Echoes

by Laura K. Curtis

  Incredibly, Mac laughed. “You think I give a damn about either of them? Nash Harper deserted me in the middle of a fucking firefight. Typical fucking executive officer. Hundred percent pure bureaucratic candy-ass.” He struggled to a kneeling position, every move a visible agony.

  “Yeah? Well, what about her?” John countered. “You came all the way back here to rescue her.”

  “Damn, Lewis, you always were a moron. I don’t care about this one any more than I cared about your sister. I wanted in on the action. Do I look like the kind of guy who’s cut out to spend the day catering to the whims of trust-fund babies at some fancy resort?”

  It had to be an act. Had to. She couldn’t have misjudged him so badly, could she? But, God knew, her judgment sucked. She’d misjudged her father, misjudged herself, misjudged John Lewis . . . Why should Mac be any different? He’d told her about his addiction to adrenaline, how he’d married for it, lived for it. He hadn’t lied in that respect. And yet, she’d allowed herself to believe he might feel something for her, even if it was just responsibility. Stupid, Callie. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She forced herself away from that line of thought to pay attention to the men.

  “I’d never have let you in on my operation!”

  “Let me? Boy, who do you think you are? You’re entirely expendable. I married your sister. Once I’d made contact with Falcone myself, I’d have knocked you off and inherited both the hotel and the side business.”

  “In that case,” her captor interjected smoothly, “why don’t you tell us how to access the secure space in the wine cellar in which Mr. Lewis is keeping Mr. Falcone’s merchandise. I am sure it would be seen as an act of good faith.” John’s face reddened and Callie tensed. If they didn’t need John, they didn’t need her.

  “I wish I could,” said Mac, and her heart settled a little. “I’d hoped to spend some time cracking it, but Nikki disappeared and the gendarmes were everywhere and then Miss Pearson showed up and caused all sorts of new problems. Still, I am sure I can come to some kind of agreement with Mr. Falcone regarding employment.”

  “Dream on,” Blondie snorted. “All he wants from you is Nash Harper.”

  “And I want my life. And a job. Sounds like a match made in heaven.” Mac grinned and Callie had to turn away. If it was an act, it was a damned good one. But it couldn’t be true. She couldn’t have been so wrong, no matter how badly her judgment sucked. She had to stay alive, stick it out until she could find out the truth.

  “Right.” Blondie turned to the man standing next to John. “Pablo, take Mr. Lewis down to the Paradis. Get the merchandise stowed and safe, and stay with it. Call in and we’ll come to you.”

  “Joey, are you sure this is a good idea?” Lizard Eyes prodded her in the back with the gun, and she stepped forward.

  “Who’s in charge here, Rahim? I say they go, so they go.” He turned to John. “I said, ‘Go!’” Pablo and John left, John sputtering the whole time about how they’d better keep their word and how important he was to Falcone’s business.

  “Bring her over here,” Joey ordered Rahim. “I have a few questions for her. You can take this asshole to the kitchen while she answers.”

  “She’s taped over the collar,” Rahim warned. He moved the gun from her forehead to her back and began prodding her down the stairs. “Some of the functions may not work.”

  “I told you, you rely on technology too much. Besides, Lewis has the remote.” He smiled, and Callie’s stomach turned over. “The lady and I are going to have us a good, old-fashioned party, and she’s going to help us out.”

  When they reached the ground floor, Rahim pushed her forward. Joey reached out and tucked his fingers into the front of her sweatpants to pull her close enough for him to slap a pair of zip cuffs on her. He ran the gun down her chest, then untied the drawstring of the pants.

  “Go on,” he ordered Rahim, “take him to the kitchen. See if you can contact the boss and let him know where we stand.”

  For a moment, Callie thought she saw a spark behind Mac’s eyes, but then it disappeared, replaced by the same bland cruelty visible in Joey’s.

  “C’mon, man, you’re not going to let me watch? I was hoping to get a piece of her myself, but you kept us too busy for that kind of fun, so you could at least let a brother get a vicarious thrill.”

  Crudely stated as it was, the message came through: Mac was lying. And if he was lying about having slept with her, chances were he was lying about the reason he’d come to the island as well. Maybe she hadn’t misjudged him so badly after all.

  ***

  Mac watched expressions flit across Callie’s face out of the corner of his good eye, thankful both Rahim and Joey had focused their attention on him instead of her. She’d never make it as an actress, which was why he’d kept his gaze fixed on Joey while lying about his reasons for returning to St. Martin. The words would hurt her, and he couldn’t afford the distraction of witnessing her pain. This was bad enough, this inability to reach for her, to reassure her.

  Joey appeared to be in charge, though Mac bet Rahim had orders to let him believe that to be the case. He turned his body slightly to appeal to both men, ignoring the grinding pain that reminded him one of his ribs was broken. He’d heard the damned thing go and was just happy it hadn’t punctured a lung when it did. One among many things he owed Joey for.

  While he spoke, he kept his hands perfectly still, not wanting the movement of the muscles in his arms to show that he was slowly cutting himself free of the restraints they’d applied to his wrists. Thank goodness for fancy kitchens with paring knives no one used or allowed to get dull. He’d secreted the little weapon in the waistband at the small of his back, hoping not to stab himself with it accidentally. A cursory pat-down hadn’t revealed it.

  “C’mon. You guys have me trussed up like a damn goose. What harm can I do? Let a guy have a little fun.”

  “Look,” Callie said, her eyes wide. Mac feared her shaking might be a bit over the top, but Falcone’s goons seemed to eat it up. And when they looked at her, he began sawing away once again at the bindings. “I’ll tell you whatever you want. You don’t have to—”

  Joey laughed. “I know I don’t have to. But, see, I want to.” He tossed his weapon to the couch behind him and reached out, grabbed the neck of her T-shirt, and tore it straight down.

  Mac’s hands clenched so tightly he nearly snapped the handle of the knife, but he forced himself to remain still. Tears dripped down Callie’s face, and he beat the rage back with skill and determination of years of undercover work. He could not let it show. His hands were still bound, and if he acted too soon he’d lose his shot.

  Callie tried to curl over herself and turn to the side, but Joey slapped her across the face. Then he reached out and grabbed her breast. When she tried to pull away, he slammed her up against the wall next to where Mac knelt and twisted her bare nipple between his fingers. Rahim kept the gun pointed at Mac, barely glancing at the violence.

  “You get much primo American white meat like this where you live?” Joey pulled the torn shirt from Callie’s body, inviting the other man to look. “I can’t imagine choosing to stay where women keep all their goodies hidden.”

  Rahim switched his focus—and aim—to Callie, examined her critically for a moment, then shrugged. “My wife is not to be seen by other men. But even in my country, there are plenty of whores like this one who can be viewed by all who wish it.”

  Mac felt the last bit of plastic give on the word “whores,” pressed his feet into the wall, and launched himself forward on the word “it”. His shoulder connected with Rahim’s breastplate, and he heard a gasping exhalation and a clatter as the gun went flying. Behind him, he heard Joey scream “Bitch!” and assumed Callie had gotten in at least one good strike.

  Rahim rolled to the side, hand reaching for the gun, but Mac landed on him. He’d intended to grab the ma
n’s head and slam it into the floor, but Rahim forced his palm up and into Mac’s broken rib. Black spots danced before his eyes as he gasped for breath. Damn the man for paying attention to which side Joey had kicked. Still on top of the smaller man, Mac took advantage of his greater weight to keep Rahim from going after the gun. He rolled slightly to the side, which—while it put pressure on the broken rib—trapped Rahim’s arm and prevented another strike.

  Rahim reached up with his free arm, aiming a punch at Mac’s temple. Mac angled his head away, then slammed his forearm down on Rahim’s throat. He felt cartilage crush, heard the trachea collapse, and the man began to suffocate.

  Mac turned his attention to Joey and Callie. She must have attacked the man the instant Mac had lunged for Rahim, or else Joey would have gone for his gun. Now, though he had her in his grip, she struggled forcefully against him, not allowing him to gain enough control to reach for the weapon. At the moment, he was holding her off the ground, one arm around the plastic collar, the other around her waist, as she kicked backward at his knees and shins and twisted her head to bite at every inch of exposed flesh on his arm.

  Mac leapt over the back of the couch and scooped up the Glock. Aimed it.

  “Drop her.”

  “Like you’re going to shoot me while I’m holding her?” Blood streamed from Joey’s nose, and his words came out fuzzy. “I don’t fucking think so.” He began dragging Callie in the direction of Rahim’s pistol.

  Callie dropped her head forward, then propelled it back, smashing him in the nose. He jerked away, but she rapped him solidly in the chin. Mac grinned. She was a fighter, his girl.

  “Me, I can wait all day,” Mac said. “Doesn’t look as if you have that kind of time.”

  With a grunt, Joey thrust Callie toward Mac and dove for the weapon on the floor.

  Mac shot him in the head before he could reach it, then turned to Callie.

  ***

  Oh, god. Mac had killed him. Killed him. Just like that.

  Callie couldn’t take her eyes off the carnage, the remains of a man. Another she’d heard choking to death mere minutes before. He was silent now. A third had died within seconds of entering the house. Was this the truth of Mac Brody? She forced herself to look at him.

  Blood dripped down the side of his face, and his eye had swollen nearly shut. He put down the gun and walked to where the shears she’d stabbed Rahim with had fallen, and for a split second, images of horror-movie villains lumbered through her head. Run! screamed half her brain, but the other half would not obey. He had saved her. Whatever other truths the day might reveal, he had saved her from both Joey and John Lewis.

  “Turn around, sugar,” he said, his tone soft, persuasive, gentle. “Let me cut those things off you.” A single snip released her. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, trying to ignore the acrid smell of death. Then she turned to face him again.

  He was pulling his shirt over his head. As he did, she saw, beneath the smooth, sexy movement of muscle and sinew, the displaced awkward sharpness of broken bone. When he reached out to hand her the T-shirt, his face had paled beneath the island tan.

  At first, she didn’t even realize what he wanted from her. She’d become so caught up in the violence and its aftermath that her own nudity meant nothing. As soon as she remembered it, however, she felt a fierce blush rise to her cheeks, and she looked away from him as she accepted the shirt and pulled it over her head.

  When she was covered, he drew her close.

  “Your ribs—” She tried to resist, but he refused to let her.

  “I’ll be fine. I need this, sugar. Just for a minute. Okay?”

  What could she say? She needed it, too, needed to be reassured that there was more to the man than the killing machine responsible for the bodies strewn about the floor. She slid her arms about his waist and pressed her ear to the steady thud of his heart.

  “I have to patch myself up and then go help Nash,” Mac said after far too short a time. “Let me get my pack from the kitchen; then we can see what Lewis has in the way of first aid.”

  “I’ll show you.” After they retrieved the leather satchel from the kitchen, she took him by the hand and led him to the office, then into the lab.

  “Oh, hell,” he said as he surveyed the damage. This time when he reached for her, his hands shook. “Oh, sugar, I am sorry. We never should have let you go with him. I never should have let you go with him.”

  Callie looked up at him, hearing the questions he was afraid to ask.

  “It wasn’t your decision to make, Mac; it was mine. And I got away.” She rested a hand on his cheek, turning his face away from the table and the bone saw and other implements that lay scattered around it. “I got away, and you came for me. That’s what matters.”

  He swallowed, then nodded. As she watched, the sorrow on his face transmuted to rage. If she were a better person, she thought, she’d try to damp that anger. But the sight of the table brought back all her fear, all her helplessness, all her pain, and she couldn’t force herself to care if—or how—John Lewis died.

  “Let’s get this show on the road,” he said.

  Callie pulled out ACE bandages and followed Mac’s instructions on how to bind his ribs. Then she cut away the blood-soaked leg of his jeans below the knee.

  “It’s just a graze, but I’ll get it cleaned up and stitched properly later on,” Mac said, hearing her gasp. “For now, just slap some antibiotic and gauze on it. No time for anything else.”

  When she had done as directed, Mac led her out of the house to the driveway, where two Jeeps marked as belonging to S&S Security had been parked angling away from the house. He pulled a couple of tiny tools from the satchel and went to work on the door.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’m taking you down to the docks so I can drop you with Travis and you’ll be safe. Nash got his hands on the plans for Lewis’s new wine cellar, so he went to try to liberate the merchandise Falcone had stored there. What he has is far too dangerous to allow it to be sold on the black market.” The door popped open, and Mac leaned through to unlock the passenger side.

  “You’re saying he really did desert you in the middle of a firefight? I just figured he was never here.” Callie couldn’t get her head around it.

  “He—we—prioritized. You, me, neither of us is as important as that shipment. We figured if all the action was up here, he could get in and out of the hotel with relatively little fuss. He doesn’t need to retrieve the weapons; he just needs to move them so they won’t be where Falcone expects them. As long as Falcone can’t get to them, Nash can send a retrieval force in for them later. Plus, there’s only one that really matters.” Mac hustled her around the other side of the Jeep. “But he wasn’t counting on Lewis and Pablo arriving late to the party.”

  “Then you go. Leave me here. I’ll find my own way to the dock. I know Travis’s boat. You need to move fast.”

  “Like hell. Yeah, I want to get over there, but Nash is a big boy. He’s been taking care of himself a long time.” Mac pulled her to him for a quick, hard kiss, then raised his hands to her shoulders and pushed her down into the passenger seat. “But I am not leaving you alone. Not now, not ever. Got it?”

  “Then we go to Nash together. He saved my life. Saved Erin’s life . . . didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, he did. She’s in the hospital in New York, but she’s going to be fine.”

  “Then I owe him. So I’m not going to hide out on Travis’s boat while he’s in trouble. I couldn’t live with myself.”

  “Callie—”

  “Don’t. I want to see this through.”

  “Yeah, okay.” He slammed the door and tore around to the other side to hop into the driver’s seat. He connected a couple of wires beneath the steering column, and the engine rumbled to life. The road remained empty, the sound of the Jeep jolting along fa
r too fast exceptionally loud in the morning air as they drove, until a man in the uniform of the gendarmes stepped out of the Paradis gatehouse, aimed a wicked-looking weapon at them, and shouted for them to halt. Mac ignored him.

  “Get down!” He shoved Callie down into a crouch beneath the dashboard as the Jeep crashed through the ornamental wrought-iron gates to the hotel. The gendarme—or whoever he was—followed, shouting and shooting, but they lost him when the driveway curved. Callie pushed herself back up into her seat and held on to the roll bar as they tilted at an alarming angle.

  “Jesus!” Mac slammed on the brakes and swerved to avoid a couple in matching jogging suits exiting the Paradis’s main building. The man shouted and raised his fist, but Mac ignored him, maneuvering the car around the side of the building. “I hate ops with civilians. These people are going to get themselves killed, and there’s fuck-all I can do about it.”

  Callie started to answer, to reassure him, but her head hit the roof of the Jeep, cracking her teeth together, as Mac jumped the curb, ignoring the path in favor of cutting across land to reach their destination more quickly. They rounded the corner of the hotel and found themselves confronted by an olive-skinned man holding an AK-47. He aimed at them and Mac gunned the engine. The solid thunk of flesh against metal turned Callie’s stomach as the guy flew up and onto the Jeep’s hood. His face pressed for a minute against the windshield, dead eyes permanently open in a kind of shocked horror, before Mac braked and he slid to the ground.

  Mac jumped from the vehicle, tucked the pistol he’d taken from the house into the back of his jeans, and retrieved the machine gun from the guy’s twitching body. “C’mon,” he said, “he won’t have been alone. We have to find Nash.”

  Callie slid from her seat, the Glock that Mac had given her at the house an unwieldy weight in her hand. But the body lying before the Jeep put paid to any thought she might have had about leaving it behind.

  “Stay close.” Mac edged forward, staying pressed up against the wall of the hotel, and she followed. He ducked his head around quickly, then pulled back. “Door’s clear. But I wouldn’t expect more than one outside anyway. Inside’s more practical for an ambush. Wait here.”