Devlin and the Deep Blue Sea

by Merline Lovelace

  The acronym sounded as ominous as the tasks its operatives were apparently assigned. Liz knew a little about agencies hidden within departments buried in bureaucracies. Her father had retired from the military while she was still in her early teens, but he'd pulled two tours at the Pentagon. He'd rarely talked about his work there. What he didn't say, she now knew from her own military days, spoke volumes. Even today she couldn't talk about some of the special ops missions she'd flown.

  Still... This stuff was right out of James Bond.

  Chewing on her lower lip, she slanted Devlin a quick glance. He'd traded the black Lycra for a pair of shorts and a shirt borrowed from Adam. In the dappled moonlight filtering through the eucalyptus trees, he looked like what he purported to be—a tough, tanned roughneck.

  His code name fit him like a second skin. He was an oilman first, an undercover operative second. Or was it the other way around? Liz couldn't separate the two. Idly she wondered if he could.

  "You know," she said, breaking the silence, "it might help me understand what you're doing if I knew more than your name, rank and serial number."

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Where you were born might be a good start. Where you went to school. What you do in your down time. Why you list your brother on your next of kin form instead of, oh, say, a spouse. Little things like that."

  "Let's take them in order," he said easily. "I hail from Bartlesville, Oklahoma. Got my undergradu­ate degree from Oklahoma State, my master's from OU. Down time I usually spend trout fishing with my brother in Colorado or tinkering on the '69 'Vette I've been restoring off and on for years. As for a spouse..."

  His tone didn't alter significantly, but Liz caught an echo of old regrets.

  "We called it quits just before I started working on the Corvette."

  "Bad scene?"

  "Could have been worse, I suppose. Time and distance had already numbed most of the hurt. Too many long rotations, too few happy homecomings."

  "Didn't you ever consider taking a job ashore?"

  "I did more than consider it. I sat behind a desk at corporate headquarters for two years. By that time the marriage was beyond saving."

  "No kids?"

  "No kids."

  "Sounds like a lonely life."

  "It is. The divorce rate for oil rig workers is almost as high as it is for military officers." Shifting, he wedged a shoulder against the door and slid an arm along the back of her seat. "What about you and what's-his-name? The sleazy bucket of slime I heard you excoriating the night we met. Why didn't it work for you two?"

  "Same problem. Time. Distance. A Malaysian television reporter."

  "He told you about her, did he? What a jerk."

  She whipped her eyes off the road. "You knew about Bambang?"

  "We had you checked out, remember. OMEGA is nothing if not thorough." His teeth flashed in a quick grin. "I didn't get quite that level of detail, though. Is Bambang really her name?"

  "It is." Liz could laugh about it. Now. "Appropri­ate, wouldn't you say?"

  His chuckles joined hers. She leaned her head back, feeling his arm warm and hard against her neck.

  "I was pretty pissed that night on the beach."

  "I kinda got that impression."

  "Donny not only dumped me, he cleaned out our joint bank account."

  "Sonuvabitch."

  "My sentiments exactly. Funny thing is, he's now decided Bambang isn't the right one. I got an e-mail from him earlier tonight. He wants me to drop every­thing and jump on a plane to Singapore."

  "I hope you suggested he take a flying leap."

  "I wasn't that polite. Or that verbose."

  "Good for you."

  She thought about telling him he'd contributed significantly to her terse reply, but decided against it. No sense feeding the man's ego—or scaring him off. Particularly when she wasn't quite sure yet where things were going between them.

  "Tell me again what the plan is for tomorrow," she said instead. "I want to make sure I have the sequence right."

  Devlin worked his fingers under her hair and made a lazy circle on her neck. The pads were rough, raising little shivers where they rasped against Liz's skin.

  "We've already got Riever—my controller at head­quarters—checking out Emilio. While he's doing that, Maggie and Adam will use the pretext of chartering Emilio's boat to get up close and personal with him."

  "He's scoping out Jorge, too," she murmured, feeling a surge of disloyalty to her friend.

  "Yes, he is. We're counting on you to conduct a more-personal inquiry before you make the run out to the patch. Think you can do it without sending up a red flag? If not, Maggie or Adam can."

  "I'll do it."

  "Good enough. I'll be waiting when you return from the patch to count heads and conduct a visual ID." His fingers lost their gentle touch. "If Jorge or Emilio approaches any of them..."

  "Emilio might," Liz said flatly. "Jorge won't."

  "U.S. passports go for a big chunk of change in this part of the world. Your friend wouldn't be the first man to get caught up in something he couldn't get out of."

  Liz didn't want to think of Jorge or Maria profit­ing from something so evil. Eduardo Alvarez, on the other hand...

  "What about El Tiburon? Who's watching him?"

  "He's covered."

  She mulled that over for a half mile or so. The Pacific shimmered in the moonlight off to her right. Dead ahead, the lights of Piedras Rojas spilled down the black bulk of the hillside to the cliffs.

  "What if Emilio and El Tiburon aren't connect­ed?" she said after a moment. "What if Emilio's in this on his own?"

  "Possible but unlikely. Harry rotated off another rig, remember. That suggests the operation involves more than one or two locals."

  'True."

  She chewed on that while the pinpricks of light grew brighter and closer. Moments later she pulled up under the jacaranda tree and cut the engine.

  "My place is just up those stairs."

  "I'll see you inside."

  Liz hated the relief that rippled through her. Alva­rez's two henchmen had really done a job on her nerves. The fact that she might have a line on the item their boss wanted back so badly only added to her jumpiness.

  Thankfully, no one sprang out from behind the gnarled tree trunk or lurked under the stairs. She made it to her front door unmolested. Once inside, however, that situation changed dramatically.

  Her palm was still slapping against the wall for the light switch when Devlin spun her into his arms. By the time he finished with her mouth and moved to her throat, her heart was pinging against her ribs.

  "Any chance you might change your mind about letting me tuck you in?" he asked, nuzzling the soft spot just under her jaw.

  She didn't want to make it too easy for him. "I have an early flight tomorrow, remember? And you have work to do."

  "I'm a fast tucker-inner."

  Eight

  Devlin was as good as his word. He was fast. Very fast. He waltzed Liz from the front door straight to the bedroom, leaving a trail of discarded clothing along the way. Naked, she sank onto the quilted comforter.

  He started to follow her down but she got her knees under her and rose up to meet him. Chest to chest, mouth to mouth, they strained against each other. His hands and mouth and stinging little nips soon had her in a fever of need.

  She returned the favor, blazing a line of wet kisses and little love bites from his neck to his chest to his belly. He was as taut as a steel hawser when she took him in her mouth.

  Then he pressed her back onto the mattress and returned the favor. He tongued her sensitive flesh, al­ternating the strokes with a wicked suction that soon had Liz panting and arching her back.

  The blinding speed of her climax took her by surprise. Sensation after sensation spiraled up from her belly, fast and powerful and searing in their in­tensity. Her last thought before she threw her head back and let them rip through her was that Devlin mig
ht be handy to have on hand every night. He was one heck of a tucker-inner.

  She admitted as much sometime later, after he'd followed her over the edge. They lay sprawled across the bed, legs tangled, hearts pumping, perspiration cooling on their bodies. The taste of him was still on her lips. His head squashed her left breast. His arm was a deadweight across her middle. Idly, Liz played with the short, sun-streaked hair tickling her skin.

  "That was fast," she remarked. "And pretty damned incredible."

  "You won't get any argument from me." Tighten­ing his arm, he drew her closer. "Why do you think I pulled a straight twenty-four-hour shift? My original plan was to wait until a few hours before dawn before slipping away from the rig. I was sorta hoping this might happen."

  "Hoping, huh?"

  A chuckle rumbled up from his chest, rich and un­repentant. "Okay, praying."

  "I got the impression your early arrival surprised Maggie and Adam."

  I got the same impression."

  Liz trailed a hand over his neck and shoulders, loving the feel of him. So warm, so solid.

  So heavy.

  She wiggled a little, trying to shift his weight. "You're smushing me into the mattress."

  "I like smushing you." Despite the lazy reply, he eased to the side and propped his head in one hand. "I like it a lot, as a matter of fact. Maybe we should think about more smushing when this is over."

  Her heart did a funny little flip, but caution lights started flashing.

  "I'm not sure that's a good idea. We both learned the hard way long-distance relationships don't work."

  "Could be those weren't the right relationships."

  Much as Liz wanted to agree, there was no getting around the reality of their situation. Scooting up against the rickety headboard, she tucked the sheet under her arms.

  "I fly charters for a living. You work offshore oil rigs. When you're not secret agenting, that is, which I suspect occurs on a frequent basis. We'd be lucky if we saw each other once every three or four months."

  "Aero Baja isn't the only charter service handling the big rigs. We should be able to do better than every few months if we pick our locations."

  "Why?" Liz was dead serious now. "What do we have going for us besides good, old-fashioned lust? And why do you think we wouldn't make the same mistakes we made the last time?"

  "I'm older. You're certainly wiser. We ought to be able to stir experience in with lust and come up with... With..."

  "With what?"

  The word love stuck in Devlin's throat. It was too soon. Way too soon. If he laid something like that on Liz now, she wouldn't believe him. Hell, he could hardly believe the potent combination of worry, hunger and anticipation that had brought him off the rig hours ahead of schedule.

  That alone told Devlin he had it bad. That and the fact he had to force himself to leave her, despite all that needed doing between now and dawn.

  He'd fudged the truth a little when he'd de­scribed the upcoming night's activities as mere grunt work. Out of Liz's hearing, he'd shared a quick aside with Adam and arranged a rendezvous here in town. Together they planned to slip aboard Emilio's boat. Devlin suspected Maggie would insist on accompanying her husband, then argue about who should pull sentry duty while the other two poked around. Either way it looked to be a long night.

  "Let's think about it," he suggested as he rolled out of bed. "Maybe we'll come up with the answer by the next time I tuck you in. Sleep well, darlin', and have a safe flight tomorrow."

  Liz didn't think she would sleep at all. She figured worry about Jorge and repeated replays of Devlin's parting remarks would keep her awake through most of the night.

  She dozed off soon after he left, however, and the next thing she knew dawn was filtering through the shutters. After a stand-up breakfast of coffee, juice and a power bar, she jumped in the Jeep and wove through the still-sleepy streets to the airfield.

  Aero Baja's chief mechanic was already there. Zipped into a clean set of coveralls, he was gassing up the Ranger. The familiar stink of aviation fuel hung like a cloud on the hot morning air.

  '"Morning, Jorge."

  "Good morning, Lizetta." Smiling, he squinted up at the cloudless azure sky. "It is a good day for a run, yes?"

  "Looks like. I'll go check weather and file the flight plan."

  He had the bird gassed and ready to go when she returned. They fell into their normal ritual, with Liz performing a careful walk-around, Jorge marking off the checklist items as she completed them. They'd progressed from the front-engine coupling to the rear rotor before Liz dragged in a deep breath and launched her casual inquisition.

  "I was surprised to hear Emilio is taking charters. I thought he was doing pretty well on his tuna runs."

  "You know how it is. One day is good, the next not so good."

  "I hear some of the tuna captains supplement their income by running drugs."

  "I hear that, as well."

  She feigned a surprised innocence. "But not Emilio. Surely he wouldn't get mixed up with some­thing like that...would he?"

  Mustache twitching, Jorge worked his mouth from side to side for several seconds. With each passing second, the deadweight in the pit of Liz's stomach grew heavier. Oh, God! Surely Jorge couldn't know of or be involved in drug smuggling. Or worse!

  "I do not think Emilio would do such a thing," he said after a long moment. "But Maria..."

  "Yes?"

  "She says her cousin always wishes for more than he has." His burly shoulders lifted in a shrug. "So do we all, eh? Maria wishes for a new refrigerator. My grandson wants this thing called a Gamebox. You save to buy a Sikorsky so you may start your own charter service."

  "What about you, Jorge? What do you wish for?"

  His mustaches lifted in a wide grin. "I wish to be your chief mechanic."

  "You got it," she promised with a ridiculous feeling of relief. She hadn't wormed much out of Jorge, but it was enough to ease the awful burden of suspicion. Whatever his wife's cousin might or might not be up to, it couldn't involve the mechanic.

  "Let's get the cargo loaded before our passen­gers arrive."

  She lifted off an hour later with the palletized cargo strapped down and the replacement crew of six buckled into the side-facing web seats.

  AM-237 rose up to greet her, looming out of the sea like some mythical creature with the two giant cranes for arms and orange fuel flanges for a tail. Liz had radioed ahead to advise the crane operators she was on final approach so they could swing the monster arms out of the way. They were clear when she swooped in, timed her descent to the rise and fall of the platform and touched down.

  The crew members coming off their month-long rotation were lined up on the pipe deck and eager to depart. Liz reviewed the manifest while the quarter­master and his folks unloaded the cargo. Paying close attention to both names and faces, she checked IDs against the computer-generated manifest.

  One was an American, on his way home to San Diego. Two were foreign born but had visas granting them entry into the States. The other three planned to head straight for La Paz and connecting interna­tional flights to Europe and the Middle East.

  Her chest tight, Liz screened the American care­fully. Was he a target? Would he make it home safely or disappear somewhere en route, as Devlin's friend had? Would he even make it out of Piedras Rojas?

  Devlin had assured her each of the six would have close surveillance on every leg of their journey. Still, Liz had to swallow the warning that hovered in the back of her throat as she watched them strap in.

  She was about to climb back into the cockpit and power up when Conrad Wallace heaved his bulk up the ladder and onto the helideck.

  "Hey! Liz!"

  The brisk breeze off the ocean whipped his thin brown hair around his head like a hyperactive dust mop. Hanging on to the lifeline, the AmMex rep inched his way across the pad. Liz hoped to heck he hadn't decided to make a last-minute run back to dry land. She'd have to recalculate her fuel load
and re­distribute some weight.

  "Almost missed you," he huffed. "I was down in the galley."

  Swilling coffee and pontificating to anyone who'd listen, Liz guessed.

  "What's up?"

  "I need to mail this letter."

  "Sorry, the mail pouch is sealed and I've already signed for it."

  "I know, I know," Wallace groused. "The mail clerk sent the damned thing up before I got my data together. Just drop this envelope in the mail slot at the terminal."

  She took the envelope, noting that it was ad­dressed to some company she'd never heard of with a post office box in La Paz. She wasn't going to risk her license and her livelihood by slipping something through customs, though, even if it came from the company rep.

  "I can't just drop it in the mail slot. It'll have to go through security screening."

  "Sure, sure. No problem."

  "See you next run, Conrad."

  Nodding, he waved to the men inside the chopper and backtracked along the lifeline. Liz stuffed the envelope in her leg pocket, strapped in and flipped to the power-up checklist on her kneeboard.

  Jorge was waiting when she touched down. Liz left him to secure the aircraft and hefted the mail pouch. Hard on the heels of her passengers, she entered the terminal.

  The usual customs official processed them in, assisted by a second official Liz didn't recognize. She stood in line with the others, surreptitiously scanning the room. She knew Devlin was conducting a visual ID, probably via the camera mounted high on one wall. She could feel his eyes on her as she plopped the mail pouch onto the counter.

  "Here you are. Oh, and this needs to go with it."

  Wallace's letter joined the pouch on the dusty tile. The official gave the envelope a desultory glance.

  "St, I will screen it."

  Liz left the six oilmen waiting impatiently while the officials pawed through their bags and checked their papers. Exiting the customs area, she started across the terminal for the cafe. She'd taken only a few steps when a bent, arthritic woman swathed in layers of black hobbled forward. She clutched a knobby walking stick that tapped out an unsteady beat with each step.