by KT Bryan
Today was the one-year marker of Sara’s death, their seventh wedding anniversary, and whoever said time heals was not only full of shit, but obviously had never lost a wife. Time didn’t heal, it just gave him too many empty days, too many empty hours, to remember and ache for what he no longer had.
What he’d lost because he’d failed. As a son, a brother, a husband. A protector.
The whiskey mocked him. He downed it in one long swallow, felt the burn, and thought about pouring another.
He didn’t. Today he’d stay sober. For Sara.
He hurled the crystal rocks glass against the wall.
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Lungs bursting, Sara gasped for air, fighting against the ocean’s choppy, storm-tossed current as it hauled her under once again.
She’d been running scared for twelve miserable months now, she’d somehow managed to survive, and after all that, now she was going to drown.
Dammit, she wasn’t ready to die.
She defied the sea’s giant grip, surfaced, and gulped in another agonizing breath. Her eyes stung. Her throat burned. Rain hammered down, blinding her.
Swim. Keep moving.
The swells grew bigger and rougher with every stroke, but she pushed on. One arm, one agonizing kick at a time.
If only Dillon had told her, warned her.
If only she’d never gotten those horrible pictures.
She never should have followed him.
Their last day together still haunted her and she wondered if they could ever get past it.
“Meet me at Delmonico's tonight at eight o'clock, okay? Please, Sara, we need to talk.”
Another wave hit, lifting her higher and higher before dropping her with terrifying speed into a five-foot trough. Water flooded her nose and mouth, and she coughed and choked as a hysterical thought bubbled up inside her.
There had to be sharks this far out. Great Whites, Makos, Hammerheads. Not that she’d see one coming. No, she’d feel it first. Razor sharp teeth slicing into her leg or maybe her torso. And she’d go under, silently screaming.
The waiter at Delmonico's served her another glass of water with a kind smile. She'd been waiting for well over an hour and the man must have figured she'd been stood up. Which apparently she had.
Was this it then? Was her marriage actually over?
Did she want it to be?
Did Dillon?
Sara checked her watch and saw that it was twenty after nine.
It wasn’t like Dillon to pull a no-show. Except that, well, maybe these days not showing up was a big, fat, in-your-face fact that they really were over.
Her shoulders slumped and she pushed away from the table.
After paying the tab, she left the restaurant and got into her car.
That's when she saw him. Speeding down the road in his red Corvette.
Without thinking, she started her car, floored the accelerator and flew out of the parking lot. She followed Dillon all the way down to the docks.
That had been her first mistake.
The ocean was playing a lethal game of chess and she bleakly wondered how long before it declared a checkmate. She kicked with heavy legs, scarcely managing to keep her head above the swells, and tried thinking of something else, anything but the fatigue burning in every muscle.
Blurry images came and went.
By the time she’d parked her car and was halfway down the pier, clear thought had kicked in and she stopped dead in her tracks as she realized she'd stumbled into something bad. Something that could get her and Dillon both killed.
But--
He couldn’t be working, not now, not here, not in the States…
Except--
There were five men. Automatic weapons. Packages and money changing hands.
Then a man, a man with electric blue eyes turning toward her in slow motion. His eyes met hers and for a brief second shock flared, then fear.
Dillon.
Eerie silence shattered by the ragged bursts of machine-gun fire.
Darkness followed by a brilliant, blinding light. A colossal noise, then an inferno. Blistering, burning, agonizing heat.
Something hot and sharp tearing into her shoulder, knocking her backward. Something else ripping into the side of her face sending her spinning. She spun and she spun, over and over and the spinning didn’t stop until she woke up days later in a hospital.
How far out was she? She’d been swimming forever, surely she had to be getting close to land by now.
Her vision faded and her head pounded as she struggled to understand the last few days.
Three days ago, men she didn’t know had taken her, and her child, from that bleak motel room. Craig had warned her there’d always be a risk, but how had they found her? She’d been careful, diligent.
They’d bombarded her with endless questions she hadn’t been able to answer, before Sanchez had finally arrived. The Sanchez. Rafael. The same man who’d been on the pier that night twelve months ago.
He’d gazed at her with a combination of anticipation and hatred, and this morning she’d learned just what the anticipation had been about.
Sanchez grabbed her hair, jerked her forward. Hot breath fanned her cheek as he pulled her against him, touching her, rubbing his erection against her thigh. She tried twisting away, but her arms were tied behind her back impeding her movements. Sanchez slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of her jeans, laughed, then wrenched her back against his chest. Kissed her neck. “Ah, yes, I can smell your fear. It makes you feel alive, does it not?”
A swell lifted her, toying, playing, then thrust her under. Pushed her down, down, down, just the way Sanchez had said it would.
“You are going to die, Señora Caldwell.” He twisted her hair around one finger and her heart raced in panic at the flat coldness of his words. “I’m going to take you, make your body my own. I’m going to hurt you, yet you will beg me for more. Because,” his eyes went almost black with hate and glee, “you will know that once I am finished with you, you are going to die. You will beg me to take you, hurt you, once again. Over and over.” He shoved her to her knees, laughing as she lost her balance.
“Then I’m going to bind you and throw your beautiful body into the ocean right at your husband’s feet. Imagine,” he whispered, as he trailed a finger over her lips, “imagine the water closing over your face, your struggle to get the breath you so desperately need. Your eyes will widen, your mouth will open. Your lungs will squeeze with fire. You will go under, but you will never come up.”
With a merciless laugh and a snap of his fingers, he ordered some lackey to get his yacht ready.
Sara kicked to the surface, broke free, sucking air and water into her lungs. In a panic, she coughed and gasped. She was going to drown, choke to death, just like Sanchez said.
No.
She would survive this.
She would survive no matter what because her child needed her.
A child she’d unwillingly entrusted to an almost-stranger.
Just as they’d neared the Silver Strand and Coronado Island, a man they called Manny had given her a last minute reprieve. Only his name wasn’t Manny, it was Dr. Matthew Radford Jackson IV.
Her brother. Her very wealthy, usually well-tailored, Doctor of archaeology, ex-con brother. A brother she almost hadn’t recognized. He looked like a refugee drug runner with long, dirty brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, gripping a machine gun as though he’d been born with it. For a split second, when he first saw her, he looked shattered. When he recovered, he wore the familiar mask of hate and anger.
The same look he’d worn all those years ago, right after he’d shot their father in the head, blowing brain matter all over her and the rose-patterned wallpaper.
Stunned didn’t sum up even half of what she felt. Seeing him here. Like this.
After dark, while Sanchez dined in the main salon, Matt found her alone in a forward cabin, half naked and shaking with hate, her body bruised and sore.
The second the door opened she took position. As he entered she high-kicked him in the chest, slamming him against the wall. She started to shove the heel of her hand into his face when he caught her by the wrist and snapped, “Dammit, Sara, stop! We have to hurry.”
Her breath came in furious bursts. “Why should I trust you? You’re working for him.”
“Glad you think so.”
“Then what are you doing here?” She regarded him with a reporter’s eye and a sister’s outrage. “I see you traded your Armani suits and field clothes for camo rags and a submachine gun. That’s a long stretch from your usual tools of picks and trowels. But then I suppose drug lords pay quite well. Not that you need it.”
“Don’t judge what you don’t know.”
“I know what I see.”
“No. You don’t.” He gave her an enigmatic look. “Not always. I’ll explain while we walk. Let’s go.” Taking her hand in his, he started to pull her from the darkened room.
She dug in her heels, incredulous. “I’m not going anywhere. In case you haven’t noticed, I have a child--”
“I noticed. Hell of a way to learn I’m an uncle. I’ll take care of her.”
Panic started to rise. She ripped her hand from his. “I can’t leave my child here! With these men. With Sanchez.”
His jaw clenched. “I’m here. I said I’ll take care of her.”
“Ellie. Her name is Ellie. And what do you know about taking care of a six-month-old?”
“I know enough to feed and change her and get her back to you in the next day or two. That is, if you’ll move your ass and get off this boat before Sanchez kills you.”
She looked behind her into the darkest corner where her child lay quietly sleeping. “I… No. I can’t. I can’t leave her. I won’t. I’d rather whore myself to Sanchez.”
“If you don’t leave, you’re both going to die. Or you’ll die and she’ll be sold on the black market. Baby brokers. Sweat shops. Sex trade. Is that what you want?”
“Jesus, Matt!” Sara felt like she’d been kicked in the chest as terror swooped into her heart. “I… She’s my baby. I have to protect her. I’m all she has.” I’m her mother.
Matt took her by the upper arms and turned her toward him. “She won’t have you much longer if you don’t get off this boat. You do know what dead means?”
Sara stood, unable to move in any direction. Nothing she did would be right. If anything happened to Ellie--
“If you want to save your child, then save yourself first.”
“You didn’t.”
“Prison and death are not the same. Please, Sara, go. If you stay and Sanchez kills you, and believe me, he will, Ellie will pay the price. I promise, I’ll do my best to--”
Sara nodded and asked, “Where?” Because Matt was right. Sanchez would kill her and Ellie would have…what?
Nothing. Nothing at all.
Sara’s vision blurred as she gave one last look at her sleeping baby. Dressed in a lavender footie, Ellie lay bunched on her stomach, diapered butt straight up, thumb in her mouth, her favorite blanket clutched in tiny fingers. Sara dare not go to her, dare not smell that sweet baby smell, dare not touch those soft pink cheeks.
How could she leave her?
How could she not?
“The back of the boat. Hurry.” When they reached the stern, Matt snapped a compass to her wrist and fixed a nylon pouch around her waist. “Don’t let this get to anyone but Craig Duncan. Someone’s leaking information to Sanchez, so for God’s sake don’t tell anyone, not anyone, that you saw me. Except Craig. Go straight to Craig. Sanchez wanted you dropped at Dillon’s feet so we’re close to land. You’re within swimming distance of Coronado. I’ll bring Ellie to you there.”
So. That’s how Sanchez had finally found her. The leak. Craig had warned her--
“And stay away from Dillon.”
Her head snapped up. “Explain.”
“Together, you make the perfect target. Dillon is--” Footsteps approached from behind. “Tomorrow. I’ll meet you tomorrow with Ellie and explain. Now go!” He hefted her onto the side railing.
At the last second every instinct inside her balked. She couldn’t do it. She simply could not leave her child, no matter what it might cost her. She’d rather face Sanchez, take her chances with Satan himself, than leave her child.
She back-kicked Matt. What she hadn’t planned on was his anticipation. He blocked her kick and used her leverage against her to send her winging over the side.
Jesus God, if anything happened to Ellie, her precious baby, she’d kill him with her bare hands for pushing her overboard.
It was so dark now she couldn’t see more than a few inches in front of her. Panic squeezed in again. What if she’d gotten turned around and wasn’t headed toward shore at all? Stopping to tread water, she checked the luminous display on the compass, then faced east and tried to spot something, anything at all through the rain and inky blackness.
There. Those had to be lights. It looked like land up ahead, but she was still too far away to be sure. Maybe, though, maybe that was the Hotel Del.
The ocean’s maleficent darkness pulled at her legs, tugging, clawing, dragging, and she wondered how long it would take to sink to the bottom, to let go and just fade into a thousand years worth of silt and sand.
To sleep.
No. To let go now would be her child’s greatest betrayal.
But God help her, her limbs were so tired she could barely lift her clumsy arms out of the water.
Somewhere in the depths of her mind flashed an image of a happier, more carefree time. Of a vivacious young woman. A woman with a destiny to fulfill, a blossoming future spread before her with nothing standing in her way. And a bright impression of a man. A kind, loving man with a warm, sensuous touch and a rich, whiskey-timbered voice.
The sun was almost overhead, and Sara, sitting on a beach towel, with her chin propped on her knees, watched Dillon dump another bucket of sand onto the already huge heap two feet away. With a teasing smile she asked, “What are you doing, trying to pile up enough sand to reach to the moon?”
“Much grander than that. I’m building you the most beautiful, most legendary, most infamous castle of all medieval legend.”
By the amount of sand he’d managed to accumulate, she didn’t doubt him, and she laughed. “Ah, King Arthur lives on.” He was building her Camelot, right now, right there, and a gentle warmth eased into that place in her heart where Dillon lived.
Life was their kingdom, and Camelot, their favorite.
Dillon flashed her a wicked grin, looking for all the world like a bronze pagan king. His gaze traveled from her tan legs to her breasts, then lingered on her mouth. When their gazes locked, her body went hot, liquid and slick. She loved that he could do that to her. Make her want him right then, right there, on a beach filled with people.
“Behave,” she said, “or I’m calling Merlin.”
“Have his cellphone number, do ya?”
“Of course. On speed dial. I’m going to have him cast a spell on you.”
“You, my fair maiden, already have. ‘Tis the strongest spell the world has ever known.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “Your love is enchanting, and I am forever your captive.”
That day they’d built a castle to dream on and laughed a thousand laughs. And when twilight arrived, when the beach had emptied, they’d made love in the sea.
It was an idyllic time. A golden age of sun and laughter and love. Adventure and romance.
Then, like a shot, she saw Sanchez’s chilling smile rip through her memories, and the nightmare she’d been living for the last million years screamed into focus, goading her to fight that much harder to survive. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, let that sadistic monster win.
She had skills now. Things she’d been taught. Day after agonizing day, Craig had taught her a lot over the last year—hand-to-hand in case she couldn’t get to the gun he insisted she carry. Not only
carry, but knew inside and out, and could drill a cluster in a target no wider than a silver dollar. When she’d accused him of overkill, he’d made sure he’d shown her pictures of what Sanchez was capable of. She’d been smart enough, scared enough, to shut up and learn until Craig was certain she was capable of handling herself. She never let her guard down.
Not that anything she’d learned was helping her now. She was growing weaker by the second and could barely move. She wanted to scream for help, but didn’t, afraid someone might hear, afraid someone might not.
Long minutes ticked by and it felt like she made no progress at all until she looked up and saw that the lights looked larger. Brighter.
With rain and pure exhaustion blurring her vision, she didn’t think she could make one more stroke toward shore. But then she hit the breakers and huge waves suddenly propelled her forward and she was flying, riding on water, floating, faster and faster and then, thank God, she felt the sandy bottom beneath her hands and knees. With her last ounce of strength, she crawled on all fours, dragging herself forward, and collapsed face first onto the sand.
“I made it, Ellie,” she whispered. “Mommy made it.”
She drew in one last ragged breath before darkness closed in and claimed her.
CHAPTER SIX
Matt Jackson’s soul burned with hatred.
So this was it. The end of the road, the final hour, the gate to hell. After years of working undercover to bring down the SBC, he was going to wind up dying like a fucking insect on a pin.
Fire. Heat. Pain.
Darth Vader jabbed him again with his neon red lightsaber. Jab. Stick. Thrust. Ribs, groin, neck, feet. Fifty thousand volts of lightning, blazing, burning, convulsing his muscles until his body sagged in painful exhaustion.
He shook his head. The room swirled.
Not Vader, Sanchez. Sanchez wielding a nasty electro-shock baton.
Damn, he’d been injected with some weird-ass hallucinogenic drug and he couldn’t quite separate fantasy from reality.
Push past the drug.
