by Nina Bruhns
He nodded more firmly, and pulled the rope toward the rail. She pulled it back, swam up in his face, and shook her head again. Even through her mask he could see she had that stubborn set to her eyes. If he insisted on clipping her, she’d just wait until he swam away, then unclip herself and follow him in. And probably lose herself in the liquid muck. Goddamn it.
Suddenly, a long serpentine shape uncoiled itself from the railing and slithered right past them. Rebel squeaked and flipped away, grabbing onto his arm. Her eyes widened at him. Oops. Had he forgotten to mention the abundance of brown eels in the bay? Rebel was not a fan of snakes or snakelike creatures of any variety. Her gloved fingers dug into him as she steadied herself. Then, with a firm finality he couldn’t miss, she snapped the clip back onto his vest.
He exhaled a long stream of bubbles. He so did not want to go in there with Rebel in tow. But he knew a losing battle when he saw one.
Against his better judgment, he guided them to the wheelhouse and ran the spotlight over what was left of it. The remains projected out from the upwardly angled deck like a ghostly cable car going up a mountainside. Most of it had been blown away, and anything it might have contained was now scattered along the bottom. They’d deal with all that on a later dive.
He then led her over to the gaping opening of the main salon and stopped to assess.
Amid the sounds of grinding metal, the carcass of the yacht rocked eerily back and forth, pushed by the strength of the current. The salon doors, along with strips of the hull that had exploded loose, flapped slowly up and down, like skeletons waving at them in slow motion.
Every instinct screamed at him not to go in. Fuck. He took several calming breaths and tried to relax. But it was no use. He could feel his heart rate kick up several notches.
Using his hands to show Rebel what he wanted, he jockeyed himself above her so they’d enter the main body of the wreck as a unit. It would get tricky if there were any shallow hatches to go through inside, but he’d just have to stay alert.
They swam in.
Their mostly-by-feel inspection of the large salon revealed that much of the upper structure was still intact. They also found a dozen or so weapons spilling helter-skelter from a cabinet: Kalashnikovs, PKs, even a handheld RPG. Not necessarily hard evidence of terrorism, but not items your average tourist yacht would have onboard. He felt they were definitely on the right track.
Gingerly, so as not to disturb the delicate balance of the wreck, they gathered everything into a couple of large net bags attached by a line to the Stormy Lady above, which they’d brought along to haul up evidence in. The guns went in one; several notebooks from a shelf and some disintegrating papers and files from a drawer went in the other. Everything they thought might contain clues to the terrorists’ plans and associates was going to the surface with them.
But they found nothing that remotely resembled a trigger. At least, not in the salon.
Rebel tugged on their tether to get his attention. She pointed questioningly to the galley-way leading down to the lower level—presumably the bedrooms. A likely spot for a safe to be hidden, possibly containing the terrorists’ orders from what was left of the organization’s leadership, notes on the planned D.C. attack, information on their al Sayika contacts, and with any luck a laptop or other computer that might contain all of the above.
Shit.
Alex knew they had to go down there. But the sight of the tight, impossibly dark, cell-like stairway made his nerves jangle like electrodes on a frog. Or on human flesh. He battled back his reaction and slammed a lid on it. Jesus. This was not the time for that baby-ass PTSD bullshit.
He gave a curt nod and led the way. Down into the abyss.
Rebel stayed close. He could feel the tension in her hands as she clung to his thigh and they swam, squeezing down the narrow passage together.
Halfway down, the wreck groaned like a banshee and suddenly shifted.
Rebel yelped and they both tried to brace themselves, but were swept downward, tumbling and rolling in a hard surge of water that rushed down through the stairwell. The flashlight was torn from Alex’s hand. It went spinning away, banged against something solid, and instantly snapped off. They plunged into total darkness.
All at once he felt a tangle of long, slithering bodies dart over his head and around his shoulders, seeking to escape the turbulence. Rebel let out a bubbly scream. She jerked away from him, batting at the fat knot of eels with her hands, twisting and churning madly with her flippers to get away. But she was still tethered to him, so he was yanked along after her. She slammed into a wall. He slammed into her. The wreck rocked violently. She screamed again, but this time it was strangled, like she was choking. He couldn’t hear her bubbles anymore. Fuck!
He reached out and grabbed for her. She fought him. Banged into the opposite wall. He followed, knocking the wind out of himself. The boat tipped the other way, gaining momentum in its fall. She twisted, grabbed in panic at his air tank, searching blindly for his spare regulator. He caught her around the waist and ripped off his mouthpiece, fed her precious air. She gulped at it greedily, her body shaking like a Chihuahua.
As he pulled the regulator back to his own mouth, the vessel shuddered violently. The sickening grind of metal and the snap-crackle-pop of fiberglass breaking up confirmed the worst. The boat was going end over end.
The water in the passageway churned and roiled. Like ragdolls they were thrown into a small, enclosed space. Before he could react, a door slammed shut on them. He felt the walls close in, pinning them inside what felt like a storage bin. Or a coffin. His pulse skyrocketed. A sudden violent shudder of claustrophobia froze the breath in his lungs. His mind screamed.
Oh, Jesus God. No!
The shrieks of metal around him morphed into the desperate cries of his dying Zero Unit comrades.
Not now! Not. Now! He had to help Rebel!
But the unrelenting panic overtook him in an avalanche of dread. And once again he was surrounded by the hot, suffocating air of a desert filled with nothing but pain and agony. He lashed out, groping.
Where was his angel?
He tried to call to her. But for some reason he couldn’t get any air. He was choking . . . And the villagers were grabbing at him. Seizing his arms and clawing at his ankles. He fought them. Tried to twist away. But it was no use. Someone had him around the neck.
Oh, fuck. He was a dead man!
TUMBLING head over heels in the low storage closet they’d somehow landed in, Rebel struggled not to suck down any more putrid bay water as she warded off Alex’s panicked blows.
She needed air! And so did he. She couldn’t hear any bubbles at all in the churning darkness. Just the rush of water past her ears, the battering of their limbs against the walls . . . and the loud thundering of her heart.
With a bone-jarring thud, the prow of the boat crashed to the muddy bottom of the bay and bounced.
Please, lord, help me, she prayed.
Yesterday on her recertification dives, retrieving her lost regulator had been so easy. Tilt and sweep—the standard safety maneuver every diver had to learn and practice. And there it had always been, in her hand, as it was supposed to be. But now all she’d gotten were handfuls of Alex’s arms or legs or neck. Which had turned him into a wild man, kicking and flailing and bringing them both to the brink of drowning, since they were still tethered together. He was obviously in the throes of one of his PTSD episodes and had no idea of the mortal danger he was putting them both in.
Please, God, don’t let us die.
The yacht crashed down on the bottom with a final booming thwack. Rebel spun around in their tight space and tried again. For the last time, if she didn’t get air in the next few seconds. Lungs burning and on the verge of bursting, she tipped sideways and focused every cell in her body on locating the floating tentacles of the regulator’s octopus.
There!
Her fingertips grazed the illusive air tube. Desperately, she closed her finger
s around it, scrabbled up to the end, and mashed the regulator into her mouth. She sucked in deep, beautiful lungfuls of air. And almost passed out from every kind of relief.
Behind her, Alex started to choke. She spun back to him, took another deep breath and stuck the apparatus through the darkness toward the sound, praying his long-honed diver’s instincts would kick in despite his mind being on a different—dry—continent. She was rewarded. He seized the regulator greedily and put it to his mouth, oblivious to her need for it. Which was how she knew he was still lost in the grips of the flashback. Lucid, he would let himself die before putting her in jeopardy.
She decided not to fight him over it. She’d lose. Now that he was relatively calm, she reached over his shoulder and, careful not to grab him, felt for the octopus atop his tank. This time she easily found it, brought the apparatus to his lips, and gently switched it for her own. Being tethered to a man in the middle of a psychotic break was not ideal. But at least they were both breathing. And she hadn’t died of a heart attack. Yet.
But now what?
Alex had squeezed himself back into a corner of the box and drawn himself into a ball, nursing the air like a baby at his mother’s breast. During the time Alex had been recovering at Haven Oaks, she’d seen him go through some awful flashbacks, and learned from Rainie not to touch him then for her own safety. Firmly repeating his name would usually snap him out of it. Eventually. But underwater, that was not an option. She’d just have to wait it out, until he emerged on his own.
Meanwhile . . . She wasn’t about to sit cowering in a closet waiting for her man to rescue her. Maybe she should continue the search on her own.
Gingerly, she felt along the sides of the storage area until she found the hatch. Luckily the latch worked from both directions. Popping open the door, she held very still and listened intently. No eerie creaks or groans. No grinding metal. If anything, the wreck sounded more stable than before. Of course, it was hard to tell for sure in total darkness. There was only one way to find out.
She unhooked the line that tethered her to Alex, gathered her courage, and swam out into the black void.
THIRTEEN
THE scent of sex perfumed the bed like peach blossom nectar. Memories of making love with Gina last night filled Gregg’s mind as he woke.
Had it really happened? It must have. The proof was curled naked in his arms, clinging to him in her sleep like she was afraid he’d disappear.
She’d said she believed him. A complete turnaround. What had changed her mind? What had made her surrender her fear and come back to him?
He had no clue. But damn, was he glad. Not only because she believed in his innocence—though that was huge—but . . . as much as he was a lone wolf, he really liked being with Gina. He felt better around her. More . . . complete, or happy, or . . . accepted. That was it. He liked her unreserved acceptance of him, despite his many flaws. Although he knew his job was important and necessary, and made the world a much better place, sometimes it felt like he was fighting a hopeless battle all by himself. The fact that Gina trusted him, and believed in him, made all the difference. Like he mattered.
It was a strange feeling, and one he didn’t entirely trust. But for now, it felt . . . good. He’d wanted it back. More desperately than he wanted to admit, even to himself.
He was also grateful for the turnaround for an entirely different reason. There were important things that needed doing, and it would be impossible to bring an unwilling woman along with him to do them. This way was a lot easier. Hell, maybe she’d even help him.
Gina stirred, burrowing deeper into his embrace. “Don’t go,” she murmured against his chest, as though she knew what he was thinking.
His body quickened fiercely as her soft curves pressed into him. “I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her, gritting his teeth against the urge to turn her over and take her. It was so hard not to do what came so naturally to him. Not to revert to their old patterns—back before she’d been tortured and beaten to within an inch of her life. Back when she was attracted to the kind of raw, edgy power sex that was so much a part of him.
She wouldn’t want that now. She’d freak out and shut down. And he couldn’t blame her. He was the one who was twisted, who because of his background had an unnatural need to dominate his partner. It was his needs that were out of line, not hers.
“It’s okay. You can take me,” she said, feeling his body’s craving and knowing him so well. “If you want to.”
“You know I want you, sweet thing. But we’ve finally gotten to a good place, and I don’t want to scare you away again.”
She lifted her head and peered up at him. “I’m not afraid of you, Gregg. Not anymore. I know you’re not out to kill me. I had it all wrong about you. I’m so sorry.”
He pulled her up for a kiss, gazing into her beautiful brown eyes, so full of hurt and vulnerability. “No. I’m the one who’s sorry. I got fooled by the bad guys, and you almost died because of it. I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
She was quiet for a moment, then said, “You couldn’t have known what they were planning, Gregg. You don’t even know who was behind the kidnapping. Do you?”
He shook his head. “I thought I did. I’m just not so sure anymore.”
He told her about what had happened with Colonel Blair, and the dubious assertion his former commander had made about who was involved.
By the time he’d finished, Gina’s jaw had dropped nearly to her feet. “He wants you to believe the U.S. government helped foreign terrorists mount an attack on our own country? The Pentagon? My God. The old man’s senile, or on drugs.”
“Agreed. That sort of thing only happens in Kiefer Sutherland flicks. Still . . .”
Her jaw dropped even farther. “You can’t be taking this seriously.”
He pushed out a breath. “No, not directly. But . . .” He rubbed a hand over the short spikes of his hair.
“But what?”
“Baby, right now it’s our only lead. We know the traitor helping al Sayika has to be someone either in Zero Unit or well-connected on the chain of command. And like it or not, that chain of command ultimately leads to Washington, D.C., and the Pentagon. What if the impossible really is true?”
She uncurled herself and sat up, looking at him with an incredulous expression. “You really want me to believe my own government conspired with terrorists to have me kidnapped?”
He lifted her fingers and kissed her knuckles. “Baby, that’s exactly what you thought happened when your friend Rainie disappeared last year. Remember? It’s why you kept calling CIA and threatening to give the story to the newspapers.”
She looked pained and took a deep, shuddering breath. “You’re right. And maybe if I’d done it, if I’d stood up to them, I wouldn’t have been kidnapped and tortured for three months.”
Damn. This was not where he’d meant to take this conversation.
He sat up, too, and put his hands on either side of her face. “Then they’d just have kidnapped someone else. Someone who might not have survived, who maybe wasn’t as smart as you so they couldn’t engineer that non-replicator gene into the virus, and millions of people might be dead. But instead, they’re still alive today thanks to your strength, your intelligence, and your amazing presence of mind.”
As he spoke, her eyes filled with tears. Her chin trembled. “Or maybe that person wouldn’t have been as weak as I am, and committed suicide rather than do what those animals wanted.”
“No. Gina, no.” He gathered her in his arms. “I know a thing or two about blaming yourself for others’ actions. You can’t think that way. Thanks to you, not a single person died in that attack, or afterward. Baby, you are a goddamn hero and don’t you ever forget it.”
She glanced away and tears trickled down her cheeks. “I really wish I could believe that,” she whispered.
“Believe it.” He fingered a lock of her hair. “And sweet thing, I don’t know what I would have done if they’d
killed you, but it wouldn’t have been pretty.”
“Oh, Gregg.” She threw her arms around him and broke down. Her big, wet tears trailed down his shoulder straight to his heart. “You really have been watching over me this whole time,” she said with a shuddering sob. “God, how could I ever have thought—”
“Hush, now. Never mind. You were in very good company.”
She clutched him harder. “It’s all my fault. I told anyone who’d listen it was you who’s the traitor. I should call STORM. Let everyone know—”
“No!” He gripped her arms. Pulling her back, he drilled her with a look. “Contact no one, Gina. Not STORM, not the FBI. No one. Not until we figure out who the real traitor is.”
“But—”
“I can’t take the chance. If they catch me, they’ll lock me up in some top secret, high-security prison and throw away the key. Trust me; I’ll never see daylight again.”
“But if I tell them it wasn’t you, if I explain—”
“I’ve been framed good and solid, Gina. Everyone will think I’ve gotten to you. Used your old feelings for me to influence your opinion.” Her expression fell, and he knew she saw he was right. “Baby, if I’m put away, no one will be looking for the real bad guy. And you’ll be in even worse danger than now because I won’t be there to protect you.”
“What about Alex and Kick? I know for a fact they are just as serious about finding this al Sayika mole as we are. Not to mention Marc Lafayette, who killed the bastard who kidnapped me. They’ll believe me if I tell them it’s not you.”
“Don’t even think about it. Even if they do believe you, who’s to say there isn’t an informant inside STORM, too?”
“But—”
“No buts, Gina. I mean it. We’re on our own in this. Okay?”
She reluctantly nodded. “I still think it’s a mistake not to trust Alex and Kick.”
Gregg drew her into his arms. “Baby, you don’t stay alive working as an operator for as long as I have without following your gut instincts. And right now my instincts are telling me one thing loud and clear.”
