Do or Die Reluctant Heroes

by Unknown

  She sat on it, intending to swing her legs over, but he shook his head. “Feet on the rail. We’ll need to push off. I know it looks like the canal is right below us, but it’s not. There’s a few feet of wall. We’ll need to get past that. It’ll help if you can push, but if you can’t, just hold on to me. I’ll get us where we need to go.”

  “Oh my God,” Phoebe said, as he helped her up, helped her balance, showed her where to hold on to the frame of the screen while he pulled himself up beside her.

  “Do you know how to do a cannonball? That’s the best way to hit the water from this height—arms and legs in close, head tucked down.”

  “I can try,” Phoebe told him.

  Ian’s face was blurry in the dimness of the moonlight, but he came into focus as he leaned in close. “You’re gonna be great,” he told her with a smile that made his eyes impossibly blue. “After we hit the water, we’ll swim beneath the surface, and then we’re going to hide under a dock at that marina that’s just to the north.” He pointed, but without her glasses she couldn’t see that far. Still, she knew the marina in question, so she nodded. “We’ll need to be as quiet as possible each time we surface for air. No talking. At all. Do the best you can to control the sound of your breathing. You understand?”

  She nodded again and whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m the one who should be sorry, and I am. I truly am. I’m—”

  Ian leaned in even farther, and she was so surprised she didn’t move back—she just stood there clinging to the edge of her balcony—as he shut her up by brushing his lips against hers.

  It was barely a kiss, but it still qualified, and then it definitely qualified as he did it again. Slower, longer, deeper.

  Even sweeter.

  “And I’m truly sorry that you hate me,” Ian whispered, and it would’ve been insanely romantic had they not been about to jump off her balcony. “On three. One … two!”

  He jumped on two.

  The bastard jumped—and he pulled her with him—on freaking two.

  * * *

  Shelly looked over at Berto, who was lost in his own thoughts, driving through the night. The darkness of silent citrus groves and fields for grazing cattle had finally given way to the chain restaurants, motels, strip malls, and gas stations on the outskirts of Sarasota.

  Their destination—a copy and shipping store where he could use a computer and send Aaron and Francine an email—wasn’t too much farther away.

  “Why didn’t you trust her?” Shel asked his half brother now.

  Berto glanced at him. He knew exactly who Shel was talking about. Francine.

  “You should have trusted her,” Shel said.

  “Yeah,” Berto said. “I know.”

  “She saved my life,” Shel said. “I remember sitting there, outside of the headmaster’s office, with Aaron and just thinking that I was going to die. That Davio was going to kill me.”

  The sex tape had made its way into the email of the staff and administration of the private school, and Shel and Aaron had been called in. They’d spoken to the school social worker first—Mrs. Thompson was an older woman who was terrible at her job—and she’d informed them that both Aaron’s brother and Shel’s father had been notified and emailed a copy of the video.

  Shelly had gone into shock at that news—and Aaron knew it. After Thompson had delivered them back to the waiting area outside the headmaster’s office, Aaron urged him to leave, to run away.

  “But then Francine called my cell,” Shel told Berto. “She said she saw the video when she was at class, over at the community college, and she came home to make sure I was okay, but that Davio had gone ballistic. She was whispering, she must’ve been in the bathroom, and she said—I will remember this for the rest of my life. She said, I got this. It’s gonna be okay. And then she told me to tell Aaron to check his text messages.”

  “She cut her hair,” Berto said. “I should’ve known, because she cut her hair.”

  Francine had cut her hair. Really short. As short as Shel’s.

  She must’ve done it herself, because the back was really ragged. Still, on her, the style had looked elegant. It drew attention to the shape of her face, and her astonishingly beautiful eyes. She was beautiful with long hair, but strikingly so with it cut that short.

  “She sent Aaron a bunch of texts,” Sheldon told Berto. “LOL, baby, let’s do that again soon. And pictures.”

  He knew Berto had seen them. Pornographic selfies that, once they were on Aaron’s cell phone, confirmed her confession: Francine was the one in that video with Aaron.

  “She saved my life,” Sheldon said again. “You know that Davio would’ve killed me.”

  Berto nodded now, his hands tight on the steering wheel as the muscles jumped in his jaw.

  “I didn’t hit her,” he finally said. “That was Davio. But what I did? It was just as bad. I walked away and I let him do it. Francine needed my protection. My trust. And I abandoned her.”

  Phoebe swallowed a scream, turning it into a mere squeak, as she attempted to pull herself into a cannonball as Ian had advised.

  She went into the water with a splash at almost the exact moment he did. She could feel him beside her as the water closed over her head as she went down, down, down, down, bubbles surrounding them both.

  He’d let go of her hand at some point during their leap from the balcony, probably so as to not wrench her wrist on impact, but now she felt him reach out and securely grab hold of her shirt.

  And then she was being pulled up—at least she thought it was up, it was so dark beneath the water. She could feel his legs brushing against her, solid and strong as he kicked and kicked, and then, finally, thank God, they broke the surface.

  Phoebe heard herself gasping and gulping and she tried to do it quietly, but the water tasted like gasoline, and it was probably filthy with all the boats that motored out from their docks to the open Gulf; not to mention the fact that there were men with guns after them, probably breaking into her apartment right now, and God, her skinned knee was stinging in the saltwater.

  And despite all of that—and despite the fact that the shower she’d sneaked home to take was now completely for naught—she found herself a little too focused on that stupid kiss.

  Ian must have done it to distract her—he’d jumped on two for the same reason.

  It had worked. She was here; they were safe.

  For now.

  “Arms locked around my neck. Big inhale, then under again,” Ian now breathed into her ear, and she nodded, turning to face him and loop her arms around him.

  He waited for her to suck in another lungful of air, then they went back beneath the surface, and she held on for dear life even as she tried to kick, too, to help propel them forward. And when they surfaced again, she knew it was only for her sake—he surely could have swum much farther without another breath.

  “Again,” he commanded, and she obediently obliged.

  And the next time they surfaced, Phoebe was a little alarmed at the darkness until she realized that they were, absolutely, underneath one of the nearby marina’s wooden docks. There was just enough space for them to lurk beneath it, their heads out of the water, their noses up in the stagnant, fishy-smelling air. Ian reached up and grabbed onto one of the barnacle-covered beams as she continued to cling to him.

  Dim light slid in between the wooden slats, but it shifted and moved with the swell of the water.

  And that was both disconcerting and awkward, since there wasn’t much to look at besides Ian’s face, which was up-close and in her face as she held tightly to him, their bodies pressed together, their legs occasionally accidentally intertwining with the movement of the tide.

  At least they had their clothes on, thank God.

  A shaft of light lit their faces, illuminating the fact that Ian was looking down into her eyes, and in that moment, Phoebe could’ve sworn that he knew exactly what she was thinking.

  She narrowed her eyes at him, trying despite th
eir forced silence to convey her disapproval about that inappropriate kiss.

  Ian, of course, thought that was funny and he smiled. And he shrugged very slightly, as if to respond with It got the job done, didn’t it?

  Phoebe shook her head—just slightly—back at him, which of course made his smile broaden.

  The son of a bitch was enjoying himself. They were hiding beneath a foul-smelling dock after leaping from her balcony to avoid being taken captive by mobsters who wanted to kill him.

  And he was having fun.

  I hate you, she mouthed at him, making a point to overenunciate those unvoiced words so that he would understand.

  The smile turned wry as he nodded. I know. I’m sorry, he mouthed back as the light made another pass across their faces. I really am.

  There was a vaguely musical rhythm to the shift of the water—it wasn’t always precise, sometimes the pattern repeated in four, sometimes in five or six. But light would shine in for a moment, then disappear. Then shine, then disappear.

  And right before the light vanished again, Phoebe looked up into Ian’s eyes, and she realized that in order to talk without making any noise, she was forced to stare at his mouth to read his lips. And while staring at his mouth, it was impossible not to think about that kiss.

  She closed her eyes as they were plunged once again into darkness, grateful that he couldn’t see her and do that mind-reading thing he did so well. She managed to compose herself and was ready when the light came back, at which point she looked at him and said, How long?

  In other words, how long did they have to hide here? But Phoebe knew he’d understand the short version, and this way she didn’t have to endure him gazing intently at her mouth for more than just a few seconds.

  She raised her eyebrows to emphasize that she’d asked a question, and he nodded. And he leaned toward her. This time, she quickly leaned away from him, shooting him a solid WTF with her face, and he smiled again, right before it went dark.

  The truth was, there was no getting away from him in their current predicament. But she was grateful for the darkness as he put his mouth against her ear and said, “Relax.”

  Right. Relax. She didn’t make noise as she rolled her eyes and silently laughed her disdain. He read her mind again, because she felt the warmth from his exhaled answering laughter against her ear, and when the light came back, he was smiling again.

  Or maybe he’d never stopped smiling—because this was so damn funny and fun for him.

  “If you’re okay for me to leave,” he breathed into her ear, “I’ll recon and figure out our next move.”

  Phoebe nodded as she looked into his eyes, letting him see that she understood. His escape plan had only brought them this far. They were hidden from Davio Dellarosa’s men, but obviously they couldn’t stay in the water indefinitely.

  And while the thought of Ian leaving her here, alone, was not a happy one, she could see how it was a necessity.

  Phoebe tilted her head back to look up at the way Ian was holding on to the dock, and of course, the light immediately vanished. But she loosened her hold on him with her right hand and reached up, encountering first the taut muscles of his forearm and then his hand. She could feel how he was holding on, and she did the same, letting go of him with her other arm so that when the light came back they were still face to face, but she was no longer clinging to him.

  She held out her hand, motioning with it—she wanted her bag. He handed it over, but stopped her when she moved to loop the tied arms around her neck.

  “Don’t,” he said it aloud before wincing at his mistake. Leaning forward, he spoke into her ear. “If you have trouble, let it go. It’s replaceable. You understand?”

  Phoebe nodded. Wearing her bag around her neck could be deadly if she couldn’t get it off and it weighed her down, pulling her underwater. Of course, that was assuming that she lost her grip and got dunked. Which was a possibility only if a tsunami suddenly struck, or in the case of an alien attack, or …

  If a large boat went by, creating a huge wake. Yeah, okay. That was possible. He was right.

  “Stay here,” Ian continued. “In the unlikely event that I don’t come back, don’t go to the police. And don’t use a credit card to check into a hotel. Get cash from an ATM. There are cheap motels up near the airport where you can give a fake name—”

  She pulled back to look at him and for once the light worked for her, so that he got a clear look at her mouthing the words Are you ditching me?

  Ditching wasn’t an easy word to lip read, so she had to lean close to say it again, into his ear. “Ditching.” Of course the water pushed her so that her mouth was awkwardly pressed up against his ear. “Sorry.”

  As she pulled back, he was shaking his head rather vehemently. Not ditching you, he mouthed back. No. Never. Again, he knew what she was thinking, because he leaned close to say, “Yeah, yeah, I know. That’s what I’d say if I was ditching you. But I’m not. I promise. I’ll be right back.”

  And with that he was gone, slipping into the water, leaving her alone in the darkness beneath the marina’s dock.

  Alone and bemused.

  Phoebe had fully expected him to take advantage and kiss her again. And it was only because he hadn’t that she believed he’d keep his promise.

  * * *

  Francine’s phone buzzed, and she looked to see that she’d gotten an email. From Sheldon. And she knew, even before she opened and read it, that Berto had saved the day again.

  She and Aaron were sitting in the back of Martell’s car, with Rory’s car seat between them. Martell was driving, and the FBI agent named Deb rode shotgun as they headed for the interstate. The baby was sleepily clutching his bottle-with-a-straw, his eyelids heavy as he slipped into formula-induced unconsciousness.

  “Shelly’s safe, at least temporarily,” Francie told Aaron, keeping her voice low for Rory’s sake. She reached across the car seat to hand Aaron the phone so he could read the email for himself.

  He read it aloud, also at a sleeping-baby volume. “I’m okay. Thank God. With Berto. R U safe? Stay away from house, Davio’s men watching it. Awaiting instructions. Shel.”

  In their haste to leave the FBI’s no-longer-safe house after Phoebe’s vanishing act, they’d piled into Martell’s crappy old car. The fed named Yashi had gone in a separate direction. He’d pointed his rental up toward Tampa, where he was going to gain access to both the files and funds that Ian would need to pull off that crazy B&E-of-a-foreign-consulate stunt.

  When Martell first told Francie about it—that they’d taken Ian out of Northport to lead a covert rescue op—she’d laughed, because she’d thought he was kidding.

  But it was not a joke. The FBI had—with very straight faces—released Ian from prison so that he could break into the Kazbekistani consulate in Miami and rescue the kidnapped children of a nuclear scientist.

  And okay, there was a joke there, but it was on the FBI, who’d clearly bought into Ian’s badass reputation as the best-ever B&E man, a jewel thief extraordinaire.

  In truth, it had been years since Ian’s private-sector spy team had attempted this kind of covert assignment. Francine’s own breaking-and-entering skills were seriously rusty. As for Eee’s? Pssht. He was capable of getting past any and all kinds of security, sure. But because he was the size of a small mountain, it was hard for him go unnoticed for very long.

  As for Shelly and Aaron—neither were particularly skilled when it came to ninja moves. They weren’t bad, but it certainly wasn’t their forte. Shel’s main talents were computer-based. He was the team’s hacker, and he worked his plugged-in magic from the surveillance van. Aaron’s role—one at which he also excelled—was to keep Shel safe while in said van.

  Their only real hope of pulling off this kind of Mission: Impossible assignment would’ve come from Ian’s former SEAL chief, John Murray, reupping. And since Johnny wasn’t already here, Francie knew that the SEAL’s participation was a no-go.

  Ta
lk about a truly impossible mission. Ian was going to have to get creative—although that was what he did best.

  “He said, awaiting instructions,” Aaron repeated now, while quickly zapping back a message to Shelly that said, We R OK, B safe, hang tight, more soon, before handing the phone back to Francie. “So we know he doesn’t trust Berto.”

  His words caused Little Debbie FBI to turn around. Martell glanced at them, too, via the rearview.

  So Francine interpreted. “It’s code,” she explained. “For precisely this kind of situation. If you use those words, awaiting instructions, in an email or a phone call, it’s a warning. Proceed with caution. Shel’s telling us that he’s not convinced Berto’s help is coming from a place of brotherly love.”

  Aaron snorted at that. “You think? Berto’s a douche,” he told Deb and Martell. “He works for Davio, his double-douche of a father. He’s hoping Shelly will lead him—and Davio—directly to me.”

  “So Berto’s your brother,” Deb said, looking directly at Francine. “Yours and Sheldon’s.”

  “Berto’s not my brother, he’s Shel’s,” Francie explained. “And they’re only half brothers. They have the same father, different mothers.” She could see that Deb was struggling to understand. “Think of our family as a modern version of Yours, Mine and Ours. My mother married Berto’s father, Davio, because he got her pregnant with Sheldon. And we all lived happily ever after, except, no, wait, we didn’t, because Davio thinks stealing cars and selling drugs and women is a reasonable way to earn a living. Shel and I escaped. Berto didn’t.”

  “Because Berto’s a douche,” Aaron said again. “I don’t like that Shel’s with him. I want to get him out of there.”

  “We will,” Francie promised him. “But we’re going to do this right. Wait for Ian—”

  “Wait for Ian,” Aaron said. “How did I know you were going to say that?”

  Francine looked into the eyes of this man who was not only her brother-in-law, but also one of the best friends she’d ever had. And she knew that he was still tremendously angry at her. As he had every right to be. For the past year, she’d kept the truth from him.