by Amy Vansant
“Where? Okay. We’ll be right down,” said Shee into her phone.
“What is it?” asked Mason, staring at Mick’s scar. It made him smile—the first evidence that the man in the bed really was Mick McQueen.
Leave it to Mick to survive a gunshot to the head.
Shee tucked her phone into her pocket and headed for the door. “Martisha’s downstairs. We should go down.”
Mason patted Mick on the arm and followed Shee into the hall. Before they could recall the elevator, a low rumbling filled the air.
“What’s that?” asked Shee.
Mason cocked his head. “Sounds like a boat?”
Shee moved to the window overlooking the back of the hotel. Her jaw fell slack.
“It’s Martisha.”
Mason joined her at the window. Below, a heavyset black woman in nurse scrubs tossed the lines of a Boston Whaler Montauk to the pier. He recalled admiring the little boat the day before. Another identical craft remained tied to the opposite side of the pier.
“She looks in a hurry.”
“I think she’s running.” Shee flung open the door to the stairs and started down.
Mason started after her, and then stopped at the top of the stairs.
Shit.
He hadn’t totally mastered stairs with the new leg.
Deciding it would be faster, he returned to the hall to find the elevator doors sliding shut. He threw his arm out to block them from closing and hopped inside, slapping at the ground floor button.
“Come on, come on, come on...”
By the time the elevator spat him out and he pushed through the back door of the hotel, Shee had dropped into the remaining Boston Whaler. Croix, Angelina and Bracco stood on the pier.
He moved as fast as he could as Shee barked orders at the others.
“Stay here. Lock the place down. I want men on doors front and back.”
Mason pushed past Bracco, whose bulk practically blocked the entire pier.
“I’m coming,” he said, eyeing the ladder. He couldn’t circumvent it the way he had the stairs.
“I’m starting to think the world wasn’t made for a one-legged man,” he grumbled.
“What?” asked Shee.
“Nothing.” He made his way down, using his upper body strength to do most of the work, before dropping himself into the boat.
Shee started the engine.
“Let me drive,” he said, moving to the center console and hipping her out of the way.
Shee glared at him, unsure.
“Boats are kind of my thing,” he added.
She relented.
“Good point.”
&&&
Chapter Forty-One
Mason slammed the boat into reverse as Shee threw out a hand to catch her balance against the bench seating. She braced as Mason maneuvered back and shifted into forward.
Martisha’s craft had already disappeared around the river’s bend.
“We’re going to lose her,” Shee screamed over the roar of the engine.
“Not many places for her to go.”
Shee found her sea legs, wind whipping her hair behind her like a flag. She was thrilled Mason had made it to the boat. He looked at home behind the wheel. Unlike him, boats weren’t her thing.
They passed a small fishing craft. Shee turned to see its operator shaking a fist at them as they passed.
“I think we’re going too fast,” she said.
Mason maneuvered around a larger boat, sending docked crafts rocking in their slips. “She isn’t following the speed limit.”
Shee spotted Martisha’s boat, wondering what they’d do if they caught her. As far as she knew, the woman hadn’t done anything except tend to her father. An islandy accent on the opposite side of a phone wouldn’t hold up in court. Only the nurse’s panicked escape helped to confirm their suspicion she was somehow involved in something.
An idea occurred to her. There was one thing they could prove.
They could have her arrested for stealing the boat.
Shee squatted in front of the console and tapped Mason’s leg to get him to move out of the way. She hit metal.
Whoops.
Somehow, he still recognized her request and shifted to the right, enabling her to open the compartment beneath the steering wheel.
“What are you doing?” he asked as she rooted.
“Looking for a gun.”
“You think they keep guns in the guest boats?”
She shut the compartment and stood. “It’s Florida. Worth a shot. You don’t have a gun, do you?”
“Sure, it’s taped between my butt cheeks, if you want to grab it.”
Shee sighed. They maybe should have taken a second to grab weapons.
“She’s headed for open water.” Mason jerked the wheel right to point toward Jupiter Inlet, the treacherous stretch of water leading to the ocean.
“Are those whitecaps?” Shee pointed at rows of churning white lines in the distance.
Mason nodded. “She might wreck the boat getting through there.”
“We might wreck ours getting through there.”
He seemed unconcerned.
Mason whipped around a large sightseeing boat pulling from a pier. Shee grabbed the windshield to keep from being thrown off the side.
Martisha’s boat hit the whitecaps and the gap between them closed.
Shee held her breath, watching Martisha’s small craft bob and dip. A moment later, the nurse successfully cleared the churning inlet and streaked to the right, heading south down the coast.
Damn.
Mason used one hand to push her back onto the bench. “Hold on.”
He dropped their speed and hit the first wave at an angle, the boat rolling so hard to the right Shee feared it might flip. Her fingers strained to keep a grip to the underside of the seat.
She remembered why she never spent a lot of time on boats.
Mason motored away from the rocks. In the park at the edge of the inlet, she spotted onlookers pointing, no doubt wondering who the crazy people broaching the inlet in tiny boats were.
Another rolling wave slammed into the side of the boat and Mason fought through it, righting the craft and moving into open ocean. Compared to the protected waters of the Intracoastal Waterway, the wind and chop increased here ten-fold. Shee’s ears whistled no matter which way she turned her head. Her hair whirled like a storm.
“Where is she going?” she asked aloud, knowing the chances Mason could hear her were slim.
Does the woman have an escape plan? Or has she simply panicked?
Shee heard a pop! loud enough to surmount the thunder of their roaring engine. Martisha had turned toward them, one hand on the wheel and one pointed in their direction.
Shee squinted.
“Is she shooting at us?”
She stood. Another crack rang out and Mason dropped the boat’s speed. The shift in momentum combined with Shee’s rise from the bench tossed her forward like a ragdoll.
Grappling the smooth sides of the console, her fingers found no purchase.
Shee turned her head a second before smashing her face into the windshield, striking her temple above the hairline. Metal bit into her scalp. Spinning to the left, her rib cracked against the port railing. Her feet arched above her head.
She tumbled into the water.
The roar of the wind stopped.
Shee smiled.
The quiet was lovely.
Something whizzed by her like a little bottle rocket.
Neat.
But—
Why is it so cold?
She opened her eyes to find her hands floating above her, backlit by sunlight.
That’s weird...
Her chin dropped as movement caught her attention.
Three small sea turtles hovered in front of her, floating like babies in embryonic fluid. She reached to touch them.
So beautiful...
A shaft of light illuminated their ador
able black eyes, their tiny fins pumping through the water.
Look at how they swim...I want to swim...
Something caught in her hair, jerking her backward.
No!
Before she could escape, something clasped her upper arm, yanking her from her turtle friends.
They blinked at her, drifting farther away.
No, wait—
A fire lit in her lungs.
Oh my God. I can’t breathe. I can’t—
The wind returned, roaring in her ears. She gasped for breath. Soothing oxygen filled her lungs.
“Grab the boat!”
It was Mason’s voice, demanding her attention. He slipped a hand beneath her armpit and hauled her into the Whaler like a landed tuna.
He hovered above her, his expression twisted with concern.
“What happened?” she asked. She liked it on the floor of the boat. The wind couldn’t get to her and the engine had stopped.
“Are you okay? Your head’s bleeding.”
She stared into his face, trying to piece together what had brought her to this place.
“Did you see the baby turtles?” she asked.
He shook his head. Instead of being enchanted, he seemed even more concerned.
He would have liked them if he’d seen them.
“They were so cute—”
“You hit your head.”
His fingers moved through her hair as if he were searching for nits. He touched something sore and she jerked away.
“Ow.”
“You’re cut. You might need a stitch or two.”
She closed her eyes. “They just want to go home.”
“Who?”
“The loggerheads.”
Mason helped her sit up. He lifted the seat cushion and rummaged in a locker there to retrieve a small white towel. He handed it to her.
“Press this against your head. Stay down here. Do not get up.”
She took the towel as he started the engine.
“They just wanted to go home,” she mumbled again, pressing the towel against the bit that hurt.
&&&
Chapter Forty-Two
Tyler rolled past The Loggerhead Inn in his rented, dark red Hyundai sedan, noting the cars in the hotel’s parking lot.
Looks like it’s still in business—
He dropped his speed another notch.
Hold on. That’s the couple’s truck.
He squinted, straining to catch the license plate on the back of the black Ford F150.
What are the chances?
He was ninety percent positive the woman he spotted in the airport was half the couple he’d seen entering Viggo’s place. His distant vantage point hadn’t provided him with much detail, but the navy puffy vest and the long dark ponytail tracked.
When the big guy joined her in the boarding line, he knew it was them.
He’d followed them off the plane to the parking garage and watched as they fought with some guy in a sedan. Big guy roughed him up. He didn’t know what all that was about. He hadn’t felt comfortable getting close enough to hear every word. But when they were done with the schmuck in the car, they got into a black F150 and left. Tyler had noted the license plate and then rented his own vehicle, thinking he’d probably never see them again.
And now, the truck was here, of all places, parked at The Loggerhead.
Could they be my competition? A new hit team tracing Shea McQueen’s whereabouts same as me?
Hiding in Viggo’s bathroom, he hadn’t heard the whole conversation between the woman and the old giant, but her tone had rung sad at times.
Could she be related to Shea?
The name McQueen had been itching his brain ever since he’d found the framed news clipping. At first, he’d chalked the familiarity to the famous actor, Steve McQueen—
Wait—crap—
Tyler snapped from his thoughts to jerk his steering wheel left and make a u-turn at the end of the cul-de-sac. He’d nearly taken out a mailbox.
Jeeze, Tyler, pay attention.
He pulled to the side of the one-way street beside a tree-heavy empty lot and put the car in park.
McQueen.
I remember now.
There’d been a contract on a McQueen years ago. A woman with a strange first name he couldn’t recall. He’d put a little time into tracking her while freelancing, working toward establishing his reputation. What he thought would be an easy gig wasn’t. He’d discovered tracking wasn’t his thing. He hooked up with Brett to get more steady work. No hunting. Just killing.
Could that McQueen still be alive? Could this be her?
Tyler smiled to himself.
This could end up being a two-fer.
Tyler eyed the empty lot beside the hotel.
Hm.
He got out of the car to scope what vantage point existed in the postage stamp-sized forest beside the hotel. The underbrush grabbed at his clothing.
I hate nature.
Tyler silently thanked Minneapolis for being the sort of hellhole to inspire him to wear jeans. Without them, he would have passed out from lack of blood before he got halfway into the forest.
The lot ended at a shallow beach, flanking a slow-moving river. Large Tuscan-style mansions lined the opposite bank. To the left, the hotel’s pier jutted into the water.
He glanced up river.
The smart way to show up might be by kayak.
He ducked back into the forest, thoughts lost in his planning.
“Hey there.”
Tyler’s head jerked up. A bleach-blond man with a matching goatee stood between him and his vehicle, standing with hands on hips.
“Hey,” said Tyler, a smile leaping to his lips.
Shit.
“This is private property,” said the man.
“Is it?” Tyler looked around as if he were confused. “I’m sorry, man. I’ve been looking for a lot like this and I thought maybe there was a for sale sign on the riverside.”
Good one. Nice.
The man shook his head. “Nope. Not for sale. Property of The Loggerhead.” Blondie motioned to the hotel.
“Oh, gotcha. No problem, man.”
“Everything okay, William?”
A woman dressed in housekeeping togs appeared at the boundary between the hotel and the forest.
Tyler’s brow knit, even as his smile remained steady.
What’s up with this place? Two staff on my ass that fast?
“We’re all good,” said the blond man, holding up a hand.
“I was just leaving,” added Tyler, tromping toward his car.
His cheeks ached from smiling.
&&&
Chapter Forty-Three
“She shot at us. Shee fell and hit her head.” Mason screamed his message into Shee’s phone. He didn’t dare slow the boat, but making himself heard over the engine was like trying to have a conversation in a wind tunnel. “She might need stiches.”
Feeling he’d relayed the necessary information, Mason hung up, his nerves still jangling. When Shee hit the water—
There’d been a time he could have scooped her in his arms and swum her back to the hotel. When she fell, he’d suffered a split second of piercing doubt, questioning if he could haul her back into the boat.
He’d never second guessed himself in a moment of crisis before.
He didn’t like it.
He’d pulled her out of the water. Soon, he’d have to get her out of the boat. New prosthetics and pier ladders weren’t a marriage made in heaven.
He glanced down at Shee. She sat on the deck, her hand gripping the bench seating like he’d instructed her to do. Her eyes were open, she seemed okay, but he didn’t trust her to climb the ladder to the pier on her own. She’d been woozy when he plucked her from the sea—seemed more interested in talking to sea turtles than him. The white fishing rag in her hand had turned pink with a mixture of blood and seawater.
Roaring toward The Loggerhead’s dock, Ma
son spotted Angelina, Bracco and a dark-haired, spectacled man he didn’t recognize, waiting.
His shoulders relaxed a notch.
The cavalry has gathered.
He dropped speed and slid the Whaler into its spot, sidling up to the ladder.
“Is she okay?” asked Angelina.
Mason leaned down and hefted Shee in his arms, taking an extra moment to be sure his leg didn’t betray him.
“Put me down. I can walk,” protested Shee.
She seemed a little more like herself now.
First class pain in the ass.
“Just let us help you,” he mumbled, pushing her onto the ladder. She gripped the rungs and, crouching, Bracco grabbed her wrists to lift her to the pier.
“I can climb—”
She couldn’t finish her sentence before Bracco collected her into his arms and carried her to the grass. The stranger followed and dropped to his knee beside her as Bracco lowered her to the ground.
“Put me down,” she demanded.
“She’s shot?” asked Angelina.
Mason scowled. “What? No.”
No wonder Angelina looked so panicked.
He climbed out of the boat. “I said we were shot at. She hit her head and fell into the water.” He thrust his chin in Shee’s direction and increased his volume to be sure she could hear him. “Because she didn’t stay seated like I told her to.”
“That doesn’t sound like her at all,” said Angelina, looking relieved.
Shee glared at him. “You drive like a lunatic. You could have given me a heads up before you slammed on the brakes—Ow.”
The man Mason didn’t know inspected Shee’s cut and she jerked her head away from him.
“Don’t touch it. I’m fine.”
“He’s Mick’s doctor. Let him look and stop being such a baby,” scolded Angelina.
Glowering, Shee submitted.
Mason swallowed a smile and jerked his attention from her.
“We’re going to need more security,” he said to Angelina.
“Yep. Already on it. Pulling staff from other duties.”
Standing at Angelina’s side, Bracco nodded.
The doctor straightened and offered his diagnosis. “Couple of stitches wouldn’t hurt.”
Shee grimaced. “Since when?”
