Tony made out a form that came up to his chin. “Polanski, that your”
“It’s not the Easter Bunny.”
Tony chuckled. “More like the Abominable Snow Agent.”
“Anybody ever tell you you’re not that funny?”
Yeah, humor used to be Erickson’s department. A door slammed, and the truck jiggled. “Bergstrom made his post.”
“Lucky dog. He’ll be warm inside that cab.”
“Bored pooch. Just sit tight and make sure nobody tries to make a getaway.”
“Bored is good for a first-station agent.” Hajimoto’s voice drifted to them. His stocky bulk made a dark splotch in the white.
Tony shivered, not entirely from cold. Eerie not to be able to make out people’s faces. “Glad you could join the party. We’re cleared to board.”
He led the way past the truck and focused on spotting the gangplank. The ship loomed ahead. He pressed on, and his boot struck a hard object. The bottom of the gangplank. Grasping the cables on both sides of the plank, Tony surged upward. The plank twisted and groaned beneath his feet. And the slavers thought they’d get a bunch of frightened women down this flimsy thing without someone falling in? Not likely.
The side of the ship came within arms reach. From the deck, a figure waved him onward. SWAT. One of their own.
Tony put a foot forward, but it slid back on a slick spot. He lurched, grabbing at the side of the ship, but his feet went out from under him, and he toppled against the gangplank line. His breath hitched as the cable sagged, and the surging Atlantic slammed the freighter, sucking him toward the greedy waves. His heart ping-ponged around his chest cavity. Then a gloved hand grabbed his arm and yanked him onto the deck.
“Welcome aboard, Lucano.” A familiar voice spoke in his ear.
“McCluskey?” Tony shouted over the storm. He’d worked with this guy eight months ago when they rescued Desi from a terrorist.
“Guilty as charged.” The man stood, legs splayed, dressed in a neoprene dry suit that made swimming in forty-degree water the walk in the park Polanski had mentioned. The SWAT leader cradled an automatic weapon in the crook of one arm.
“I had no idea you and your guys were scuba-trained.”
“Your all-around elite team.” McCluskey grinned as Haj and Polanski joined them. “Bagged a couple of sentries on the bridge and one in a passageway. No hitches. No alarms. My guys are in place to take the hold, so if you’ll follow me.” The Irishman became a blob in the white as he headed up the deck.
McCluskey swung a hatch wide. “You ready to get out of the wind?”
“Lead on!” Tony stepped through the door and onto a broad landing at the top of steep stairs. Overhead, a single light bulb glowed behind wire mesh. The air warmed. Not a lot, but enough to feel like the tropics to his chilled body.
Haj crowded inside, then Polanski, who shut the door on the storms howl. Trailing the SWAT leader, Tony and his squad members went down the stairs and into a cracker-box room that smelled like sweaty socks.
“Leave your coats,” McCluskey said. “Boots too. Those things make too much noise.”
Tony started tugging off his snow gear. “This is not an optimal situation for any of us. No hesitation on deadly force to keep a hostage situation from developing.”
McCluskey jerked a nod. “We’ll neutralize the firepower and let you handle the arrests.”
Tony pulled out his Glock handgun and checked the load. The piece was warm in his frigid hands. It had been cradled against his body under the parka. “Were good to go, then?”
McCluskey flashed a shark grin. “Lets do it.”
The SWAT leader led out. Tony waved his people ahead and took up the rear. They went through a deserted mess hall and a bunk area. At the top of another set of stairs, McCluskey motioned for quiet. They crept down and stopped on a narrow walkway. The barred railing on one side overlooked a laundry area.
A stench wafted upward—a combination of feces and vomit. Conditions below had to be hideous.
Tony assessed their location. To the right, the walkway led to an open hatch and a dimly lit passage. To the left, it went toward another drop-off that was probably more stairs. McCluskey led left, toward another guy in a neoprene suit who hunkered on his knees, watching through the bars. He glanced their way and stood as they joined him.
The SWAT leader and the sentry started a low-voiced conversation. As the caboose of the train, Tony glanced back and caught a movement in the passage beyond the walkway. His spine went stiff. Could McCluskey’s team have missed a sentry? He jabbed Haj in the ribs.
“Huh?” The stocky Japanese looked at him.
“Cover me. We may have unfriendly company.” Tony flattened himself against the wall.
Haj knelt, gun brandished. Tony edged toward the passageway, Glock hugged to his body, muzzle pointed upward.
One sidestep. Another. His movement gained the rest of the groups attention. Out of the corner of his eye, Tony saw them turn and lift weapons. A burst of automatic fire exploded in the passageway. The shots weren’t aimed at them. Probably a warning to the others down below.
Tony hustled forward, Haj and Polanski on his heels.
“We’re blown!” McCluskey shouted. “My team’ll secure control of the lower hold.”
“Well get the shooter.” Tony plunged through the hatch door, lowered gun tracing an arc. The door to the room on his right stood open. Empty. He turned toward the closed door.
“I’m on it,” Haj said.
Tony moved on, Polanski trailing. More empty rooms.
“Clear!” Haj caught up to them.
Gunfire and shouts sounded below. Tony kept his gaze ahead. The passage dead-ended into one perpendicular. He hugged the wall. “FBI. Drop your weapon and show yourself.”
Someone giggled. Giggled?
“Come and get me, señor.” Her voice gave sultry new meaning. “I promise you warm welcome.”
More shots from below, then silence. Tony counted a long ten seconds. All remained still. Had to be McClusky’s triumph. No way did a few lowlifes take out a whole SWAT team in a few rounds of shots. “The battle’s over. Give it up.”
No answer, but no sound of movement either.
“Secure below!” the SWAT leader bellowed up the passageway.
“You heard that.” Tony edged toward the corner. “Your friends are either dead or captured. Lay down your weapon, and come out with your hands on your head.”
“My friends?” Frigid contempt flowed from the words. An automatic delivered a burst, and then came the sound of running feet. The footfalls became a hollow clatter against metal stairs.
Tony peeked around the corner to see small boot-clad feet disappear onto the level above. He motioned for his squad to follow and hustled after. He clambered up the stairs until his head came even with the floor. A quick clearance check, then he lunged upward and raced after the fading sound. In a few paces, the passage branched. Which way?
“We’ll take right.” Haj nudged his shoulder.
Tony nodded. “Polanski, go with him.”
“Gotcha.” The two darted off.
Tony moved down the left passage, listening. The wind was louder this close to the top deck. He commanded his heart rate to slow, muting the internal thunder. Feet pattered on stairs. “This way!” he shouted over his shoulder.
“Coming!” Polanski’s words came back faint as Tony plunged forward through a bunk area, then ahead full toward the stairs. He was not going to lose this larcenous Lolita. Especially since Bergstrom was all that stood between her and escape.
On the next deck, another set of stairs began at a right angle to the ones Tony had just left. From an open door at the top, dawns light brought illumination but not warmth. Freezing air slapped his cheeks. Was she waiting for him above?
Tony went up in a cautious crouch and then flattened himself beside the door. He leaped out into the teeth of the storm, Glock ready.
The deck lay empty. What was stra
nge about this picture? He blinked. No snow. The wind howled, but the snow had stopped and dawn paled the air.
Teeth chattering, deck an ice cube beneath his stocking-clad feet, Tony glanced around. He was in the forecastle, facing the harbor buildings. He darted to the rail. There she was, an undainty figure swathed in parka, jeans, and boots lumbering down the gangplank. She clutched a bundle that wasn’t a gun.
He brought his weapon up, fighting shivers. “Stop right there.” The wind ate his words, and she didn’t react.
Tony took aim at a spot on the snow-piled quay below her and squeezed the trigger. The gangplank line parted and whipped against the hull. Crack shot—if he’d been aiming for the cable.
But it got her attention. She clutched her bundle in one hand and lifted her gun in the other. Tony got off another shot and missed again. He ducked as her automatic rattled, and Polanski shouted a warning in the same heartbeat. Bullets spanged off the ships rail near where his heart should have been. If he wasn’t a crack shot in the cold, she sure was.
Another gun barked. Different caliber. A woman screamed, followed by a splash.
Tony stared over the rail. Bergstrom stood in shooters stance, gun leveled at the spot where the woman had been. A body bobbed on the waves between the quay bumpers and the pier. Tony’s mouth fell open, but he snapped it shut. Why should he be surprised? The kid was trained at Quantico. He’d heard firing, gotten out of the truck, and taken care of business.
Tony headed toward the gangplank, Haj and Polanski flanking him. “Tough break Bergstrom had to cut his teeth on a kill shot against a woman. Hope it doesn’t ruin him.”
“Makes that much difference?” Polanski shot him a look.
“You bet.” Haj holstered his gun. “A guy always feels worse if he shoots a female.”
Polanski hugged herself “We should get below and put on our snow gear.”
“You and Haj go,” Tony said. “Check on status in the lower hold, and make sure any deserving p-parties are treated to their Miranda rights and the c-cuffs. It’s just as close for m-me to trot down there, climb in that warm t-truck cab, and have a chat with Bergstrom. We’ll c-call in some fresh faces to clean up this m-mess.” He halted at the top of the plank.
On the quay, Bergstrom leaned against the side of the truck, gun arm limp at his side. Wind-tossed snow swished up at his lanky form from a drift at his feet. The kid was in the numb disbelief phase, but he needed to snap out of it and get on with the job. It was the best thing.
“Watch that slick spot, boss.” Haj waved as he and Polanski left the rail.
Tony gripped the remaining gangplank line and watched where he planted the feet he could no longer feel. A sharp smack against the hull reminded him that the other cable waved loose at the mercy of the gale. Better get off this thing pronto and tell the others to find a safer way to leave the ship.
The wind shrieked and grabbed at his hair. From the corner of his eye, he saw the free line whip toward him, and he jerked his arm up. The cable struck his ribs, and pain splintered through him. His scream meshed with the wind’s as he tumbled end over end from the plank.
Tony hit the water feet first. An arctic vise squeezed his bones. Excruciating ache shot from his legs straight through the top of his head. Momentum plunged him toward the bottom. He flailed. At least, he thought he did.
He reached toward the pale sheet overhead. Must be daylight. Air. Icicles sank razor teeth into his marrow. The brightness grew closer, and then receded—like something kept pulling him back. An undertow? He gave a mighty kick and hit a wall. The ship? The quay? Precious breath left his lungs as he caromed off the hard object into liquid oblivion. The light was gone.
His head bumped something solid but soft. What? Oh, yes, the woman’s body. He grabbed and missed. The ocean breathed around him, pushing out, sucking in. He couldn’t feel himself anymore.
No! Not like this, God!
Desi’s race filled his inner vision. He’d never marry her now. Despair stole the last of his breath as consciousness winked out.
Eight
Desi drifted awake. What delicious cloud was she floating on? She sighed and opened her eyes to an unfamiliar room painted a buttery yellow. Light trickled through vertical blinds. What? Where? She stiffened. Oh, yes, the home of Ramon Sanchez, cultural afïàirs honcho for the state of Yucatán, Mexico. He’d be at work by now, but she’d hunt him down at his office. An overabundance of nasty events needed serious attention.
She sat up and winced. That was one awkward landing on the pavement when the kid stole her carry-on. Her stomach tightened. Her ring! Her medallion! Tony! Find a house phone and a new charger for her cell. She shook her head and slumped. Maybe she should drop him an e-mail. If the weather had broken in Boston, he’d probably be home catching some shut-eye.
How could she tell him she’d lost her engagement ring? Did she want to do that over the phone from thousands of miles away? But, oh, she needed to hear the deep timbre of his voice.
Time to go home.
She’d give the powers-that-be her tidbit about the drug lord interested in “shiny baubles,” and they could take it from there. She wasn’t a private investigator, and she sure wasn’t a DEA agent. Maybe Ramon Sanchez could have Preston Standish picked up, and she’d get her medallion back. If she could book a flight to Boston, she wasn’t going to stick around to find out.
She swung her legs out of bed. Youch! The sore rear didn’t want to get in gear today. She probed the insides of her cheeks with her tongue. Hamburger, thanks to last night’s limo invader with the pincher fingers. A tremor rippled through her. Get a grip! The guy wasn’t even after you. But why was he after Señor Sanchez?
And what about Zapopa? Had the woman made it through the night?
What kind of a terrible person was she that the wounded grandmother took last place on her list? She shook her head. Too many questions before she’d even hit the shower.
A half-hour later, dressed in a peasant skirt and blouse, she left her room. In the hallway, heavenly scents greeted her nostrils. She’d missed breakfast, but maybe she was in time for lunch. Her nose led her down polished hardwood stairs and into a dining room adjacent to the foyer. She halted on the threshold of a white room accented in midnight blue. A woman, a teenager, and a man sat around a table covered in a linen cloth.
“Buenos días,” Desi said.
The woman’s sharp nose pinched, and the teenager scowled.
Desi’s face heated. “Permiso.”
The white-haired man who sat at the head of the table rose, napkin in hand. Golden-brown eyes gazed at her from a strong, square face. Shadows beneath the eyelids and a droop of the mouth betrayed weariness. Señor Sanchez?
He smiled, but a second too late to be wholehearted. “Señorita Jacobs. Please join us. We trust you slept well.”
“Thank you. I was quite comfortable.”
Sanchez waved toward an empty seat beside the teenager. “Carlos!”
The mans bark brought the teen to his feet. Eyes hooded by thick lashes, the youth pulled back Desi’s chair.
She glanced up into his sulky face as she sat. “Gracias.”
“De nada.” He resumed his place and attacked his food like it might bite him if he didn’t get it first.
The plump housekeeper Desi had met last night came in through a different entrance, sandals slapping on the parquet floor. She set a plate, napkin, and silverware in front of Desi, and then poured water from a Perrier bottle into a cut-crystal glass and added the glass to the place setting.
“Gracias.” Desi smiled up at her.
The housekeeper’s cheeks went pink, and she bobbed a little bow, then rushed out.
“Señorita Jacobs.” Sanchez resettled his napkin on his lap. “Allow me to introduce my wife, Pilar, and my son, Carlos. I am Ramon. We are honored to entertain an American businesswoman.”
“Please call me Desiree. I’m thankful to be here.” You have no idea. Or maybe you do. She studied him.
Ramon pursed his lips and turned his attention to his food.
A smile split Pilar’s ruby-red lips. She folded her hands together, manicured nails as bright as her mouth. “We are happy to have you in our home. The clothes fooled me for a moment. You norteamericanos love the native dress. We will shop this afternoon. Sí?”
So that’s what brought on the woman’s nose-pinch when Desi appeared in her doorway. Wonder what the lady of the house would have thought if she’d appeared as Myra?
Desi dished Spanish rice onto her plate. “I appreciate your kindness, señora.”
“Pilar, please.”
Desi helped herself to an enchilada in creamy white sauce. The entrée smelled like it had some kind of seafood filling. “I must conduct business today, Pilar, but perhaps another time we can browse the shops.” Or maybe never.
“Have some salsa.” Ramon passed a brightly painted Talavera bowl, a smile straining his flushed face. He launched into a tourist-friendly description of city festivals.
Desi ate and nodded. Pilar’s eyes glazed over. Carlos mumbled something about getting ready for football practice and bolted from the table. Why wasn’t the teenager in school? And why was a busy government executive home in the middle of the day?
Her fork halted halfway to her mouth. It was Saturday. Good grief, her world was so inside out, she didn’t know the day of the week.
“Would it be possible to visit with you after lunch, Ramon? And, por favor, use a landline phone? My cell is dead.”
“Most certainly. And do you require a wireless Internet connection?”
“That would be most helpful.”
The rest of the meal passed in small talk, and then her host pushed back his chair. “I am at your disposal.” He nodded to Desi. “Shall we retire to the patio?”
Pilar fluttered languid fingers as they left the room.
Ramon led the way through a sunken living room and out French doors onto a shaded patio. The air was warm, but not heavy, and scented with the exotic breath of white gardenias. Multihued beds of flowers adorned the lush green lawn that spread to a line of trees half the length of a soccer field away. To her left and down a set of stone stairs a swimming pool sparkled. To her right sat a round, glass-topped table flanked by wicker chairs.
Reluctant Smuggler Page 9
