Do or Die Reluctant Heroes

by Unknown

  Berto nodded.

  “We’ve got to move,” Deb reminded them. They were all going to pile into the van, leaving Berto behind since his part of this job was over. “Be careful,” she added.

  Berto smiled in what looked like genuine amusement. “Words I’d never thought I’d hear from the FBI. Maybe those fucking idiots on TV are right, and it’s end times.”

  “Not a chance,” Francine said as Martell shook Berto’s hand, then followed her into the van.

  Yashi drove while Deb changed her clothes, right there in the back of the van, and Martell did his best to try not to watch.

  “Wow, I have really good taste,” Phoebe said, as Ian locked the door of their cabin behind them.

  They’d come below to shower and change before dinner, which they were having with the Dutchman up in the dining room in an hour. This yacht was big enough to have a dining room. And a living room. And a den.

  The master bedroom cabin was huge, too. It was decorated in blues and turquoises and sea greens, with shiny white-painted wood. It really did have a delightful, airy, oceany feel. A bathroom was attached and it, too, was huge, with a big, glass-enclosed shower, and with racks on the walls that were overflowing with towels in those same tropical-water colors.

  If this was their yacht—and they were pretending that was so—then it stood to reason that Phoebe had had at least a small amount of input into the furnishings and colors used in the decor. Of course, she’d said it completely as a joke, an attempt to lighten Ian’s very dark mood—because after a day like today, the color of the curtains was the last thing that mattered.

  Ian had been shaken—they both had—by Davio’s unexpected attack, and by Sheldon’s unbelievably risky near-sacrifice. The grim reality of what could have happened had Shel not led the SUV filled with heavily armed thugs away from their game of make-believe still lingered.

  The entire job could have exploded, and not only would Davio and his men have been trying to kill Ian and his team, but the Dutchman and Hamori suddenly would’ve been gunning for all of them, too, once they’d realized they were being conned. And they would have realized it when the “dead” and “unconscious” security guards leapt to their feet to help fight off Davio.

  There were also a variety of smaller catastrophes that could have happened—including Vanderzee bailing, instead of taking this nighttime cruise to “Cuba” in a boat carrying drugs.

  But the man hadn’t bailed.

  “Are you all right?” Phoebe asked Ian, following him into the bathroom and watching as he turned on the shower.

  Ian shook his head no.

  And okay, the fact that he hadn’t said yes or I’m fine stunned her. That was why she was frozen with shock when he reached out, took her by the hand, and pulled her in, hard, to his chest. It was like hitting a wall, he was that solid, and if that wasn’t enough to take her breath away, he said, “But I will be, soon,” before he kissed her.

  It was an echo of the searing kiss they’d shared beneath the dock—hungry and desperate and filled with blessed relief while still laced with remnants of pure fear.

  He’d been as scared out there as she had, Phoebe realized with another jolt of shock—maybe even more scared. It was his brother’s husband who’d nearly been killed, and that loss would’ve been unmanageable.

  For someone who managed everything for everyone, for someone who seemingly effortlessly kept dozens of balls in the air at all times, facing the very real possibility of Shelly’s impending, unfixable death must’ve been terrifying.

  But right now Ian tugged at her clothes, unfastening her pants even as he shucked off his own, and Phoebe helped him. She put her glasses on the bathroom counter, pushing them down into the sink for safekeeping, and then pulled her shirt over her head and kicked off her boots.

  Ian nearly fell over in his haste, tripped by pants that were down around his ankles. He sat on the floor to untie his boots, leaving Phoebe free to lose her underwear as she ransacked the cabinets and drawers, searching for …

  Found ’em.

  Phoebe tore a condom free from the accordion-pleated strip, and turned to find Ian back on his feet. He pushed between her legs as he lifted her up onto the counter of the sink—good thing she’d moved her glasses or she’d be sitting on them—and simultaneously took the little square package from her, opened it, covered himself, and slammed himself inside her with lightning speed.

  “This,” he said, as she wrapped her legs and her arms around him, trying to move him even closer, because as good as that felt, it wasn’t enough. “Oh, God, Phoebe, this. This is what I wanted, what I needed. Right here. I just fucking wanted to jump ahead to now, to skip all that bullshit with the cargo, and the Dutchman, and Aarie and Shel.…”

  “I know,” she told him. “Me, too. I know.”

  After the cargo had been moved from the truck to the yacht, Vanderzee had pulled Ian aside to let him know that he would not be comfortable if Aaron and Shel joined them on their ocean journey.

  A bit earlier, he’d asked Phoebe if the two men were brothers, and she’d told him that they were Ian’s brother and brother-in-law—which could have been interpreted in a number of ways. But no doubt he’d figured it all out when he saw Aaron and Shel sharing a very nonbrotherly kiss.

  She knew that Ian had had to tread very lightly in the face of the Dutchman’s prejudice. They’d come too far to blow up this mission at this late stage—and Ian had said very little in response. He’d simply left Aaron back on shore with Shelly.

  Which was probably exactly where Aaron wanted to be.

  Still, Phoebe knew Ian was not pleased by having one fewer teammate aboard the yacht. And when Ian had glanced at her while discussing this with Vanderzee, she knew exactly what he was thinking—about the man’s child brides, and the way he disposed of them. And he was uncomfortable?

  But Phoebe also knew that Ian was thinking, too, about those kidnapped children, and the mother who was probably going mad with worry.…

  So he’d done what he’d had to do. He’d kept Aaron on shore, but he wasn’t happy about that.

  Ian was, however, much happier now.

  Phoebe kissed him as she moved both with him and against him. God, this felt so unbelievably good.

  But then Ian picked her up—effortlessly. When was the last time that had happened? But he was stupid strong. And even though the muscles in his shoulders and arms stood out, and even though the effort of lifting her expanded them from huge to gigantic, he didn’t seem strained or winded or uncomfortable in any way as he carried her into the shower, and stepped under the spray.

  It was a little too cold, and she gasped and then laughed, because it felt so good after the heat in the warehouse, after the fear-induced sweat that had dripped down her back while she’d smiled reassuringly at the Dutchman while praying that Ian didn’t get himself killed.

  He lifted his chin and let the water stream onto his head and face, opening his eyes—still so startlingly blue—to look at her, water beading on his ridiculously long eyelashes.

  He breathed, “Jesus, I’ve been wanting to do this since …”

  Phoebe nodded, breathless, too—barely able to speak. “Me, too.” Ever since they’d shared the shower more platonically at the Dutchman’s house.

  She was trying to create more of that mind-blowing friction, but he held her so tightly. Without proper traction, her movement was restricted and minuscule. Just enough to tantalize and torment.

  Ian smiled at her efforts through half-closed eyes.

  “I need to start doing more sit-ups,” she said.

  “No,” he told her, “you don’t. You’re perfect.”

  This moment. This moment. This was the one that she wanted to slow down, so she could remember it, always.

  The water, warmer now, streaming down her breasts.

  The slickness of his skin, the delicious feel of him heavy and hot inside of her.

  His eyes, his smile fading as he tried to show her
he was serious. You’re perfect.…

  “You are, too,” she whispered back. And he was—not that he was perfect for everyone. Not even close. His language was atrocious. His sense of humor was a mix of sophisticated and purely juvenile. He was, admittedly, a thief and a liar—a con artist, no matter how extraordinary and artistic his skill.

  But tomorrow, when he brought those two children home to their mother—that would not be the first time he’d used his talents and notoriety to make the world a better, safer place. And she also knew that it wouldn’t be the last.

  He was far from perfect. But for Phoebe …?

  She’d never before met a man more fascinating, intriguing, and infuriatingly perfect for her.

  Ian was standing there, holding her, looking into her eyes as if trying to see inside of her, but then he shook his head and said, “I don’t really know what to do with you.”

  Keep me around, she wanted to tell him. Don’t push me away. Write to me from prison. Let me visit. And please, please, come find me when you’re out and finally free. But she was afraid—not just of scaring him, but of scaring herself with the weight of those words.

  Instead, she leaned in close and whispered in his ear just what she wished he would do to her, right here, at this moment, using words she knew he’d enjoy but that she rarely, if ever, said aloud.

  “Well now,” Ian said, laughing. The expression on his face was one of pure delight. It was good to know he was that easy to please. “And you’re blushing. That’s just too fucking great.”

  And with that, Ian backed her up against the shower wall, providing her with the traction that she needed. And with his mouth, hands, and the exceptionally large part of his body that had an equally large variety of rather rude and silly nicknames, all of which made him laugh when they tumbled from her apparently pristine lips, he made her wishes come true.

  * * *

  Even a root canal eventually ended.

  Everything awful always did.

  So Ian knew that this dinner with the Dutchman, too, would end.

  It helped if the time spent was subdivided into more easily manageable segments. He’d already survived drinks, appetizers, and the main course, all served by Deb, as their stewardess.

  All that was left now was dessert. After that, the remainder of this four-hour segment of this job would be easy, as they all went into their private cabins for a rest. The excuse—and it was a good one that would also act in Ian’s favor on the return trip—was that while this yacht could travel at an impressive thirty-seven knots, holding on was involved while at high speeds, as was shouting over the engine and the wind.

  The ride, as on any boat, was always less rocky down below.

  And even if this super-luxury yacht had an impressively even keel, their pilot—a former U.S. Navy Special Boat Squadron guy and current alphabet agent going by the bland name “Captain Bob”—could make it as bumpy as Ian needed it to be.

  As Vanderzee drank his wine, he told a long and self-indulgent story of his last visit to Paris. And Ian watched Phoebe pretend to be fascinated.

  She sat with her chin in her hand, wearing a dressy black top complete with plunging neckline with her jeans and flip-flops, hair down around her shoulders. She was beautiful, and it wasn’t hard to follow the very same advice he himself had given her, just a few short hours ago, while they were in the car that Shel later destroyed.

  Don’t think about the fact that Shel had nearly died, or that look on Aaron’s face when he thought he’d lost him. Think about Phoebe. In the shower. Think about doing, about feeling. Think about pleasure—not pain and fear and loss.

  Think about the way Ian had made them so late to dinner that she’d had to rush to dry her hair and get dressed, about the way he’d grabbed her and kissed her before they’d gone out that door together, about how oddly right it had felt when she’d slipped her hand into his as they’d walked into the dining room.

  Mr. and Mrs. Dunn.

  Phoebe turned, right at the moment he was thinking that, to look at Ian with an expectant smile, and he realized with a start that their guest had finished his story and asked them a question.

  How long had they owned this yacht?

  Um …

  In prep, Ian had been given a massive amount of information, including the make, model and year of the Lady Mysterious, as well as floor plans and photos of the contents of her storage lockers. He remembered that there was a travel Yahtzee and a backgammon board in the living room lockup—bottom shelf on the left—but when it came to the year this yacht had been built, his mind was blank.

  Phoebe saved his pathetic ass, laughing as she said, “He’s zoning out, he’s so tired, poor Ian. The Lady’s relatively new for us, but Eee’s had similar boats for quite a few years, right, baby?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “When we’re in Florida, we make this trip south pretty regularly. It’s our little home away from home.”

  Deb came in then, carrying a tray with tea and coffee, and Ian was again struck by how young the FBI agent had made herself look. Her clothes were pure Vegas hooker, but she’d purposely done her makeup and hair in such a way as to make herself appear to be in her teens. No doubt she’d paid attention to the story Ian had told about Vanderzee’s preference for underage girls.

  And sure enough, the man was watching her now.

  “I’m sorry, where are the facilities?” the Dutchman stood up as he asked Deb.

  She smiled as she made sure the tray was secure. “Right this way, sir.”

  Hamori, Vanderzee’s man, stood, too—he’d been sitting by the door throughout the meal. But now he followed Deb and Vanderzee out of the dining room. He stood in the passageway, waiting, as his boss took a leak in the nearest head.

  Deb came back in to finish removing the mugs from the tray, and in a low voice she told Ian, “We’ve got weather coming in. A pretty big squall. Small-craft warnings, the whole thing.”

  Ian’s first reaction was Jesus, we can’t catch a break. But then he realized that they had, in fact, caught a Christload of breaks to date, even despite the multitude of screw-ups. The fact that they’d gotten this far was pretty damned miraculous.

  “It’s not going to disrupt this leg of the trip,” Deb informed them quietly. “But it’s definitely going to delay our departure.”

  And that was not okay. They had to leave Faux-Cuba, as Martell called it, around two hours before sunrise or the charade wouldn’t work.

  “Delay it for how long?” Ian asked, bracing himself.

  “Right now?” Deb said. “Too long. But it’s weather. With luck it’ll change.”

  “Can we go around it?” he asked. “Even if we take a little longer to get back. If we approach Miami from the east …?”

  “We’re working on it,” she told them, even as she shook her head no. “In a few minutes, I’m going to come back in, and suggest you move below as we increase our speed. After you’re settled, I’ll bring fresh towels to your cabin. We’ll talk contingency then.”

  Ian nodded. “Okay.”

  At the sound of Vanderzee opening the bathroom door, Deb went back to the galley, and Ian realized that, at some point during their conversation, Phoebe had reached over and taken his hand.

  She gave his fingers a squeeze, but then let him go as Vanderzee sat back down and started fussing with his coffee. Hamori, meanwhile, reclaimed his seat just inside the dining room.

  Both these men were armed and dangerous. That was too easy to forget. No more zoning out.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” the Dutchman said as he stirred milk and sugar into his coffee, “if you insist on working, always, with your brother.”

  And here it was. A question Ian was hoping this man wouldn’t ask. He looked over to find Phoebe watching him, and he knew she was going to say something—it would be hard for her to stay silent—so he shook his head, just slightly, and she closed her mouth and waited.

  Vanderzee took a sip of his coffee, and as he put his
mug down, he looked over at Ian, his eyes cool. “You know, if he were my brother, living in my country, he would have already been put to death.”

  “I did know that,” Ian admitted. It was the moment of truth. He knew it was entirely possible that what he said in response would mean life or death for those two kidnapped children and their mother. And he would have told any lie, said anything to ensure their safety, but his instincts were screaming for him to be bluntly honest here. In fact, he was certain that this was a test, and that for him to lie and bow to Vanderzee’s archaic ideology would actually prevent them from moving further along in this game they were playing.

  So Ian took a deep breath but waited until Vanderzee looked up at him again before he said, “My brother and his husband, both, are two of the bravest, most honorable men I’ve ever worked with. I trust them not just with my life, but with the life of my wife, who is the most important person in the world to me.”

  He glanced over at Phoebe, who had no idea what he was doing, but was clearly ready to cheer him on. When we’re with the Dutchman, you are so fucking in love with me, he’d told her. She was doing a damn fine job of it, right down to the pure adoration he could see brimming in her eyes.

  “Aaron and Sheldon are, both, valuable members of my team,” Ian continued. “You know, Georg, I raised my brother.”

  “I did not know,” the man murmured.

  “I took care of him. Our mother died, and our father … had many problems. I was in charge of Aaron, pretty much from the moment he was born. Making sure he had food to eat, and a place to sleep. And I knew, early on, that he was special. I didn’t know he was gay until … Well, it was after I was twelve, at least. Because when I was twelve—he was five—he got sick. He had such a high fever he started having seizures, which scared the hell out of me. I knew I had to get him to the hospital, but my dad was so drunk he was nearly unconscious. Somehow I woke him up, and when the ambulance came, I got him in there with us, and we all made it to the ER. Aaron was put on intravenous antibiotics, which saved his life, and all night long, I just kept nudging my father awake to talk to the doctors and nurses. And then I pretended that he didn’t speak English, so he didn’t have to, you know, put words together in an intelligible sentence.”