by Cherry Adair
"Or what?" Tally countered, planting both hands on her hips and glaring at the man she'd waited so long to see. "You'll kill me? Big deal. Right now, a bullet to the brain sounds like a vacation!"
"Tally."
"Shut up, Michael," she snapped, never taking her gaze off her father. "I've been burgled, choked, pushed down stairs, nearly strangled, chased by a speedboat, shot at. Who knows what's next? If you think you can scare me now, Daddy, you don't know me any more than I know you."
For one split second, she thought she saw a flash of—something, was it pride?—in Trevor's eyes, but by this point, she couldn't have cared less. "So tell you what. Why don't you just have one of your goons shoot me now. Or better yet, give me the gun. Your guys keep screwing it up!"
"Damn it, Tally."
She spared Michael one quick glare. It had taken four men to hold him. They had his arms strained behind his back in what looked like an extremely uncomfortable position. "I am not speaking to you."
"Lucky man," one of her father's henchmen muttered.
"If you're not going to shoot me, color me gone." Tally turned as sharply on her bare heel as sand would allow and started down the beach. As tempting as it was, she didn't run. She pulled back her shoulders, lifted her head, and kept her eyes focused on Auntie's hotel in the distance. One phone call would bring the charter plane back. All she had to do was put one heavy foot in front of the other and keep walking.
Tally couldn't tell which hurt more, her battered and bruised body, or her heart. She was one giant ache from head to toe, inside and out. But beyond the hurt, she was extremely pissed off. The brilliant white beach ahead blurred, and she angrily dashed the moisture from her eyes.
Neither man was worth crying over.
One of her father's men came up behind her swiftly and jerked her off her feet. She stumbled in the sand. "Let go of me," she snarled, trying to twist out of his hold. His fingers gripped her upper arm where she had bruises on top of bruises. She turned to her father. "Tell your goon to let go of me. Right now!"
"Where do you think you're going?" He might have been talking to a stranger for all the emotion in his voice and features.
"Why the hell do you care? I've been walking without assistance for twenty-seven years. I can certainly do so now. Believe me, you don't need to have me escorted off your precious island. I'm more than happy to go. Thanks for the familial welcome. I feel warm and fuzzy all over. Good-bye."
"Take them up to the house until I decide what to do with them."
"Trust me," Tally said coldly, "you don't need to decide anything. I'm leaving."
Her father, flanked by his men, walked up to her. He paused to rake his gaze from her head, to her toes, and back again. He shook his head. "Pity you didn't get Bev's looks."
"I'm surprised you remember my mother's name. She wouldn't look twice at you now, Jabba the Hurt. Eat your heart out."
He hit her.
She fingered her bleeding lip. "I guess we're both disappointed."
Four modified golf carts waited on the other side of the rocks. Church and one of his men got into the first one; the rest of the crowd filled the remaining vehicles. "You drive," the goon told Michael, and motioned with his weapon for Tally to get into the passenger seat.
Michael shot her a glance. For all her bravado, her face was pale, her jaw set. Here was a woman about to blow.
Behind them sat two men, Uzis trained on the backs of their heads.
"Drive," the back, left goon ordered. Michael engaged the stick, and the convoy headed across the beach.
The fact that he had no weapons was no big deal. He could make a weapon out of a paper clip. And, fact of the matter was, he'd been prepared to die completing this last op.
Tally had put a whole new spin on things.
He might've been prepared to die. But he found himself vehemently opposed to any more harm coming to Tally.
It was hotter than hell. The sun bounced off the white sand, causing shimmering mirages in their path, reminding him of the op in Somalia back in '93. He'd had backup, weapons, and a hope of getting out alive. Right now, things weren't looking so hot.
Sweat ran down his temples. He wiped his face on his shoulder as he drove, keeping both hands on the wheel in plain view. Tally's hands were clasped so tightly in her lap, her knuckles shone white.
Michael glanced at her pale face. Jesus, she'd been thrilled about the invitation, and even when she'd learned it had all been a ruse, she'd still been delighted to be here. She'd anticipated a happy reunion with her father. He'd watched her flinch with each verbal bullet from Trevor Church.
Damn, he was proud of her chutzpah for returning fire.
The idea that such an unfeeling, callous bastard could've fathered a daughter as warm and caring as Tally was inconceivable.
The tide was coming in, which narrowed the beach to a white strip. They traveled in silence along the dappled shadows under the tree line at the back edge of the sand, where there were more rocks and roots to contend with.
Past the marina. The Beautiful Dreamer was sailing into port. Michael wondered absently how Church would react to the news that he and Tally had absconded with the detonator to the pulse generator. If nothing else, it would buy them some time.
"Don't slow down," the man behind him snapped.
Michael took the buggy over a gnarled root protruding from the sand. The vehicle shuddered and shimmied over the obstacle. "This thing isn't qualified for the Indy 500, pal."
He guesstimated the boat would dock in twenty minutes. He eased the cart onto the shell path in front of the hotel. There was no sign of either Auntie, or Henri. Hell, Michael wasn't sure whose side they were on, anyway.
The higher up the base of the volcano they traveled, the more dense the vegetation. The English Tudor-style mansion rose above a garden running wild with tropical plant life. The sun was high in a cloudless blue sky, the heat shimmering and reflecting off the stark white walls of the house.
"Stop here," the guy behind them instructed, rapping the back of Michael's head with the barrel of his weapon. "Keep your hands where I can see them, and get out."
Michael brought the vehicle to a halt. There wasn't much time. Church would want them out of the way before his buyers arrived. It was a given this time he'd kill Michael. He wouldn't give him a second chance to get away. Not with this many guards and firepower. Not with this much at stake.
Regardless, Michael had to figure out a way to get Tally to safety, preferably off-island, before that happened. Bouchard and Cruella De Vil's arrival might facilitate her escape.
Church and his men entered the house. The front door yawned open in expectation. Michael stepped out of the cart and waited for Tally. He brushed her arm as she came around the front of the vehicle, and she flinched as though he'd poked her with a cattle prod. Head high, she preceded him up the shallow front steps and through the carved wooden front door.
He wanted to touch her. To reassure her. But of course he was the last damn person she'd want reassurance from. And frankly he couldn't tell her much. "Run like hell, honey," seemed inadequate for their circumstances.
Two men came up from behind him, holding him until the other cart arrived, then accompanied by six bodyguards, Michael strode up the stairs and followed Tally into Church's house.
The dim, cavernous entry hall felt cool as they crossed the green-and-white-checkered marble floor. Tally waited for him beside a pair of ten-foot-high mahogany doors guarded by two more of Church's little army.
Her eyes met his, then she turned and went through the door one of the men shoved open.
They walked into the English study, which was done in dark woods and plush jewel-colored velvets. Although unsuited to the tropical climate, everything Church had imported from his home country was top of the line. The large room looked as contrived as a stage set, and as inappropriate as a hula dancer at high tea.
Church stood with his back to them looking out the window.
Michael g
lanced around, assessing everything in the room as a potential weapon. On their left, ceiling-high bookshelves were filled with heavy, gold-etched, leather-bound books. A large library table. A ladder. Plenty of throwable knick-knacks.
"Did you hope some of your decorator's class would rub off on you?" Tally asked her father sweetly.
Church turned from the window. "Sit down and shut up. Don't take your eyes off either of them," he instructed the six men who'd accompanied them silently into the room. "Not over there. Right here." He indicated the two low-backed chairs before the desk. Michael followed Tally, and they sat down. The men closed in behind them, weapons trained on their heads.
"A hell of a family reunion," Michael said, crossing his ankle over his knee. The desk was a couple of feet away. It appeared heavy and solid, but with enough force, Michael figured he could kick it hard enough to pin Church to the wall.
"Think I'll pass," Tally said flatly. "This whole armed-guard thing is ridiculous, you know. I don't want to be here. You don't want me here. What's the point?"
"The point is, your presence has put me in a tenuous position. I have guests arriving any minute. I have to decide what to do with you before they get here."
"I have several suggestions," Tally said flatly. "None of them involve sitting here with six guns pointing at my head."
"She's right." Michael wished to hell he could see out of his left eye. He knew the guy was right there, inches away, but he would've liked to see him. With this much firepower up close and personal, there was no way he was going to make a move without ending up dead. He had two things to accomplish before that happened: Church and Tally. He settled back in his chair, relaxed, but ready. "This has nothing to do with your daughter. Let her g—"
The door behind them slammed open.
"Papa!" Leli'a came tapping into the room accompanied by Bouchard. The gang was all here.
"What are you doing out of school?" Church demanded furiously. His face was red with temper. Things were obviously not going according to plan.
The girl's steps faltered. "I graduated months ago." Under her petulant tone was a tremor of fear.
"Go back to London until I tell you differently." He looked over Michael's head and motioned to one of the armed guards. "Get rid of her."
"No, Papa, wait. We have something important to tell you."
Church gave Bouchard a curious look. "I thought you were dead."
"A misunderstanding. They have the detonator for the pulse generator," Bouchard said as quickly as pulling off a Band-Aid. His voice was nasal because of his broken nose, which had swelled nicely and was black and painful looking.
Church's attention flew first to Michael, and then to Tally as he half-rose from his chair. "Impossible."
"She stole it, then gave it to him," Leli'a offered helpfully. She came and sat on the edge of her father's desk, a few feet from Tally. The two women eyed each other like two lionesses over a kill.
Church sank into his chair. "I don't bloody well have time for this shit," he told Bouchard, who hadn't moved from his position by the door. "How you died and were miraculously resurrected is another big question mark. But that can wait. Where is the detonator now?"
"They have it," Bouchard said.
"So that's why you're here," he said to Michael. "You knew about the weapons sale." Church's face and bald head were red with fury. No one outside his own circle was supposed to know about this deal.
"That's one of the reasons, yeah."
Church shot a glare from him to Tally. "Give me my property."
Tally glanced up at Michael. "Do you have his property?"
"No."
She looked back at her father. "Neither do I. Weapons sale?" Tally asked Michael. "What weapons sale?"
The guy on Michael's left was fascinated by the conversation, but his weapon was pointed unwaveringly at the middle of Michael's head. Good to know. "Your father's brokering arms deals with terrorists now."
"What's that got to do with brokering boats?"
Michael snorted. "The boats are stolen, the owners killed, and your father makes a tidy profit—Right, Church? You've heard of chop shops back home?" he asked Tally. "Well, Daddy Dearest here has the boating equivalent."
Tally looked from Michael to her father. "Is this true?"
"Small potatoes," Church told her. "Selling arms to my clients is far more lucrative. More entertaining, too."
"You're nothing but a crook," Tally said flatly.
"Watch that mouth," Church told his daughter. "I'm a businessman."
"And making a lot of money at it, I'm sure. Is that why Arnaud is trying to double-cross you?" Tally asked with false sweetness. "His bizarre behavior is starting to make sense to me now. Might as well 'fess up, Arnaud. He blew up a boat, and almost killed me, so you'd think he was dead. Then he was going to show up, and—what, Arnaud?"
"Don't listen to her fucking lies," Arnaud said hotly. "I was trying to retrieve the detonator for the pulse generator. For you. For the sale this afternoon."
"I trust no one. Not even you, Arnaud." Church opened a drawer and removed a Smith & Wesson, which he held casually. "Do you think I wasn't aware of what you've been doing in my absence? I've known for months you were planning a coup. Therefore I knew as soon as I heard the news of your death the reports were greatly exaggerated." The gun pointed at Bouchard. "The question is, should I give you one more opportunity to show your loyalty, or should I just do what is expedient and kill you now?"
"None of that is true," Arnaud said rapidly. "None of it. They are lies. We both have enemies—"
"Oh, shoot. I was hoping I got a vote," Tally told her father. The Smith & Wesson swung toward her. She gave it a dismissive glance, making Michael chuckle. "More power to you if you believe him. But I wouldn't turn my back on him if I were you." She shifted a little closer to Michael, her bare arm brushing his.
Listening to the conversation, Michael resisted touching her as he acclimated himself with the room. To his right, Leli'a had slid off the desk and made herself comfortable in one of two large armchairs. Bouchard was now on the sofa, a marble-topped coffee table in front of him. The window behind Church's desk was covered in floor-to-ceiling burgundy velvet drapes. Behind Tally, six armed men and a double door of solid wood. Outside, at least a dozen men armed with Ml6s and CAR-15s.
Fuck. He missed binocular vision. He missed Hugo. He had neither. And the man responsible for his losses smirked at him from behind his desk as he pointed a gun at his own daughter.
"My buyers will be here soon." Church glanced at his watch. "Very soon. Where is my detonator?"
"Didn't he just ask us that question?" Tally wanted to know. "News flash. We're not telling you. Live with it."
While the crates and boxes of weapons and ammo were a hell of an incentive to any terrorist group, Michael knew the pulse generator was the real cause for the fast and furious bidding. No doubt, Church would receive an astronomical amount. But without the detonator, the sale would be a bust. No one wanted a weapon of mass destruction lacking an "on" switch. Pity.
Which was why Bouchard had been on the beach with it this morning. The man with the detonator called the tune.
And despite what he'd told Tally, Michael had the detonator. He'd left an encrypted message for his brothers. They'd find it and know what to do with it when the time came.
"Did you ask your trusty right-hand man over there where it is?" Michael indicated Bouchard. The lamp on Church's desk was heavy brass. He measured the distance. Nine feet. Seconds.
"How would I know?" Bouchard demanded.
"Because you had it with you on the beach this morning. You remember. When you tried to kill me?" Tally answered sweetly. "What were you doing with it, Arnaud?"
"I was bringing it back here for safekee—that's none of your business. She claims," he told Church, "they divided the device, and each hid half."
"Impossible," Church snapped, looking from one to the other with a deep scowl.
&n
bsp; "Bummer, huh? Who knew something that important could be so carelessly dropped?" Tally asked, shaking her head in feigned amazement. "If I'd known it was so important to you, Arnaud, I'd have reminded you the minute you took your hands off my throat."
"You stupid bitch!" Leli'a stalked across the room and shoved Tally in the chest with the flat of her hand. "You don't see? Nobody wants you here. Nobody. You are nothing to us."
With gritted teeth, Tally shot to her feet and planted the heel of her hand on her sister's forehead and gave a good shove. Leli'a staggered backwards. "You know, even for a pain in the ass, you're a real pain in the ass. Knock it off," Tally said in a deceptively cool voice.
"There's nothing here I want. Have at it. You all deserve each other. And frankly, I deserve bet—push me again, and I'll break those fingers," Tally snarled as Leli'a shoved her again.
"That's enough, Leli'a. We have more pressing problems than your petty jealousies. Go. Check something in the kitchen. I'll have to delay the buyers from inspecting the merchandise until I can figure out what the hell this one-eyed moron has done with my detonator."
With a pout, Leli'a headed for the door. "She's not so smart if she brought your enemy with her, is she?" she said, standing at the open door.
"It doesn't matter who brought whom. They'll both be dead soon. You could be, too, so I'd advise you not to piss me off any more than you have already. Close the door behind you."
The door slammed.
Church inclined his head to a guard just inside the closed door. "Take this one to the waiting room." He indicated Tally, who was standing in front of her chair. "I'll call when I want her brought back."
Michael wasn't letting Tally out of his sight. God only knew what those goons out there would do to her. Even a blind man could tell her father didn't give a flying fuck about her. The trickle-down effect was clear. Just look at the way Bouchard had treated her.
"Thank you," Tally told Church. "I'm quite capable of removing myself from your august presen—damn it, let go!" She tried to shake the man's hand off her arm.
"I have business to conduct with the lieutenant. I'll call you if I need you."
