by Ronie Kendig
“Stay with me, Khalid. No naps. This is the ultimate test, got it?” She looked to where the ocean kissed the horizon. Mumbai sparkled in the distance. So close, yet so far away it might as well be a million miles. She could only hope they would be found in time.
“You just wanted to kiss me,” Khalid mumbled.
Shiloh jerked toward him, frowning. “What?”
“CPR. I didn’t need it …” He coughed. “You just wanted to kiss me.”
With her hand pressed to his forehead, she smiled. “Ah. Just as I expected—delirious with fever.”
A half-cocked grin split his lips.
She tried to swallow. He had been her rock for the last four years. Despite the tight-knit relationship between their parents, Khalid and Shiloh had forged their own friendship in the fires of college life. They’d been inseparable since he came to America to study.
How long would it take Search and Rescue to locate her signal? What if the SAR team didn’t make it in time? If this were American waters, it would only be a matter of minutes, but in the Arabian Sea …
Shiloh's head dropped to her chest. She had to believe everything would be fine. They’d be found, a doctor would tend Khalid's wounds, he’d recover, and then they’d be off to the Pacific Rim Challenge. She had worked so hard for it. They both had. For the last two years, they had prodded each other toward their common goal. Their requisite dive hours were nearly complete. No, nobody would die, especially not Khalid.
Mikhail died. She clenched her eyes shut and blotted out the image of her rival slipping through the water, sinking lower and lower.
Biting her lip, she groped for something to refocus her attention. Naming the scientific classification for the sun star. Animalia. Echinodermata. Asteroidea. Spinulosida. Solasteridae. Solaster dawsoni.
“Miss … Amer … ca …” Khalid's words, though broken, speared her heart.
She scooted closer. “I’m here. Be still, Khalid. They’re coming.”
“Marry me.”
“You dork.” She let out a shaky laugh as a shudder tore through her, threatening to unleash tears. Lips pulled taut, she forced herself to remain calm and look at him. “Rest.”
His fingers twitched. She lifted his hand and cradled it in hers.
A gurgling noise bubbled up his throat. “I love …”
“No, shh.” He couldn’t love her. Not her.
“Shil …”
When he didn’t finish, she knitted her brow. His eyes closed, and his mouth remained open.
“Khalid?”
His arm went slack.
“Khalid!” Tears blurred her vision, making it impossible to see if he was breathing.
A horn blared in the distance. She whipped around and spotted the massive white Indian Coast Guard rig racing toward them with its lights swirling.
Reece Jaxon straightened and watched the woman without watching. Seeing without being seen. She batted her auburn hair, thick and tangled with ocean water, away from her face. Hiding in plain sight on the rescue boat, he tracked her movement with ease. She hadn’t noticed him yet, even though he was less than a dozen feet away.
Wrapped in a grey thermal blanket Shiloh Blake stared at the injured Pakistani on the medical stretcher as the boat churned across the water toward Mumbai. She hadn’t left the man's side since the rescue.
Another man in his early fifties hooked an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. Dr. Kuntz, according to the file, was fifty-three. Married. Three grown children. An unfaithful wife and a divorce later he’d partnered with a local Indian museum to arrange underwater excavations with U.C. San Diego. Something about the man didn’t sit right with Reece.
“Noor Hospital,” Dr. Kuntz insisted to the Coast Guard captain.
An hour earlier Kuntz had stormed into the Coast Guard station and interrupted Reece's conversation with the officer. Surprised at the man's intrusion, Reece feigned disinterest, although Kuntz's story corroborated what Reece had relayed to the authorities after witnessing the attack. Then the emergency transponder signal erupted.
Reece noticed Shiloh stiffen under the professor's protective touch. Kuntz spoke soothingly to her, reassuring her that Noor Hospital would give Khalid the best care. Bent to shield his face, Reece tightened the laces on his boots while memorizing everything that took place in the boat's small cabin. Now, if he had judged her character right, in about twenty seconds she’d pull away from Kuntz.
Shiloh moved out of the man's reach.
Bingo.
“I need something to drink.” She came toward Reece and stepped through the hatch. “They said they had coffee up front.”
Dr. Kuntz laughed, his arms outstretched. “But you don’t drink coffee.”
“It's chilly,” she called without looking back.
Chilly. Interesting. It was a mild sixty-five degrees on the Arabian Sea, and she was chilly.
Shiloh Blake strode straight toward him with her head held high. Calm. Relaxed. Confident.
Come on, look at me, Reece silently dared her.
Blue-grey eyes collided with his. He scratched his beard, wishing he had more than two weeks’ growth, but it was enough to conceal his identity. With an acknowledging nod, he stayed in position. Now if she would only hold his gaze.
Oh, what he wouldn’t give to smile his pleasure as she stared at him. She only tore her eyes from his when it became impractical not to. Reece guessed she would never show any weakness.
Atta, girl.
Although he’d already skimmed the preliminary data on the American students, Shiloh's impressive character made him want to know more. She had a higher confidence level than most of the people he had monitored in the region. What gave her that unshakable demeanor? Reece determined to get a DNA sample and run her through the system. Was she working undercover?
As the ship bumped Victoria dock, he leaped off and lassoed the pylons. Heavy thuds sounded against the weathered planks as the emergency crew transferred the young woman and her Pakistani friend to a waiting ambulance. Dr. Kuntz doted on her once again, but with no room in the narrow mobile unit, the professor was relegated to a rickshaw.
Shiloh huddled on a small bench in the ambulance, her glassy gaze locked on her friend as the emergency personnel worked on him. Just as the doors swung closed, she glanced toward Reece. A load of steel partially blocked his line of sight. Yet, despite the stenciling on the rear window, he saw her tilt her chin just enough to look for him over the emblem. The ambulance bumped over the sandy path, and then settled on PD Mello Road. Sirens wailed. Lights whirled.
Reece strolled down the boardwalk toward the beach, retrieving the cell from his pocket. He hit autodial. Having to report one American dead was bad enough. But having to tell Ryan Nielsen that another sat neck deep in an ocean of chaos—
“Report.”
“There's a problem.” What was Shiloh Blake doing at a nuclear arms dead drop?
2
Mumbai, India
SOMETHING HAPPENED.” ALI ABDUL SHIFTED ON HIS FEET, HIS GAZE locked on the half window that afforded a view of the breeze-way between the main office and consulate.
“Kaay?”
“A girl found the package.” He tucked his chin and spoke into the phone.
Silence devoured the connection.
Movement in the narrow corridor caught his attention. He leaned to the side and eyed the hall. Only a janitor. He’d be okay. For now.
“Kon?”
Who? How was he supposed to know who she was? “American—she's American. That's all we know.”
“You realize what was in there?” Mumbling grated on his ear. “Contact Tiger. Find out who she is.”
Voices bounced off the low ceilings outside. Ali hunched into the phone. “We already have two men in play.”
“Good. My team will retrieve the device. We don’t need this mess. Hunt her down. Make sure it's clean.”
Sweat beaded Ali's brow. “Mai nahii samajta hu,” he murmured.
“What don’t you understand? If she is alive, you are dead.”
Sirens pierced Shiloh's eardrums as the ambulance jounced over the rough road toward the hospital. Bleeping medical equipment seeped into her awareness. An emergency medical technician quickly worked on Khalid and rambled in Marathi, the local language.
Shiloh averted her eyes. Khalid had always been a modest, gentle man. Somehow, it seemed wrong to watch as they laid his chest bare. Maybe she should have let Dr. Kuntz ride in the ambulance with him. But her professor had argued, said she needed to be checked, and then he had hopped into a rickshaw. She could only hope Dr. Kuntz arrived at the hospital alive. Whoever wreaked this havoc on the team could come back to finish what they’d started.
Determination ignited. She wouldn’t take this without a fight.
The attendant sitting next to her lifted Shiloh's elbow and slipped a pressure cuff around her upper arm.
The clink of metals wrapped around her mind like a vise. Please don’t die, Khalid. God … No. She wouldn’t go there. God was only a fanciful delusion for weak minds. Khalid had faith, but it was … different, somehow.
“What is your name?” the tech asked her in English.
Shiloh gazed at him. “Shiloh Blake.”
He grinned. Just like Khalid, this tech had lovely dark skin and eyes. “American, yes?”
She wrestled to maintain her composure. Whoever had attacked the rig—the crew in this vehicle could be in league with them. Finally, she nodded and resisted the compulsion to blurt out her living arrangement as a student in cooperation with the College of Advanced Maritime Studies and Research. What he didn’t ask, she wouldn’t volunteer.
Life took on a sinister hue, coloring her world in daunting shades of red.
She focused on Khalid and his battle for life.
Something niggled at the edge of her mind, but Shiloh braced herself as the ambulance wobbled and sped around a corner. One of the two working on Khalid shouted at the driver, who snapped back. She pretended not to understand the bets they waged on Khalid's life—that he wouldn’t make it to Noor Hospital alive. That he was better off as fish bait than being attended at the hospital.
“Your papers?”
She studied the tech, suspicious. “Why do you need my papers?”
“Why you not give me papers?”
The ambulance jolted to a stop. Doors flung open.
Shiloh seized the opportunity to evade more questions and hopped out of the Noor mobile unit. Clearing the way for the gurney carrying Khalid, she trained her eyes on his body and her ears on the chatter as the staff assessed his condition. Little chance of survival. Great blood loss. They didn’t help her frayed nerves.
Maybe she should tell someone about the attack. But who? The police? What if they were in on whatever had happened? She couldn’t allow herself to trust anyone. Shiloh scanned the parking lot for Dr. Kuntz. A rickshaw would take forever. Brutal reality slapped her in the face. She was alone. Again.
A nurse motioned Shiloh toward the double-door entrance. As they entered, the tail of the gurney whizzed out of sight around a corner.
A group of doctors huddled and cast disconcerted looks her way. Only then did her attire register. Shamefully aware of her inappropriate wetsuit, Shiloh's cheeks warmed. Thank goodness this wasn’t Saudi Arabia. She’d be arrested just for wearing it. Here in Mumbai, the melting pot of India, conservatism had its place, but she wouldn’t be in trouble with the authorities. Still, she noticed the disapproving glares of men and women alike. Catching the nurse's arm, she tugged her aside. In her best Marathi, she pleaded for a pair of hospital scrubs to change into.
“Wait here.” With a smile, the nurse hurried off .
Perfect opportunity to call Dr. Kuntz. A phone sat cradled on the wall. Shiloh rushed toward it, lifted the handle, and dialed his cell number. When his voice mail picked up, she groaned. Where was he? She tried Edie. Again, no luck.
The nurse reappeared with the scrubs and a pair of lightweight shoes, then ushered Shiloh to a restroom. Grateful to shed the neoprene hugging her body, Shiloh changed quickly. If she could fit in rather than stick out like an orca in a tank of dolphins, all the better. Less attention equaled more safety. The fact that someone had murdered Mikhail—and nearly killed Khalid too—warned her that their attackers didn’t want survivors.
She stared at the wetsuit. Ditch it? The thing cost too much. From a nearby shelf, she grabbed a towel and wrapped it up. Back in the hall, she stopped by the nurse's station and inquired about Khalid. The nurse shrugged and said it was impossible to know anything this soon.
Shiloh clenched her fist, glanced down the long, sterile hall where they’d whisked Khalid, and headed toward the waiting room. Settled into a vinyl-cushioned sofa, she let out a deep breath. She bent forward and cupped her head in her hands.
Marry me. A half-smile drifted across her lips as Khalid's words flooded back to her. Insane. Clearly the injury near his lungs affected his brain or he would have never made such a ridiculous request. They’d always been close, but not like that. And yet he’d been her lifeline for the last four years, ever since he had witnessed her first seizure.
Had he really meant it? In a strange, twisted way, every gesture and wink from him held new implications. Nervous jellies swam through her stomach.
He did mean it.
No. He was delirious … dying … hovering between Paradise and the horrible reality of life on earth.
“You are Miss Blake?”
Shiloh glanced up, dread spilling across her shoulders. Two police officers stood before her. Dressed in their heavily starched tan shirts with the red- and blue-striped ascots and dark slacks, they waited. The younger man shifted his hat under his arm. How did they know who she was? Had the EMT steered these men her way?
“We like speak with you. We have questions.” He spoke with clear but broken English.
The atmosphere in the room shifted. A mother hugged her daughter closer. Men scooted so their backs were to the offi-cers. Others hid their faces behind magazines.
This wasn’t the time to let her anxiety show. “So do I.”
The older man spoke, a partial bow revealing his thinning hairline. “I am Officer Kodiyeri, and my lieutenant, Ramesh Srivastava.” They pulled plastic chairs close to her and sat. “You have your visa?”
Something about the way he asked told Shiloh he already knew the answer. Despite her misgivings, she smiled. “No, I was diving when we were attacked.” With her hand on the towel, she slid back the top to reveal the thick, black suit. “There's no way to carry my papers when I’m in the water.”
The men exchanged looks. Kodiyeri scowled at her. “The law states you must present your visa to authorities when asked.”
Tingling up her spine warned her to be careful. “Within twenty-four hours of such a demand,” Shiloh added. These men … something wasn’t right.
“That is yours?” Srivastava pointed his black pen toward the neoprene.
“My suit. As I said, I was diving when the others were attacked.”
“Can you show it to us?”
Shiloh unbound the suit and laid it out on the chair next to her. She crossed her arms and studied the two men. What was up with them wanting to see that?
“And that's all you have with you? No visa? No …”
Irritation clawed at her. “Nothing.” Why were they questioning her like this? Were they going to blame her? “Look, I can bring you my visa first thing in the morning.”
The heavier-set and sweating Kodiyeri grunted. “We aren’t overly concerned.”
Not concerned about her visa? Interesting.
“Can you tell us anything about the incident?”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t.”
Kodiyeri's eyebrows rose. “But you were there.”
“Fifty meters underwater.”
“You didn’t see anyone or what took place?”
“No.” And that very point grated against her. Without
a lead, how could she track down the killers?
Kodiyeri sneered. His arm raised in question, a yellow cord of rank pulling taut as he did. “You saw nothing—at all?”
“That's what I said.”
“What about the body our divers found, or what happened to—” he glanced at a notepad, “—Mr. Khan?”
“Mr. Khan was shot.”
“And you save him?”
“No, actually, I hope that's what the doctors are doing right now.” Stay cool, Shiloh. This was routine—and better than being hauled down to headquarters, where she could easily disappear if they wanted her to. Or the Minister of Tourism would rake her over the coals for bringing trouble to his quiet state. They wouldn’t take kindly to such an incident. She certainly didn’t. “I dragged Khalid to the cove.”
“How did you signal for help?”
“Emergency transponder.”
What was with these questions? And why were the pants of the younger officer two inches too short? The hair on the back of her neck prickled. She swallowed.
It was time to turn on the charm and get away from these two. She crossed her arms. “So, Raman.” She forced a smile and shifted toward the younger officer. “Your men have done such a great job. I mean, I’m impressed they’ve already recovered a body and learned so much about our dig. I take it you’ve examined our dive rig by now? And you didn’t find my visa?”
He glanced to the side. “No, we found no visas.”
“Ramesh,” said the older officer.
Feigning innocence, Shiloh said, “Excuse me?”
Kodiyeri's eyes darkened. “His name is Ramesh, not Raman.”
“Right.” Then why didn’t he correct me? “If you’ll excuse me—” Shiloh stood, smoothed her long tunic, and retrieved the wetsuit—“I need to see if there's any news on my friend.”
If she thought the ride to the hospital foreboding, this interview with the police sent chills down her spine. Relax, girl. Your imagination is getting the better of you.
She walked away, and they didn’t stop her. As she padded down the narrow hall, she kept her ears attuned to the room she’d just left. Drawing in a deep breath, she neared the swinging doors.
