hull. She could have watched the whole thing from out there.”
Shifting sideways, Rocco surveyed the waterway from a different angle. “There were several ways a craft could have come in.”
“Powered by an electric motor, the approach would have been virtually silent.”
“And since D-dog wouldn’t have let a man get anywhere near the boat…Uh-oh.” Rocco looked around. “Did the dog survive?”
“He’s at the vet’s. It doesn’t look good.”
“Ah, hell. Iris know?”
Nodding, Dante turned back to study the distance from the dock to the phone. A blotch of red on the wood siding next to the phone caught his eye. Blood?
Up closer, he saw the blotch was actually an upside-down broken heart. Drawn in lipstick.
Dante touched the edge, found it still fresh enough to smear.
“Son of a bitch.” Any doubt he’d had about who was behind the explosion evaporated. A surge of fresh adrenaline hit his veins like a heady elixir of vengeance.
