by Cherry Adair
It was its own self-fulfilling prophecy. Michael liked the poetic justice in that.
He slung the MK 138 satchel charge canvas bag casually over his shoulder, went topside, and locked the door behind him. The door wasn't meant to keep anyone determined out—but he'd know if anyone other than himself opened it. No one had boarded the Nemesis all day.
SEALs had the ability to travel very light, and very fast. He had to get from the marina to the cave, set the detonating timer, and be back in time for Auntie's luau without anyone noticing how long he'd been gone.
He guesstimated he'd been gone four minutes by the time he hit the beach. The sunset was spectacular, brilliant, and gaudy.
He ignored it as he jogged the three miles to the cove, the forty-pound satchel charge riding comfortably on his back.
The cliff face glowed devil dog red in the dusk light. Michael removed the pack, withdrew a small powerful pen-light, and slipped into the fissure.
It was twenty degrees cooler inside, the dark welcome. The anticipation that had hummed through him for months blossomed into a sensation that was almost orgasmic in its intensity.
"This big bang is for you, Bud."
God, Hugo had loved to blow things to hell and back. Matter of fact, so did he. Michael grinned. The narrow beam picked up interesting side passages, but he didn't waste time exploring.
He jogged across the sand to the back of the cave, then took the stairs two at a time, zigging and zagging his way to the top. As were most things in life, the rough-cut steps were easier to navigate with a little light.
The chamber was bathed with an eerie orange-red glow from the hovering sun. The crates were stacked six deep from floor to ceiling.
Four months ago, Church had pirated a vessel innocently disguised as a tanker, bound for a small African nation. How Church had discovered the vessel was carrying this amount of high-tech weaponry was still a mystery.
With a few well-placed people, he'd overtaken his quarry, boarded, killed all thirty-eight crewmen, and then made the tanker Cheung Hu disappear into thin air.
International intelligence—hell, entire countries—continued to search for the Cheung Hu. Good guys, as well as bad, would trip over their own protocol to get their hands on the ship's cargo.
And here it was.
Michael set the canvas sack on the floor and moved between the boxes, looking for a good spot. If, for any reason, anyone came up here before the transfer, he didn't want them stumbling over the bag.
It was all here. Stencils on the crates designated the contents in military jargon. CAR-15s, Ml6s, rocket launchers, all the necessary ammo. His heart pumped hard and fast when he saw the piece de resistance, the pulse generator.
The pulse generator was state of the art. The power behind this machine, if the damn thing worked like they claimed, would be off the charts. Uncle Sam would've liked a look-see, but Church had obviously offered it to the highest bidder. Michael was here to see that none of them got what they'd requested from Santa.
Jesus. He rested his palm on the crate, and closed his eye. Logic had told him Church would keep this baby as the trump card. The high-bidding tangos must've negotiated the pulse generator into the deal.
The difference between Michael and the rest of Church's pursuers was that he'd known where to look.
He'd recognized Church's work. Many modern-day pirates kidnapped their victims, or set them adrift in one of the life boats, tied up, but relatively unharmed. Church's M.O. was to brutally murder the crewmen before loading the bodies on one of the lifeboats.
He took sadistic pleasure in his work, and it showed. No one was safe. He took boats of all shapes and sizes, either selling them, or using them in his piracy business with deadly effect. No one saw him coming. He was far-reaching in his target of cargoes. Be it ordnance, oil, or sugar. He'd discovered weapons when he'd taken the Marie Jose last year and it had already become a lucrative branch of his thriving operation. Church had quickly made a name for himself.
Terrorists had a voracious appetite for weapons and explosives. Church made their dreams come true. He delivered what they wanted, when they wanted it. He had the attention of every major power in the world. So far, he hadn't been caught.
Tahiti was well off the normal beaten track for pirates. Paradise was the perfect spot to bring the ordnance, hide it, send out for bids, and wait.
No hurry.
Lieutenant Wright would've done it by the book, captured him, and brought the sonofabitch to trial.
Michael was going to write the end to Trevor Church once and for all. By fair means or foul. Whatever it took…
… and, as Church had done to Hugo, smile while he offed him.
Michael found a nice little hidey-hole between two crates of stick dynamite, neatly boxed against the east wall. It was a tight fit, but perfectly obscured, even if someone did make a last-minute inspection before the buy.
He returned to the top of the stairs and brought the satchel back with him, squeezing between the rough wood crates before hunching down awkwardly to tuck the shoulder bag into the space between the boxes.
Normally he'd prime with a nonelectric blasting cap on the end of a section of time fuse, or use Primedet, but in this case he wanted more than an hour or so. He wanted twenty-four hours.
He set the timer for seventeen hundred hours on Thursday. The handshaking would happen Thursday evening after everyone arrived. The transfer was scheduled to take place Friday morning.
Timing was everything.
He and Jake had worked on this for days. Once set, there was no going back. No "Mother may I?" No room for error. On Thursday at five in the afternoon, this cavern was going to blow, and with it, Church's ordnance, his clients' faith in him, and half the frigging cliff-side. Nothing anyone said, or did, could change the course of events.
The explosion would trigger every intelligence community with satellite access.
It had to be this way. Church had powerful means of persuasion.
Michael had caved once.
He wouldn't do it again.
He paused with his fingers on the mechanism and smiled grimly. Even if things turned to shit, and for some reason he didn't exterminate Church, there was no one on the planet, himself included, who could turn this baby off now.
Knowing it was unlikely for anyone to see the dark green canvas bag, he nevertheless spent another precious twenty minutes efficiently rigging a set of phony M700 fuses, tangles of wires, and enough smoke and mirrors to keep anyone busy from now until seventeen hundred hours on Thursday, trying to disable his handywork.
One last check.
Everything in place.
No room for error.
Perfect.
He rose from his cramped position. A feeling of completion descended over him. For the first time in nearly a year, the forces wailing inside him stilled, and a familiar calm settled. Soon Hugo would rest in peace. Soon.
One more timer to set…
Then time to party.
Michael spent a couple of extra minutes standing on the beach, watching the approach of a tanker far out at sea. No coincidence, the tanker was arriving to remove Church's prize. Because of its size, it would probably drop anchor beyond the reef in readiness for the transfer on Friday morning.
Michael grinned as he walked around the hotel and headed back toward the sound of drums.
"Sorry, pal. You're shit outta luck."
The setting for Auntie's luau was the area behind her hotel. The watermelon and mango color of the setting sun illuminated the tropical clearing surrounded by lush vegetation and tall coconut palms, making everything look almost surreal and otherworldly. Flame trees, in bursts of fiery red, breadfruit trees with their large, delicately etched leaves, and brilliantly hued bougainvillea mingled with lacy green and yellow, big-leafed vines and other flowering shrubs to make up three sides, while the ocean and the Technicolor sky made a dramatic backdrop for the fourth.
The perfume of camellias
, frangipani, ginger, and jasmine combined in a thick, heady fragrance, assaulted already overloaded senses.
The Garden of Eden.
Michael wasn't a fanciful man, but the brilliant colors of the evening sky and exotic flowers, coupled with the rhythmic beating of the drums, were enough to give any man pause.
He stepped into the clearing. Tiki torches dotted the wide circle, dancing flames ebbed and rose with the warm trade wind drifting off the water. A band, made up of several local men, filled the sultry air with the tinny twang of a ukulele, and the compelling rhythm of guitars. His blood, already pumped with adrenaline, picked up the driving throb of the fa'atete-, and the bass of the pahu drums.
Time to seduce his enemy's daughter.
Colors seemed brighter, the air smelled sweeter, and the musical notes blended into a rich, powerful resonant pulse that had his blood racing. All of which merged into a seamless, exotic tapestry.
"Hooie! Here we be, hottie." Auntie waved from the sidelines.
Surrounded by baskets and coolers, it looked as though Auntie had settled in for a month.
He leaned down and gave her a peck on her mint-scented check. "Happy birthday, beautiful. How's it going, Henri? Tally?"
Michael took the vacant plastic lawn chair on Tally's right. His blind side.
"What you be wanting drink, piña colada? Hinano?"
"Hinano." He opted for the local beer, and accepted the icy bottle Henri excavated from the ice chest. "Thanks."
"You be wanting that drink now, baby girl?"
"Sure, why not?" Tally caught Michael's eye as she glanced over at Auntie. She'd tucked a bright yellow hibiscus behind her right ear.
Michael gave the flower a nod. "Know the significance of that?"
"The significance is that I have a flower behind my ear."
"Right ear means you're taken."
Her blue eyes sparkled, but she kept a straight face. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
The flame red monstrosity Tally wore slipped off one creamy shoulder. She hitched it back with a small grimace. Florid yellow flowers, as big as dinner plates, sprouted all over the muumuu. The garment was large enough to drown her slender frame. But the unintentionally low neckline, ruffle and all, displayed a delectable amount of her small bosom, and the golden tan she'd developed this afternoon.
Michael leaned over the arm of his chair. "Been shopping, I see," he whispered.
She gave a choked laugh, and turned to whisper back. Her nose bumped his face. Instead of pulling away, she nuzzled her nose against his check. "I think Auntie and I could both fit inside this thing."
She smelled of tuberose and toothpaste. "Hmm. I'm thinking maybe you and I could both fit in there."
Tally smiled. "In your dreams, sailor."
Yeah. And those dreams were hot and sweaty and heart-pounding. "Why didn't you grab a pair of my shorts, or just wear a T-shirt over your swimsuit?"
"Auntie wanted me to—"
"Hold still."
"Why?"
He stroked her cheek with his fingers. Her skin felt smooth and silky, and warmed under his touch. "Your hibiscus has ants."
Her lips twitched. "It does not. I checked before I put it in my hair."
"There was one little soldier marching ri-ght across here."
She turned fully to face him. "Michael, I've been th—"
"Here come the dancers. Save it till later."
Her sigh was more drama than disappointment. Outwardly, she was her usual serene self; inside boiled the hot-blooded woman he wanted to get his hands on. And his mouth, and his… hell. He could almost taste her rapid heartbeat. He saw it pulsing hard and fast at the base of her slender throat.
His cock twitched to life.
Michael dragged his gaze away from the sight of Tally's life force and tried to focus on the activities in the clearing. But like a bloodhound, he could smell her there beside him.
Tuberose, innocence, heat.
He closed his eye.
Hell, she could wear the all-encompassing hijab and burqa of Arabic women, and he'd still want her.
One shrug and that stiff cotton monstrosity she wore would pool around her slender hips. Michael kept his attention fixed on the dancers who'd just pranced onto "center stage," a grassy circle inside the tiki torches.
For the next twenty-four hours he'd indulge his senses with sweet Tally.
"Okay. That does it," Tally said, furious as Leli'a and four other girls lined up in front of their audience. "She's wearing my pearls!"
Clad in short, scarlet and white pareus tied at the hips, matching bikini tops, and wreaths of ferns and flowers in their long dark hair, the women looked like a Kodak moment. Leli'a undulated her hips to the chanting and music. Ripe and sensuous, confident in her allure, Auntie's niece looked right at Michael and smiled. Tally's opera-length black pearls were wound twice around her neck and swayed with the movement of her body.
Tally's next thought was, And keep your sneaky eyes off Michael! And the heat of that thought surprised her.
She gulped down the last half inch of colada, and reached for the pitcher on the table beside her.
Auntie tapped her forearm. "Not be drinking too much lovely rum, baby girl. You like ori and music. Make blood flow hot and happy. Not needing alcohol. Make new memories tonight. You see."
Well there was one memory Leli'a wasn't counting on. Tally coming after her with blood in her eye. The little thief was prancing around in front of God, her aunt, and Tally, wearing stolen property. Un-fricking-believable.
Tally set the pitcher down. The entire setting was giving her enough of a buzz. Her blood raced through her veins like hot lava, and she was ready to jump out of her skin. Auntie was right: Alcohol was the last thing she needed.
"This spec-ta-cu-lar dance," Auntie told her, rough palm firm on Tally's arm as if holding her in place. "Call o'te'a amui. The tané will come next." The beat of the drums and rhythmic chanting grew louder and louder. The girls undulated to the rapidly increasing beat and were soon joined by the men.
Auntie had been holding her in place. Wise woman. An hour later, Tally had cooled off, a little, and she got her chance for a private conversation with her mutilating thief. The girls stood giggling under the trees as she strolled over.
"You and I are going to have a little chat, young lady." Tally took Leli'a's arm and walked her firmly away from her friends. When the girl refused to budge, Tally gave her arm a little jerk and all but dragged her out of earshot.
"Haere tatou! Let go!" Leli'a tried to shake her off. Tally held on tighter. "What you want?"
"My necklace, for starters. Good God. Are you really this amoral that you don't care that I'm standing right here while you're wearing it?"
The girl gripped the double strand in a tight fist at her throat. "My necklace. Give to me by Mother. Got from her mother, and her mother."
"You are so full of crap. My father gave that to me years ago. Hand over my necklace, toots, or I'll tell your aunt you were the vandal and thief in my room this morning."
The girl tossed her liquid black hair over her shoulder, rather like Miss Piggy. "Go to hell."
Tally narrowed her eyes. "And that you're the one who pushed me down the stairs the other day."
"Prove it."
"Give Tally back the necklace, Leli'a." Henri emerged from the trees.
Leli'a turned her glare from Tally to Henri. She went into a spate of Tahitian too fast and colloquial for Tally to grasp more than the gist. But then she didn't need to understand a word to follow the conversation. Leli'a wasn't about to part with Tally's necklace.
Henri was adamant.
Finally, Leli'a ripped the necklace over her head, tears of rage in her eyes. "I hate you," she spat, throwing the priceless gems at Tally's feet. She turned and ran past Henri, almost knocking him over.
"I am very sorry about that," Henri said gently. "She is young, and angry. She'll get over it."
Tally crouched to pick up the p
earls. They were warm and smooth. She rose with the string draped over her hand and glanced toward the trees. Leli'a had disappeared.
"Henri, Leli'a was the one who destroyed my room." Tally saw that Henri had already figured that one out. She frowned, truly puzzled. What had she done to make the girl hate her so much?
Henri fell into step beside her. "I apologize for her rudeness, and for the damage she did to your possessions. But it is not you personally, my dear. She is a teenager. She sees a successful, attractive woman. Self-possessed, independent, and she wants to be like you. My Leli'a has a long way to go, I'm afraid. Don't take it personally. I will speak with her when she calms down a bit. In the meanwhile, Auntie will help you put together a new wardrobe."
Tally almost groaned. She'd chosen her clothes for this trip with infinite care, every item designed to make her appear to be what she thought her father wanted her to be. Now she was reduced to greeting him in an Omar the Tent Maker muumuu.
Oh, brother.
Chapter Thirteen
« ^ »
"I see you got your necklace back. How'd it go?" Michael asked Tally as they strolled through Auntie's garden back to the main house after the party. The darkness was redolent with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the spicy fragrance of frangipani. Overhead, stars glittered, icy and brilliant white in the velvety blackness. The narrow shell path necessitated them walking close together. Michael could've dropped back, but preferred to stay beside her. Every now and then he felt the graze of the stiff fabric of her muumuu, or the brush of her soft skin against his bare arm.
"Weird." Tally frowned. "She neatly managed to turn everything around, so I felt that somehow stealing the necklace was my fault." Her eyes shimmered in the moonlight as she looked at him with a wry smile. "How can I be so damn furious with her, and feel sorry for her at the same time?"
"Beats the hell out of me. I thought I'd have to get in there and pull you off her."
