by Meghan March
“That’s as good as we can do until you get your ass to a hospital.”
Rome stands and cracks his neck from side to side. “Now we talk about how we’re getting your woman back.”
* * *
My unwilling assistant in my shit-ass rescue plan isn’t dead. While Rome draws plans on the beach with a big stick, Tanner pulls two bullets from the guy’s chest and patches him up well enough that we’re pretty sure he isn’t going to die.
“Can’t kill old Julius so easy,” he tells me when they load him up first.
He’s along for the ride, although we gave him the option of staying on the island and radioing a friend for help. He took one look at the carnage and chose to come along rather than try to explain what happened there.
Whoever lands on Genie Caye next is going to get a hell of an unpleasant surprise.
We push off the dock in a black hard-bottom Zodiac favored by Force Recon. Where the fuck Rome found it in Belize, I have no idea.
“You didn’t fly this boat here under the chopper, did you?” I ask as I take a seat up toward the bow.
“Fuck no. You just gotta know who to call when you need a favor,” he says as he fires up the engine.
Concord trails in a few minutes behind Tanner, Rome, and me. He tosses a wallet toward Rome. “Only got one ID. Fucker forgot to leave his wallet home. Rookie mistake.”
Rome nods and hands it back to him. “Call it in. Have Nila run it.”
That gets my attention. “You’re not using Arianna?”
Rome shakes his head. “Thought she decided to take a vacation right along with you. She’s been radio silent since you left.”
What the fuck? That doesn’t seem right, but I don’t have a chance to think more about it because at a hundred yards out to sea, an explosion on the island we’ve just left behind rips through the lightening sky.
Rome lets off the throttle and all of us look back at the structures, now going up in flames. Everyone looks surprised, except Concord.
“The fuck did you do?”
“Took care of the evidence.”
Rome laughs. “Rigged explosives?”
“Y’all don’t call me the cleanup crew for nothing.”
Rome shrugs and buries the throttle again, taking us toward whatever island they managed to land the chopper on.
Tanner is watching my leg and the blood seeping out from beneath the black duct tape. “You need a hospital, man. You might’ve clipped something,” he yells over the wind and engine noise.
I give him a shake of my head. “It can wait.”
“Just sayin’. We get your woman, then you get that taken care of quick.”
Rome approaches a long island and cuts to the right, taking us around the side opposite from the reef, facing the mainland.
It takes several moments before I see the chopper. It’s covered with old army netting that might have been used in the jungles of Vietnam. Apparently it doubles as camo with the mangroves of Belize too.
Sunlight is breaking over the horizon, and I’m trying to figure out how much of a head start Vander has. But by air, we’ve got the advantage.
What looks like a signal mirror flashes at us, and Rome turns hard to head for the side of the dock not taken up by a boathouse, only letting off the throttle when I’m pretty sure he’s gonna beach us.
“Who else is here?”
Rome’s crew expands at a slow rate, because he’s picky as fuck about who he brings into the operation. People he can trust. People who can handle the kind of paydays we get without getting even greedier for more.
Mercenary work pays well, but coming from a shit-ass military salary, not all the guys know how to handle the money. For years, I just banked it. Never in the US, always in foreign accounts.
“Fields is here. He drew the short straw and had to babysit the bird while we came to get your ass and dig into the intel on your Vander dick. By the way, Vander Iman doesn’t exist.”
Leo Fields is an ex-Navy SEAL, so I’m sure being the odd man out on a rescue operation happening via water pissed him off to no end. I know for a fact that he hates sorting through intel more than anything.
He comes down the dock before we tie up. “Thought you could handle yourself, huh, asshole? What the fuck were you doing getting caught up in a mess of shit on your damn honeymoon?”
“It wasn’t my fucking honeymoon.”
“Whatever. Anniversary vacation. How did you not clock that shit?”
I could give them all the excuses in the world, but it doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. Everything that happens to Kat is on my head. Every fucking thing.
He offers a hand, and I clasp it halfway up his arm. “It’s good to see you, brother. Been too long. We miss your ass out there. Not the same just hearing your sexy voice over the comms.”
“Same to you. Your jokes aren’t the same from hundreds of miles away.”
As Leo tugs me up onto the dock, a hiss escapes my lips at the pressure on my leg when I stand.
“Shit, dude. What the fuck happened to you?”
“Vargas. He’s the one who sent this Vander Iman after me. Apparently he’s decided now is the time for revenge.”
“We scrambled the security footage, but if he somehow managed to get it back, watching you lead his wife out of the house would burn his pride something fierce.”
I was also the one who arranged for her to be accepted into an international women’s agency that provides new identities for narco wives and women escaping terrorist leaders and mafia, so if anyone deserves his anger, it’s me. The other guys didn’t know that detail. They just knew that she disappeared. In our line of work, you don’t ask questions. Somehow, Vargas must have found out, though.
“None of that shit matters. Only Kat.”
“Still pissed you only let us watch your wedding from the fringes, pretending we didn’t know your ass. What the fuck kind of brotherhood is that? You still haven’t told her, have you?”
I shake my head. “It wasn’t personal.”
Concord and Tanner help haul Julius out.
Rome stops beside us on the dock. “You bitches done catching up on what happened over the summer? Because we got a motherfucking rescue to execute.”
“Let’s fucking do this.”
“Hell yeah. Bird is ready to fly. We’re refueled and good to go.”
We head toward the massive house that sprawls along the island with some large outbuildings, toward what I can see now is a helipad.
“Who the hell owns this place?” My gaze cuts to Rome. “Or don’t I want to know.”
“Head of a deposed authoritarian government who has recently decided to adopt Buddhism and turn over a new leaf before he dies. Don’t worry, man; Rosh rarely comes here. He just keeps it outfitted in case he has to stage another coup.”
Rome’s connections never cease to amaze me.
“Then where can I get some gear? I’m ready.”
“Right this way, man.”
Leo waves us toward the house, and I follow him inside. After trailing him through a series of secret hallways, we end up in what looks like a bunker prepped for a nuclear holocaust. I pull on black fatigues, boots, body armor, a comm, and enough hardware to sink a small armada.
“Locked and loaded?”
“Let’s move.”
“Good. I’m getting antsy. Haven’t shot a gun in almost eight hours,” Fields says.
Because I was out of the office and Rome was using the Central American base to run ops while I was gone, I have no clue what mission they took on when I left. At this point, I don’t give a shit about anything but climbing in that bird and going after Kat.
Julius is on the couch in the living room when we get there.
“You gonna be okay?” I ask.
He nods. “As long as whoever owns this place doesn’t come back and kill me.”
“You’re straight,” Rome says. “We’ll radio for a friendly to come get you and take you to the hospi
tal. God willing, you’ll see this asshole there in a few hours.” He nods at me.
I don’t give a shit about a hospital.
I cross the room to shake Julius’s hand. “I’m sorry I did you that way, man. I was desperate.”
He gives me a serious look. “Can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same for my Margie all those years ago. Do what you gotta do, boy. God bless.”
With that, we leave the house and head for the chopper.
Everyone’s strapped and ready as Tanner tugs the last of the camo netting away, and Leo jumps into the pilot’s seat and fires up the engine. I duck under the rotor wash and load up.
As the chopper lifts off the helipad, I make a promise to myself. We’ll bring Kat home or they’ll bury me at sea. No alternatives.
Chapter 37
Kat
I’ve cried so many tears that I have none left to fall. My throat is dry and scratchy, and my eyes burn. The last however many hours have been something out of a nightmare.
Watching Dane get shot and beaten tore something loose in me, and I’m not sure what it was.
My innocence, maybe?
It was still dark when we pulled up behind a massive, well-lit yacht. I thought we were going to crash right into it, but instead a huge hatch rose in the back, and we drove right up onto some kind of lift.
“Toy compartment,” Vander said with a laugh at my shocked expression.
Every word that came out of his mouth made me want to punch him, but with my bound hands and now my bound ankles, that wasn’t going to happen. More silent men in black polo shirts, perfectly creased khaki pants, and boat shoes met us inside the “toy compartment.”
They looked just like they should—the preppy staff of a really expensive yacht—until you saw the weapons slung over their shoulders and strapped into the holsters at their sides. I don’t know anything about guns, but what they had looked like something you’d see on TV being carried by men guarding a drug lord’s compound. Maybe that’s just where my mind was going because of what Vander said about the cartel.
Since then, I’ve been trying to piece it all together, but I keep stumbling over the idea of Dane as a mercenary. At this point, I don’t know anything for sure, except that I want to go home.
A silent sob jerks in my chest as I sit numbly in the stately cabin they dumped me in a couple of hours ago. At least, I think it was only a couple of hours. I’ve lost track of time, and my head keeps bobbing as I nod in and out.
I’ve worked at the bindings on my wrists and ankles until blood dripped onto the cream-colored chair and matching plush carpet.
Sorry, not sorry. Don’t freaking tie me to a chair next time, assholes.
Finally, the door opens, and I shrink back into the cushions.
“At least you can’t do anything stupid while you’re tied up.”
Vander’s accent is stronger now. Was he disguising it before?
The door opens again, and this time it’s someone unfamiliar, a woman who’s built like a tank and could probably clean up inside a UFC cage.
“April is going to assist in getting you cleaned up so we can photograph you for final bidding.”
His words unleash another round of chills skating over my skin.
“Final bidding?”
“How else do you think we’re going to sell you, Katerina? Auction, clearly.” Vander waves the other woman forward. “Come, April. Let’s get this started. We don’t have all day.”
What is it with bitches and A names? I swear to God, if I ever get home, I’m going to avoid every single one of them for the rest of my life.
Oh, your name is Amy? Sorry. Can’t be friends with you. Allegra? Not only are you an allergy medicine, you’re probably a cunt. Andrea? Let me call the cops in advance, because I assume you’re going to try to kill me.
The thoughts ripping through my head clue me in to the fact that I’m losing my shit. My body shakes as she takes another step forward.
“Please don’t touch me. Just tell me what you need me to do.” I hate that my voice trembles, but at this point, my reserves of inner strength are tapped out.
Vander studies me for a moment, no doubt trying to determine my sincerity. He must see the truth because he jerks his head toward a closed door.
“Bathroom is through there. Go shower. There’s nothing you can use as a weapon, but April will introduce you to a new level of pain if you try anything at all.” He closes the distance between us as he talks, finally reaching out to grip my chin with two fingers. “Understand me, Kat?”
I nod.
Vander straightens and stretches out a hand, palm up. April pulls a wicked-looking blade from a sheath at her side and, holding it by the tip, places the handle in Vander’s hand.
It takes everything I have to muster one last show of courage and not shrink away and squeeze my eyes shut.
I watch as he slices through the ropes and tape binding me. The skin on my wrists is flayed and dripping with blood. When removing the restraints tears off small pieces, I flinch, despite trying not to.
“Idiot.” Over his shoulder, he tells April, “Make sure you get a first aid kit and wrap these up when she’s done showering.”
April nods.
Is she mute? The question enters my mind as Vander crouches to slice through my ankle restraints and peels them off, cursing again and sending stabs of pain through my legs.
“Get in the fucking shower. April will have something for you to wear after she cleans these up. Don’t do anything stupid.”
With his last warning delivered, Vander rises and strides from the room, slamming the door behind him.
April’s dark eyes meet mine as she jerks her head toward the bathroom door. “Go. Don’t make me hurt you.”
She speaks.
I stand slowly and carefully, hoping I don’t fall on my face and give her a reason to kill me.
I’m not going to let them kill me. Dane is still out there.
As I walk toward the bathroom, the tears I thought I’d cried out burn behind my eyes.
Unless he’s already dead.
No. I don’t believe that.
I force the thoughts away and step into the opulent white-and-gold bathroom. Fluffy white towels are rolled and tucked into niches in the wall near the shower enclosure.
I make a mistake, glancing into the mirror above the sink, and freeze.
A wide dark bruise is beginning to show on my cheekbone. My eyes are bloodshot. The corner of my mouth is bleeding.
How is he going to hide all that for the photos?
The obvious answer occurs to me. “Photoshop. He’s going to Photoshop me.”
Human trafficking 101.
My shoulders slump, and I’ve never looked more defeated.
Fuck them. Fuck this.
I swallow back the pity and straighten. I’m better than this. I won’t cower.
“Get in the fucking shower.” April’s reflection appears in the mirror as she steps closer. “Don’t waste my time, or I promise you’ll regret it.”
I turn for the shower, and without caring that she’s going to see me naked, I strip the torn and dirty cover-up over my head and drop it on the floor before reaching for the door.
After turning the water on, I wait for it to get hot before stepping into the stream. It stings my cuts and torn skin, but within moments, I’m thankful for it. I reach for the soap, wishing it was as easy to scrub away today as the dirt marking my skin.
I try to stretch out my shower as long as I can until April bangs on the glass enclosure and throws a towel halfway over it.
“Wrap it up. Food is here.”
Until the moment she said food, I would have sworn that there was no way I could choke down a single bite of anything. But as soon as April steps out of the bathroom, the aroma of something amazing wafts into the room and my stomach growls.
“Really?” I say it out loud as I shut off the water and reach for the towel.
Apparently kidnapping does
n’t slow down my appetite. I’ll be led like the fatted calf to the sacrificial altar. At this point, I know my brain can’t really comprehend what’s happening, because all I can think about is stuffing myself until I can’t eat another bite.
And pray that somewhere out there, Dane is still breathing, and maybe, if there’s any kind of divine guidance, attempting another rescue.
I secure the towel around myself after drying off and step back into the bedroom where my bare feet sink into the plush white carpet. Well, white except for the bloodstains I left on it. Maybe they’ll be evidence for some CSI unit if this yacht is ever searched.
How are you going to explain that, Vander?
A tray is set up on a small table with two chairs on the opposite side of the room where I was tied up, and April nods at the chair, going back to wordless communication. I sit and unwrap a linen napkin from around a knife and fork. A knife . . . It’s not much, but it’s something.
I pick up the fork as a tremor grips my hand. When the fork lands on the silver tray with a metallic clatter, I squeeze my eyes shut for a beat and suck in a breath to calm myself.
I think this is the longest I’ve gone since my mother’s diagnosis without worrying about whether I have ALS. Probably because I might not live long enough to find out.
Pushing the thought out of my head, I pick up the fork again and dig into a steaming mound of scrambled eggs with what looks like grilled vegetables, crusty French bread, and jam.
In my peripheral vision, I see April watching me from her cross-armed position at the door.
I shovel in bite after bite, testing the limits of my stomach, not stopping until only a few bread crumbs remain.
Another knock comes at the door, and I turn to see April open it.
“Clothes and first aid kit, as requested.”
She grunts in response to the female voice, and takes an armful of fabric and a red bag through the small opening before shutting the door again.
I close my fingers around the butter knife and slip my hand under the table to hide it in the folds of my towel, then pretend to pick up crumbs with my fingers to get every morsel.
April walks toward me but pauses to toss the clothes on the bed before reaching the table. She shoves aside my breakfast tray and drops the red bag on the table.
