by JoAnn Ross
His voice drifted off. He took a deep breath, obviously regaining his aura of suave composure. "Of course, in the long run, you've turned out quite useful. So, I guess it was all for the best."
"I'm thrilled I could be of help." His partner might be a dickhead, but Remy Landreaux was a card-carrying sociopath. Which made him, in his own way, even more dangerous.
He had the upper hand, as hers were tied, and while he was lean and trim, she could tell that his body was well muscled.
Then there were Dubois and those other two cohorts lurking out there in the dark.
Her chances of survival weren't exactly rosy.
But if she was going to die, and it damn well seemed that was what they intended for her, at least she'd go down fighting.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, signaling a storm approaching from out in the Gulf. Meanwhile, Nick couldVe done without the moon lighting up the boggy land around the cabin, making it more difficult to stay in the shadows. He'd brought along his night-vision goggles, but unless one big-ass cloud happened to come along, he wouldn't be needing them.
Dark water ran off him as he pulled himself silently out of the water, kicked off the fins that fit over his boots, and positioned himself behind a huge cypress. From what he could tell, there were three guys standing guard outside the camp.
One was—no surprise—Dubois. He and the other guy were stupidly smoking, the tips of their cigarettes glowing like flares.
The third guy was dressed in cammies like the others, but holding an M4, which was basically just the old Ml6 with a shorter barrel and collapsible stock. And a lot more cool accessories, like a grenade launcher, which thankfully, the guy didn't seem to have.
Unlike Dubois and his pal, who were lounging against the weathered side of the old cabin, puffing away, he was lying on his stomach in full sniper mode. Which gave Nick the impression that he knew what he was doing.
If he'd been a former SEAL, or even a Ranger or Delta Force, living anywhere in the area, Nick would've known of him. Which meant that while he might present more of a challenge than the other goobers, he wasn't invincible.
Still, obviously, the key was to start with him.
His Ka-Bar was strapped to his thigh, where he'd put it after that stare-down with the gator. A stare-down he'd won when it swam away, leaving him to continue on. Nick could only hope this next encounter would turn out to be as uneventful.
Unlike in the movies, SEALs weren't really into hand-to-hand combat. In fact, if you ended up going mano-a-mano with your enemy, it was just a sign your primary, secondary, and tertiary plans had gone south.
There was also the problem that what might work in a war zone wasn't exactly acceptable in civilian society. Even down here in South Louisiana. If he took these guys out for good, he'd undoubtedly have some explaining to do.
Utilizing the crawl and walk parts of the SEALs' crawl/walk/run raid technique, he made his way through the flag-and-needle grass, pausing behind another cypress trunk shaped like a gigantic elephant foot. Fortunately, the rain had soaked the piles of dead willow leaves, keeping them from crackling as he crawled through them.
He approached the guy from the back, on his feet now, bent low, every nerve ending in his body primed to attack.
On three ...
One.
Two.
Three.
The guy holding the M4 went out like a light.
The arm-bar chokehold could silently, quickly kill a man from behind. But there was also another way; if done right, it could merely render an adversary unconscious, which was Nick's intention.
And hadn't it worked like an effin' charm?
He plucked the assault rifle from the soggy leaves.
One down. Two to go.
Piece of cake.
Dubois, again no surprise, folded, just like the illustration in the SEAL Combat Manual.
Just as Nick lifted his arm to dispatch bad guy number three, the night silence was shattered by a scream coming from inside the camp.
45
"YOU BROKE MY FUCKIN' NOSE, BITCH!"
Wow. And hadn't Mr. GQ just lost his suave?
Remy jumped up, tipped over the cot, and knocked the kerosene lantern onto the floor, shattering the glass chimney.
Blood was gushing like Old Faithful from the nose Kate had managed to score a bull's-eye on. It hadn't been easy, swinging both arms with his heavy weight sprawled on top of her.
But she'd managed, and luckily the metal cuffs had hit just right, cutting a deep slice into his left nostril, which was hanging off his handsome face like a bloody piece of snot.
So caught up was he in his pain and fury, he didn't notice the wick from the lantern igniting the spilled kerosene.
Despite the rain, the building's wood was aged and rotting. Kate didn't want to still be here if and when it went up in flames. Deciding her chances were better outside with three armed men than in a burning building with an enraged cop, she scrambled to her feet and started running.
Proving that old military maxim about the best war plan falling apart upon contact with the enemy, the third guy spun around toward the camp, saw Nick coming toward him, and lifted a police-issue Glock.
At the same time, the door to the cabin burst open and Kate came racing out.
Into the night.
Nick called out her name, but his voice was drowned out by another rumble of thunder—closer this time— and the roar of a voice thickened with fury and, he thought, pain.
He shot off a round from the M4, nailing the third guard before the idea to pull the trigger could get from his brain to his hand. He dropped like a stone, the front of his fancy camouflage hunting vest turning crimson.
Three down, and Nick had no idea how many left to go. But he did know that however many there were, if any of them dared touch a hair on Kate Delaney's head, they were all going to die.
The scents of salt and oil rode on the night air with the dank odor of rotting vegetation. Kate felt the electricity of distant lightning beneath her skin. Or maybe that was just fear.
She'd always imagined the bayou to be an empty, silent place, but as she ran through the sharp marsh grasses that were ripping at her bare legs, she was vaguely aware of the hoot of an owl, the croak of bullfrogs, and the incessant, nerve-wracking whirr of crickets.
And then, worse, the unmistakable rat-a-tat-tat of an assault rifle.
Lowering her head, hearing the pounding of boots hitting the soggy ground behind her, Kate ran faster. Farther.
Damn, the woman could run! Nick hadn't held the team record for the hundred-meter dash, but he'd always ended in the top two or three. But he was having trouble keeping up with Kate.
Of course, fear was a prime motivator. Adrenaline a speed enhancer. Shouting out her name again, Nick kicked into overdrive.
Another gunshot rang out. A single crack that sent a bullet whizzing by her head, the snap of the sonic wave ringing in her ears before it embedded itself in a fat cypress stump.
Kate would have screamed if she could. But the sound was blocked by the major lump in her throat.
The earlier drizzle picked up, turning into a drenching shower, like piss poured from a boot. The leaves and rotting grass grew slippery. Tripping over a root, Kate went sprawling, which turned out to be a lucky thing as yet another bullet went soaring inches from her head. If she'd still been running . ..
No. Don't think of that, she told herself as she scrambled to her feet. Just keep going.
Nick was coming for her. All she had to do was stay alive until he got here.
"Kate!"
She paused. Was it really him? Or Remy pretending to be him to get her to slow down?
"Kate, dammit, it's me. Nick."
It was him!
She spun around and nearly ran smack into his chest.
"Are you all right?" he demanded as relief made her scratched and battered legs go numb.
"I am now," she gasped, clinging to him.
He looked n
othing like the sexy Cajun PI she'd first met only three days ago. With every muscle of his magnificent body revealed by the skintight black dive suit, his rugged face streaked in shades of green and black and gray, he looked terrifying.
And spectacular.
"Fuck," he ground out as another bullet went flying by. "Who knew a guy could run in Italian loafers?"
"How do you know it's Remy? There are other—"
"Yeah. Dickhead and the other two stooges. I took care of them." He put a hand on the top of her head and pushed her back down to the wet ground. "But I didn't want to take time to get rid of Remy until I got to you, because I didn't want you running off half-cocked into the water."
Which, although she hated to admit it, she just might have done.
He turned around.
"Stay down."
It was the second time he'd instructed her to keep low.
While her plans were admittedly and uncharacteristically sketchy, she'd already decided—sometime between arriving at The Hoo-yah for the first time and meeting Nick, and when she'd woken up in that cabin tonight—that there was no reason for her to ever return to Chicago.
And since she wasn't about to risk getting her head blown off before she could see those Mexican cliff divers with Nick, Kate set aside her independent streak and did exactly as told.
46
NICK TURNED AROUND. CALMLY WITH A COLD sense of purpose.
Remy was running toward them. He seemed a bit winded, but nevertheless managed to lift the police-issue Glock and point it at Nick.
Who, as coolly as if he'd been shooting targets at the SEAL range, lifted the M4 and pulled the trigger, and—
Nothing?
The freaking gun jammed?
"Oops," Remy said. Despite the blood gushing down his face, he managed a smile. A killer grin, Kate thought. "Looks as if your luck's just run out, cher."
"Someone ought to tell you that when you're fighting for your life, stopping to gloat can be fatal," Nick said.
Moving so fast that Kate wasn't quite sure she'd actually seen it happen, Nick swung the M4 by the stock, sending his former partner flying backward, landing in the water with a huge splash.
He was shouting curses, struggling to tread water while dressed in that wool navy blazer that was now billowing out around his body, when a huge alligator, its eyes gleaming like yellow agates in the dark, swam like a pebbled torpedo straight toward him.
Unable to watch, Kate squeezed her eyes closed; dots like white-winged moths began flying behind her lids.
But she didn't need to be able to see to know what had happened when Remy Landreaux's high-pitched scream sent a flurry of night birds nesting in a nearby tree into the sky.
The horrible sound of bones breaking was like another gunshot. She opened her eyes again just in time to see animal and man disappear beneath the black surface.
"Oh, my God." Trembling like a leaf in a hurricane, Kate managed to get up on her knees as Nick dropped to his and gathered her into his arms.
"It'll be okay," he assured her. "You'll be okay."
And because it was Nick telling her that, Kate believed it to be true. "Was that all of them?"
"Yeah. Christ, I'm sorry, Kate." He was running his hands over her hair, her wet face, which she knew must've been filthy, her shoulders. "I'm so freaking sorry."
"For what?" She stared up at his tortured expression. "You just saved my life."
"You wouldn't have needed saving, dammit, if I'd just figured out Remy was the worst of the bad guys."
"He was your friend." How strange that despite her body still jangling from residual fear, she'd be the one trying to soothe him. "You've known him forever. You have to trust people sometimes, Nick. He was your partner. You were a team."
"He killed my father."
"I'm sorry." But not surprised. Once she'd learned the truth about Tara, she'd begun to suspect the connection.
"Dad was killed because he was going to rat them out."
She almost smiled. It was the first time she'd heard him call his father Dad. She'd come to accept how much she and Nick were alike. What a surprise to discover that she also had something in common with his father.
"That's too bad. But he left you with a nice legacy. Knowing that he was going to do the right thing."
"Yeah." He kissed her then. A long, sweet kiss that strangely made her want to cry. It was that tender.
As she kissed him back, with all her heart, Kate tensed when she heard another sound.
"Is that a—"
Please don't let it be a boat bringing more of LeBlanc's thugs, she prayed.
"It's okay."
As he helped her to her feet, Kate recognized the chop chop chop sound of rotors and looked up to see the huge black helicopter flying toward them.
"Father Mike borrowed it from the Coast Guard," Nick told her. "It's our ride home."
They were bathed in a circle of yellow light as the copter touched down. Bending low, Nick and Kate ran toward the open door.
"Well, this is one helluva reunion," Tara greeted Kate as she scrambled aboard. "Next time, what do you say we just settle for brunch at the Court of Two Sisters'?"
Kate laughed and threw her arms around the twin she hadn't seen for too long. "You're on."
47
IT WAS A PERFECT DAY. THE SUN WAS WARM,THE water smooth as an endless blue mirror as Nick and Kate sailed The Hoo-yah out into the Gulf of Mexico.
"That was fun last night," she said.
"Absolutely." He put his arm around her waist and lifted her onto her toes for a kiss that had memories flooding back.
"I was talking about before that hot, chandelier-swinging sex," she said with a laugh.
"Ah, the Voodoo wedding." He nodded. "Your sister made a beautiful bride."
"She did." And less like a movie star, now that she'd had her face changed back to pre-LeBlanc days. "Toussaint never stopped beaming."
"They're an odd mix," he said. "But I got the feeling they're going to make it."
"I did, too."
Téos brother obviously adored Tara, who was clearly basking in his love.
Surprisingly, at least to Kate, he lived a fairly normal life as, of all things, a sixth-grade science teacher who'd been moonlighting as a waiter, trying to help raise money to pay off Tara's debt to LeBlanc. A debt that had been forgotten at Nick's pointed suggestion after the tape, which she'd hidden inside the barrel of the Civil War replica cannon at Washington Artillery Park, had mysteriously arrived at the Baton Rouge FBI offices.
The government agent, when arrested, had pleaded guilty to second-degree murder and was already living in his new digs in Angola prison.
After a honeymoon to Haiti, to meet the rest of her new husband's family, Tara would be returning to work at Chelsea Lamoreaux's popular French Quarter restaurant.
"The jumping over the broom was a nice touch. And I'm really glad they decided to forgo the live his-and-her chicken sacrifice."
"You and me both, chère." He kissed her again. Lightly. Quickly. "So, did it give you any ideas?"
"Only that if I ever do get married, I don't think it's going to be beneath a black velvet painting of Isaac Hayes."
"Yeah. That was a little weird," he agreed. "How about on the beach? Or maybe a quaint Mexican wedding chapel?"
She looked up at him. "Was that a proposal?"
He rubbed his jaw. "You know, I think it was."
"I believe a marriage proposal is something a person should take a proper amount of time to think about," she said. "Be very sure about."
Nick thought about Kate wearing a floaty white Mexican lace dress on a sun-drenched Mazatlan beach, with the ocean breeze feathering her bright hair, and her smile wrapping his heart in a shiny bow as she promised to love and honor and—hell, she'd never obey, but he wouldn't have her any other way.
He thought about slipping the ring he'd been carrying around for days onto her finger, thought about carrying her over the threshold int
o the stateroom, taking that lacy dress back off her, discovering what treats the lady had in store for him underneath, and did he mention that he flat out loved the fact that what shoes were to other women, frothy bits of silk and lace lingerie were to his Kate? He doubted she'd ever have enough and hooyah, wasn't that A-okay with him?
He thought about spending the next several months just sailing the seven seas, since he couldn't think of a better way to spend all that money he'd been socking away for years. Neither one of them was sure what they wanted to do next, but he wasn't worried about that, because so long as they were together, whatever they eventually decided would be fine with him.
He thought again about babies. And a dog. Kids needed a dog. He thought about getting old with her, sitting on the deck of whatever boat they'd have in their nineties, watching the sun set, then going below and...
"I think I'm going to be a dirty old man," he said.
"My favorite kind." Her smile told him he didn't have to explain his thought process to her. Because she just got it. Got him. And how cool was that?
"Okay. I've thought about it," he said.
"And?"
"It's a real proposal."
"It's about time. I was beginning to worry that when I told the story of our wedding to our grandchildren, I'd have to admit that I was the one who finally ended up proposing."
"We've only been together for six weeks." Six weeks that seemed like forever. In a good way.
"Six weeks and three days," she corrected.
"You're right. I was remiss."
He turned the ketch westward. "So, next stop, Mexico. And that little chapel on the beach."
"And then the world." Kate laughed, lifting her face to the wind as, together, she and Nick sailed into their future.
* * * THE END * * *
