Seth (In the Company of Snipers Book 17)

by Irish Winters

  It was past time to go home. Uncle George’s place would be fine. If he never came back, Seth would return long enough to put the island on the market and be done with it. He’d sell the pontoon boat, and he’d discount everything to put this wasted day behind him. Like he’d been doing since he’d lost Katelynn, he’d keep moving on.

  With another deep breath, Seth stuck that half-empty jug in the sand to his right and let his head drop back on his shoulders. More and more stars winked on in the inky darkness overhead, just like those lights off his north shore were winking on right about now. Devereaux would probably be putting Scottie to bed about now. She’d tuck him in. She’d kiss him. He might blow her a goodnight kiss like little boys did. Then he’d stall and ask for a drink of water. Maybe ask her to read him a story. Not Walt Disney’s “Old Yeller” though. Nope. Unfortunately, that story was off limits for the sweet little guy.

  Aw, shit. I’m doing it again.

  Seth settled back on his elbows, determined to erase the sight and taste of Devereaux Shepherd from his memory. He stretched both feet toward Cuba. With another stinkin’ long night ahead of him, he had nothing to look forward to but his usual midnight visit from the ‘gangsta’ girl who’d tried to kill him.

  Yeah. Life’s a bitch and then you die. Don’t I wish?

  It shouldn’t have turned out like this. He’d worked hard to get to where he was today. The long days of depression were far behind him—mostly. He’d conquered depression and PTSD, and by hell, every day was a damned good day. Mostly. He lived a life of control now, and until his uncle’s stroke, Seth had avoided taking much downtime. By hell, a man alone doesn’t need a yearly vacation in sunny Florida. Adventure was not his middle name.

  Yet over and over, that was where he’d ended up, in life-or-death situations where by the grace of God, his fast thinking, and the Army’s muscle training had kept him and others alive.

  “God,” he groaned to the darkening sky. “There’s got to be something better than this.”

  A pelican arrowed into the water offshore hunting another meal. The waves rolled in. The tide went out. God never answered a prayer. Why would He answer this one? Life fuckin’ went on and on… and on… and it was time for another drink.

  Too bad Jack was already half gone. That made Seth legally drunk on the beach. Ha! He’d need a designated driver if he wanted to go anywhere. That deserved another snort. Might just deserve another drink, too. Seth McCray wasn’t going anywhere. Hadn’t been for years. He’d been stuck. Mired to that single day in his life that changed his world.

  Shit. Everyone knew that.

  Katelynn seemed closer tonight for some ungodly reason, but Seth didn’t want to talk with her. Or to her. Since she’d gone away, not once had she sent him a message of her undying love from the other side. Not once. Can you believe that? He’d stayed true and faithful to her memory—well, almost—for years, but had she looked down from her heavenly perch even once? Had she sent him a dream or the smallest hint of her undying love? Uh-uh, no she most certainly had not. If she had, he’d have known it, wouldn’t he?

  So why’d the hairs on the back of his neck stand up like a ghost was hovering over him tonight, leering at him. Watching. Warily, Seth twisted his neck and glanced at the island behind him. The palm trees swayed like an army of drunken sailors at his six, but there was no ghost. Not even Latoya.

  That made him laugh. “An army of drunken sailors,” he told the waves crashing offshore. “Get it? Army? Sailors? Aw, never mind.”

  His fingers came unbidden to his scarred brow, the back of his nails rubbing over the lines that some bastard a world away had carved into him before Seth killed him. Masters. That was his name. Another Marine. Another asshole. Like Cord. The world was full of them and every last one of them packed a ton of shit they had no trouble dealing out to anyone unlucky enough to cross their paths.

  Something or someone rustled behind Seth. He looked over his shoulder one last time, which was getting mighty difficult, his equilibrium being what it was. Palm trees. Sand. Uncle George’s shack. Yeah. Not a whole lot of anything going on there.

  Settling his back to the warm, soft Florida sand for another lonely night, Seth reached for the neck of that cozy brown bottle before he closed his eyes. The sun would wake him up come morning. Until then… blah, blah, blah.

  Wait. What was I talking about?

  He startled awake, his heart racing and his head still spinning. Someone was on his beach. He might be drunk, but he’d heard—it. Them. There was that noise again, the slow rasp of sand. A muffled hiss. Couldn’t be Latoya, not out here.

  Seth glanced down the length of his arm to where his friend still sat in the sand. But Jack didn’t look so friendly anymore, and the sand had turned cold and damp. Yeah. Time to crawl into bed and sleep off another fuckin’ great day.

  That annoying sound again!

  Seth lifted to his elbows. A definite scratching noise came to him from the trees. A rat? A parrot? Guess I’ll have to check it out. Might be another desperate woman burying her lizard. Only this time, there’ll be no kissing. Ah-uh. Absolutely none and never again. Not going there, no sirree.

  Rolling over to his hands and knees, Seth instantly regretted the vertigo that came with motion. The sand might not be moving, but his head and stomach sure were. Make that spinning. He spit, angry with himself for stooping to this level. He was better than this.

  On a good day…

  Yet whatever was making all that noise out there needed investigating. Deranged woman or not, this was his island. He couldn’t let Uncle George down. Wouldn’t think of it.

  But Seth couldn’t exactly stand either, so he crawled on his hands and knees toward that… that sound. By the time he made it into the shadows, he was a very sick man. Drinking on an empty stomach was never smart. Morning would not be fun.

  This time, the scratching sounded closer, which was a good thing. He hadn’t crawled all this way for nothing. Seth blinked to his left. Then he started digging. The sand had moved. He knew it. He only scooped a few big handfuls when—Lordy, Lordy!

  Seth tugged a wiggling, hissing Gru out of his shallow grave and instantly received the whip of an angry iguana’s tail across his cheek. “Whoa, boy,” Seth soothed as he placed the big fellow’s belly to the sand but kept his fingers around Gru’s very muscled neck. Flick, flick went an extremely long tongue. Two beady black eyes blinked sand out of them then stared up at Seth. Who in their right mind could love this ugly guy?

  Devereaux Shepherd, that’s who.

  “You okay?” Seth asked his new friend. “Need a drink? Of water?”

  Flick, flick went Gru’s tongue. Still covered with a coat of fine sand, his neck wrinkled when his scaly head rotated toward the ocean. Then…

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Seth called out as the lizard took off running. For a critter fresh out of the grave, Gru had no trouble hot-footing it straight for the water. Pushing up to his feet, Seth beat the lizard to the beach by, well, not much. But he did catch a writhing, clawing Gru by his hind leg before he made it into the open water.

  “You’re not going anywhere, big guy,” Seth told Gru as they set a new azimuth. Uncle George wouldn’t mind an iguana inside his shack for one night. Okay, make that two. One to make sure Gru would live. Another to make sure Seth did.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dev stood at her open kitchen door, looking out. The night seemed especially dark. Especially empty. Exhausted after the drama of the day, Scottie was fast asleep in his room. Cord had yet to explain himself. He’d been on and off his cell most of the evening, talking with his guys. Stevie “Wonder” James had been by, but hadn’t stayed long, just enough to tell Cord that this—whatever this was—was bigger than the two of them. That they’d really stepped in a pile of shit this time.

  How well Dev knew. She’d Googled the Khadeem name and came up against the intimidating profile of a very wealthy, very powerful Mideastern
family. Not only did Lianna’s father, Farraq Khadeem, own the entire peninsula that extended into the Persian Gulf, he also owned one of the world’s richest oil conglomerates. With three sons by his first wife, and five sons by his second, Lianna’s mother, the man dabbled in investments that had doubled his wealth over the last two months. Two months! He seemed to have everything, but obviously, that wasn’t enough, or he wouldn’t have given his only daughter to a known pedophile and a serial rapist, would he?

  In every news photo of him that Dev located, Farraq Khadeem looked every bit the part of an arrogant man. His nostrils flared as if he challenged all reporters and photographers, both Saudi and foreign. He interrupted interviews, and he sneered when he spoke, as if everyone were beneath him. His face seemed ever wrinkled with permanent disgust, making his hawkish nose more pronounced.

  The white, flowing robes he wore lent the usual mystique that other leaders in that part of the world exhibited, but Khadeem’s dark eyes never smiled. There was no illusion of graciousness to anything he said or did. The man even walked like an apex predator as if people everywhere had better get out of his way.

  His wives’ faces had never been photographed, and the women were not seen in public. His daughter, Lianna, was the only one who’d accompanied him on diplomatic visits. Even then, walking briskly with her at his side, he rarely glanced her way. If anything, it was as if he was the important one. Not her.

  In every aspect, he portrayed a powerful man—at least, a man who thought he was powerful—yet not a one of his tall, dark, and handsome sons were ever seen with him. Instead, one very blonde woman, whom Dev learned, would one day inherit his kingdom, always accompanied Khadeem.

  Dev couldn’t locate anything on the two women Farraq had married, but Lianna’s mother had to be of European descent. There was no record of a wedding anywhere Dev looked, yet it seemed obvious. As dark as Khadeem’s skin and hair were, as dark-skinned as his sons were, there had to have been a white woman—somewhere—in Khadeem’s past.

  Dev had also Googled Basheer Bagani. Though not directly related to the reigning kingdom of Saudi Arabia, there was enough royal blood in his line to merit the title he flashed around the world. Ugly rumors and accusations surfed the swells of his shadowy wake. It seemed playboy Basheer particularly liked the energy of high-roller cities. Las Vegas, Nevada. Atlantic City, New Jersey. Monte Carlo, Monaco. Macau, China. He enjoyed being seen and photographed with call girls, showgirls, and supermodels, their ages unimportant. While he flaunted his illicit contacts, police reports abounded, yet the Teflon-coated snake had avoided indictments in several countries, the latest in Ireland.

  The puzzle remained. How had Lianna, a woman of seemingly protected, noble birth, ended up in the basement prison of a depraved human trafficker? Perish the thought.

  Chills raced up Dev’s spine at what she herself had lived through in that dark, dank place. There’d been no lights when she’d come to that night, on what had smelled and felt like a concrete basement floor. She’d never seen the actual structure of her prison after she’d been jostled off the streets of Havana and shoved into a nearby rusted-out van by two random guys, not after they’d pulled a burlap bag over her head. Then one of those big, brave men had knocked her out.

  Why they’d taken Gru along with her became apparent when she came to, and someone struck a match to the kerosene lantern hanging on a chain from the ceiling of the squalid room. Gru had been crammed into a wire cage dangling from the same ceiling. Over a bed of coals.

  She’d screamed and wished she’d left her handsome pet home. They’d laughed. Then things got ugly. Instead of torturing Gru like Dev thought, they’d left him to hiss and cook, while they’d dragged another screaming woman out of her cell and bent her over the metal rail at one end of the rounded room. Dev had watched as the men took turns with the poor woman. While Gru squealed and grunted in pain, she’d watched in morbid fascination at what would surely happen next—to her.

  By sheer coincidence, Ryland “Sonic” DeLorenzo had been on the same Havana street that day. He’d seen Dev’s broad daylight abduction, then tracked the men who’d kidnapped her. In hours, Cord had shown up in all his big brotherly glory, armed to the teeth, and glowing with nuclear rage. How Montego’s dirty little secret still stood after the barrage of hellfire he’d let loose in that cramped Cuban basement prison remained a mystery. Cord meant to kill anything that moved that night, and Dev was okay with it. All she’d wanted was to be safe at home.

  While Cord had grabbed Montego’s rape victim on their dash to freedom, Dev grabbed Gru’s cage and ran like Cord told her to—like Hell was on her heels. She never looked behind her, just ran all the way to the beach, over sand and stone, until she leapt into that lifesaving boat where Miguel waited. Her feet were cut and bleeding by then, but Gru was safe and wet rubber had never smelled as sweet as it did that night.

  But poor Lianna was different. She had been tortured. She couldn’t have walked, much less run, which meant someone carried her out of Montego’s lair. Dev wondered which of Cord’s guys had that honor. But how exactly had they known she was there? Had anyone? The order to rescue these women hadn’t come from Uncle George this time. Then who?

  “Get it done,” Cord growled into his phone. “You should’ve been straight with me from the get-go, damn it, Rabbit.”

  Dev stepped out into the night, missing Gru. Missing Seth. But not needing Cord’s steady angst in her ear. He’d been adamant to the point of hostility that she lose Soldier Boy—his tag for Seth—once and for all. Cord said he’d tell her what was going on as soon as he heard from Cleve “Rabbit” Miller, one of his guys. But Cord was on the phone with Cleve now, and getting angrier by the minute.

  Lowering to the single concrete step off her kitchen, Dev left her brother’s foul mood behind. She had bigger, more mundane problems. Rent. All of her dreams sat behind her in the little bungalow that wasn’t really hers, but needed paint. The rent came due in three days. She’d never been late before, but she worried now. And food. She’d given everything in her cupboards away this morning. The refrigerator was bare. Breakfast would be dry cereal because she had no more milk. No coffee. No juice. Scottie had eaten dry cereal before, but damn it. Dry cereal was a fun treat when it was his idea, but when it was the only thing to eat? This was no life for a child.

  A match struck to Dev’s right, and Trish’s face came out of nowhere. “Soldier boy go home?” she asked, blowing a puff of cigarette smoke upward. Cigarette smokers always did that, as if they could ever send second-hand smoke high enough to not hurt the people around them. Trish didn’t smoke often. She must be upset.

  “He won’t be back,” Dev said simply. “How’s Miguel?”

  Trish didn’t need to know how Seth’s departure had hurt or the look of betrayal in his soft brown eyes when Dev let him down. But Cord had been so fierce, insisting there were things going on that Soldier Boy had no business knowing. That one more operator was a definite no-go. But seriously, all Seth had done since he’d shown up was help. He hadn’t pried, just followed Cord’s orders and put up with his shitty attitude and his bad language.

  “Skippy’s fine,” Trish replied, her gaze on the billowing fumes she’d just spewed at heaven. “One fragment splintered off his collarbone into his pec. Stupid man refused painkillers.”

  “You like him.”

  Trish grunted. “Maybe.” Another puff of leftover nicotine hit the night air. Another lie along with it.

  “Maybe, nothing.” Dev arched her back, tired of being tired. “I see the way you look at him. He’s different and you know it.”

  Another puff and another indifferent, “Maybe.”

  Dev turned to look at her friend. “I think you and he would make a good couple. He’s obviously smitten with you, though I’m not certain why. You’re so hard on him. You’re mean. Even when he’s wounded and flirting with you, you still put him down.”

  Trish’s shoulders lifte
d. “It’s a gift.”

  “You call him Skippy?”

  By then Trish had taken a seat next to Dev. “I call him a lot of things. The guy’s a jerk.”

  “All guys are jerks,” Dev answered, not sure if she meant Miguel or Cord at that precise moment. For sure not Seth. The only mistake he’d made as far as Dev knew had been hanging onto the memory of his dead fiancée too long. Even that wasn’t so bad. It spoke of dedication and honor. Of a good man’s broken heart. A man who loved that deeply was a rare find indeed. And because of that ornery Marine blustering on the phone in the house behind her, she’d told Seth to get lost. It didn’t seem a fair trade.

  “You’re sure quiet.”

  Dev didn’t dare look at Trish. “Yeah, well, it’s been a long day. Aldrich wasn’t happy filling my shift on short notice.”

  “He give you any shit?”

  “He said there’d better not be a next time. You ever feel like you’re burning the candle at both ends, while you’re running out of wax in the middle? That nothing you do is good enough? That everyone wants a piece of you until there are no pieces left?”

  “Yeah. When I lost Evan.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not my…” What else could Dev say? Losing the husband you loved, watching him waste away day after day because his heart had never been strong, was infinitely worse than losing a minimum wage job pushing crab cakes. “Please forgive me. It’s not my place to tell you how to feel about Miguel. I had no right to complain.”

  Trish’s warm hand landed on Dev’s wrist. “’S okay, Devereaux. You meant nothing by it, and I’m glad you think Miguel’s got his eye on me. For so long I’ve dreamed…” She sent another puff into the night. “Let’s just say that it takes a while, you know? Part of me’s still stuck in the past with Evan. When I wake up in the morning, I expect to see him beside me like when he was healthy. He used to roll over in bed and grin at me, his hair tousled and his eyes bright, and you know. He’d get frisky. We’d make love, fall back to sleep and start all over again.”