One-Click Buy: September Harlequin Blaze

by Jo Leigh

  AT THE LAST SECOND he moved the gun. The bullet hit inches from Charlie’s head.

  Michael couldn’t stop to figure out why he’d done it. He just had to make sure Charlie didn’t call out to Danny or the other one. He dropped to his knees right next to his brother and pulled back his left arm. When Charlie hoisted himself up into the right position, Michael hit him in the temple.

  Charlie went down hard. It probably was a good thing Michael’s right hand was out of commission. There had been no kidding around with that punch. It was meant to silence. Sometimes it happened that the silence went on forever. He didn’t think Charlie was dead and he wasn’t going to check. Not right now.

  He rose once more and looked at Charlie’s gun. It was a Sig Sauer P-226, a gun Michael particularly liked. He had to use his teeth to check the magazine, which was full. He locked the mag back in the gun.

  Jazz had fallen in the doorway, and by the time Michael got to him, he must have bled out-if the shot hadn’t killed him on impact. Michael had wanted to do him slowly, to make him suffer, but he’d take what he could get. He stepped over the scumbag and went on the prowl.

  He wasn’t sure how long Ed would keep Tate in the bank, but he wanted everything completed when they returned. Maybe he could take his time with Ed. It would be good to let him know what happened to men who messed with Michael Caulfield’s lady. On the other hand, Tate didn’t need to have any more trauma in her life. Especially not from him.

  No one was in the saloon. But there was someone in the wheelhouse. He was on the radio, and Michael figured he’d better get to him double time. It was the cabin boy, the kid Charlie had lied about. Michael got all the way across the saloon before he turned. The dude had a muscleman’s build and a bullfrog’s face. He seemed damned surprised to find Michael pointing a gun his way and made a foolish attempt to retrieve his own weapon from his underarm holster.

  He fell across the seat, then tumbled to the deck. Michael picked up bullfrog’s Walther PPK, but he preferred the Sig. He pulled the magazine out of the Walther and tossed it behind the saloon couch. The gun went into a fake potted plant.

  Once he had the Sig in his hand again Michael went looking for Danny. The boat was anchored far from any neighboring vessels. There were people out there, but none of them would have heard the silenced gunshots. He doubted they would hear anything more than innocuous pops if he took a dozen shots off the port bow. It didn’t matter. No one was coming to the rescue. It was all on him.

  He headed down below. To his right was the galley, and he knew someone was inside from the whistling. “Alouette.” He doubted it was Danny. Probably the cook, which sounded innocent enough until you thought about who he cooked for. No one on this boat was without a weapon-that much Michael knew. The cook, despite his ability to make a very excellent salmon steak, wasn’t gonna make it.

  With his right hand throbbing at nearly his pain threshold, Michael was more than ready to have this over and done with. If it was Danny in the galley, so much the better. If not, he couldn’t be far.

  Michael inched his way along the teak floor, the incredible interior of the boat showing just how much a bookie like Ed earned for himself. Of course now, with the fifty million in his pocket, he’d probably consider this a toy boat. Something convenient to take him out to his real yacht.

  He stopped thinking about Ed. He was all about the whistler in the galley. Whatever the guy was making, there was some chopping involved. That’s all that sound could be. So that meant a knife. Not a problem.

  Moving as quietly as he could while keeping his balance, Michael made it halfway to the galley. He had to forget about his right hand, about that arm. If he gave it any attention, his instinct would be to pull it from the safety of his back. It was best to concentrate on the gun in his left hand. He listened carefully to the chopping and the whistling, figuring the size of the galley and where his shot should go. There was no room for error, so the second shot had to be close to the first but lower. Get him in the chest, then in the gut. That would take him down without giving him a chance to shoot back.

  After a cleansing breath, he got close, a step away. He turned, aimed, adjusted two inches and pulled the trigger. The first bullet threw the cook forward, over his chopped vegetables. The second severed his spinal cord. At least that’s what it looked like from the way the man fell.

  Michael turned to move deeper into the boat. There should only be one man left on board, not counting Charlie.

  Ed was gonna be so pissed.

  Michael whistled “Alouette” as he continued the hunt.

  THEY WERE OUTSIDE once more, in the bright island sunshine. There were so many people on the streets, mostly tourists with gifts in big bags and flip-flops on their feet. There were more cars now, too. And she wondered how many accidents there were here just because the American tourists had to drive on the left.

  Ed had his hand locked on her upper arm, but he seemed a lot happier now that he was so much richer. She felt certain that all he wanted was to get back to the boat, wait till nightfall and make sure there was no one left to tell the tale.

  He walked her across the street, making her wait for the light. Then they went toward the beach and the water taxis.

  “There’s no reason to kill us,” she said. “Now that you have the money, there’s no way for us to get it back.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Just let us go. We’ll disappear. You won’t hear from us again.”

  “I said shut up.”

  She did, but with every step her worry grew, and she kept picturing horror after horror of what she’d find on the boat. It was making it hard to see, hard to breathe, but she didn’t want to worry Michael by showing up in a full-blown panic attack.

  “Come on,” Ed said, squeezing her arm.

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “Just get your ass in gear. I want to get back to the boat. We’re celebrating tonight at the Ritz. Figure I’m gonna buy myself one hell of an expensive bottle of champagne.” He tugged her again, practically pulling her shoulder out of its socket.

  She stopped and tore her arm free, suddenly so filled with rage she forgot all about her constricted breath and pounding heartbeat.

  He was celebrating at the Ritz? Over his dead body.

  18

  “I DON’T CARE WHAT evidence you have or don’t have. I know Michael Caulfield is behind this.”

  Sara bit her lower lip, trying hard not to react. Mr. Baxter needed to have his say. She turned to Special AgentWebber and he gave her a small nod. They’d talked a lot yesterday, after she’d cried her millionth tear.

  She’d recognized Tate’s purse instantly. That the wallet was still inside shut down the last of her hope. It didn’t matter that the money was gone. Tate wouldn’t have left that wallet. It had been a gift. From Sara.

  She’d debated long and hard about telling William about the purse, but in the end she’d decided he had to know. There was no choice.

  He’d disappeared into the guest room, then emerged this morning more angry than sad. He’d called the meeting they were having now. Who knows? His righteous anger just might pull him through.

  “Sir, we’re doing everything we can to find both your daughter and Mr. Caulfield. We know his motorcycle is missing, but from the state of his apartment it doesn’t appear he planned a trip. There were no suitcases missing, all his clothing was in the drawers and closets. Frankly we’re much more interested in Jerry Brody than Caulfield.”

  “I’m interested in Caulfield. He was in military intelligence. I doubt very much he intended anyone to think he’d planned this. I didn’t hire him because he was a fool.”

  “I understand, sir. Rest assured, we’re leaving no stone unturned. We’re currently investigating his brother, where there might be some connection.”

  “His brother.”

  “Charles. He has a criminal record. Theft, racke
teering, drugs.”

  William stood so quickly he had to grab the edge of his chair to gain his balance. “I knew it. That’s why they needed the five million-drug money.”

  “Mr. Baxter,” Sara said, concerned now that he was working himself into such a lather. “I know it seems to make sense that Michael was in on this, but-”

  “Enough,” he said.

  He’d never raised his voice at her before, and she didn’t much care for it now. But the man was given a pass, at least for today.

  “I know what I know.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Baxter?”

  Sara, as well as the men in the room, all turned as one to see three of the security team standing by the side wall. They all looked uncomfortable, as if they had thrown a baseball through a stained-glass window.

  “Who are you?” Baxter asked.

  The tallest one stepped forward. “I’m George Bryan. I work surveillance.”

  “I’m E. J. Packer, sir.” Sara recognized him from the scars on his face. “I’m ex-Army intelligence and I run night security.”

  They both turned to the only blond, a slender man with horn-rimmed glasses. “I’m also ex-Army intelligence, sir. Name’s McPherson. Bill McPherson.”

  “What is it?”

  “I served with Mike Caulfield for two years. He is not your man.”

  “What?” William looked from the men to Sara, as if she’d been behind this mutiny.

  “I also served with Mike Caulfield.” This from George Bryan. “I can’t see it, Mr. Baxter. If he’s involved, it’s because he’s trying to save her. I’ve never worked for a more honorable man.”

  “I agree, Mr. Baxter.” E.J. nodded toward Sara. “Ma’am. For my money, looking at Caulfield is looking in the wrong direction.”

  “Get out of here, all of you,” Baxter said, his face red with rage. “You work for him. Of course you’re going to say he’s innocent.”

  The three men, all with their military stance and utmost respect, took his fury like good soldiers. And when they were summarily fired, they didn’t seem surprised.

  But when Sara looked back at the FBI agent, it was clear attention had been paid.

  “YOU SON OF A BITCH!” Tate said so loudly the tourists in back of Ed stopped talking to stare. “You murdering bastard. You’re planning on killing us before you have your champagne?”

  He laughed as he looked around nervously. With his left hand he pulled out his cell phone. “I’m warning you,” he said, his teeth clamped together as he smiled.

  “You’re warning me…what? That you’re going to hurt Michael? You’re planning to kill us. What could hurt worse than that?”

  “Stop it,” he said. “These people are going to think you’re serious.”

  She was serious. So serious that she didn’t even stop to think, she just turned in front of him, grabbed his arms and kneed Ed Martini right between the legs.

  He howled so loudly everyone on the street stopped, and when he fell to the ground, clutching his crotch, more and more people approached. But Tate wasn’t done yet.

  She circled around to his back. His piteous cries had the crowd murmuring, but she didn’t care. She lifted his Hawaiian shirt above his waist and plucked the gun away.

  Several members of the crowd backed up. Despite the hysteria she felt just under the surface, the gun in Tate’s hands didn’t shake at all. She moved around in front of the man and kept the barrel pointed at his head. “Someone call the cops.”

  She didn’t hear any movement. “Someone,” she said again, only a whole lot louder, “call the cops.”

  There were footsteps to her right and in back of her. Horns honked in the road, and she assumed the crowd had gotten so large that they were blocking the street. Hell, they probably didn’t see a sight like this every day.

  Ed Martini writhed on the sidewalk, holding himself like a child who has to pee. Martini, who hadn’t blinked when Michael’s wrist had been broken, who thought nothing of killing two innocent people, then drinking champagne. The pig deserved to die himself, but maybe it would be worse for him if he had to go to prison here. She didn’t think the Caymans had extradition laws, but that didn’t matter either. He wasn’t going to kill Michael. Not now.

  “Hey, hey. Put the gun down, miss.”

  She looked up to see two police officers standing on the road. “He’s a kidnapper and a thief and a murderer, and I have proof of all of it.”

  “Put the gun down and we’ll talk.”

  She didn’t want to. She wanted to pull the trigger. But she didn’t. She just bent, put the gun on the ground and backed away.

  The cops, in their crisp khakis and black hats, split up, with one man shooing the bystanders away and the other coming toward her. Two steps in, Ed lunged forward and grabbed the gun.

  She leaped back, cursing herself for not kicking the weapon as far as she could.

  Ed got to his knees, then to his feet, the gun in his right hand pointing at her chest. His face was a red mess, with tears and more dripping from his nose and chin. He didn’t look so smooth now. What he did look like was a man who didn’t care about consequences. Not when he clearly wanted to kill her so damn badly.

  “Sir, put the gun down. Sir…”

  Ed didn’t even glance at the cop. He just snarled at Tate. “You bitch. You’re gonna pay-”

  “I’ve already paid. Isn’t fifty-five million enough? Isn’t kidnapping and assault enough? You broke his wrists! All he was trying to do was protect me, and you’ve crippled him.”

  “He’s long past caring,” he said, lifting the gun. “And in one second you’re going to be, too.”

  Tate closed her eyes, prepared for the impact of a bullet to send her crashing into the crowd. But it didn’t come. She heard a scuffle, then a thunk, and she opened her eyes to see the two sturdy police officers on top of Ed, their knees planted on his back as they twisted his hands around for cuffs.

  Tears filled her eyes and she laughed and wept as she realized it was over, that Ed was really in custody. And then it hit her, what he’d said about Michael.

  Her legs didn’t want to hold her up as she let the truth in. Michael was dead. They hadn’t broken his other wrist, they’d shot him. Of course they had. Why bother to keep him around? She’d proved she would do anything for him, so all they’d needed was her own belief that she could save him.

  Michael was dead.

  LEAVING THE COOK IN the galley, Michael went back down the narrow corridor toward the master suite and the other berth. Danny, unless he’d taken Ed and Tate to the island, had to be there somewhere. Probably prepared, as the cook’s death hadn’t been all that quiet.

  There was a head just before the smaller berth, and Michael slowed as he neared it. His arm and shoulder throbbed to the beat of his heart as he silently made his approach.

  Gun at the ready, he kicked the door in, but no one was there. The room was too small to hide in, which meant Danny had to be in one of the bedrooms. If he was on board at all.

  The berth, with a couple of beds and very little else, did have space to hide. Although a man Danny’s size would have trouble.

  If the roles had been reversed, Michael would have gotten behind the door, listening carefully for footsteps. He wouldn’t wait for his assailant to show up, he’d shoot through the door.

  With that in mind, Michael decided to lure Danny out. He still had a lot of ammo in the mag, so he got close, aimed his weapon at the master suite door and fired.

  Despite the name, silencers never really silenced a gun. They helped, but for anyone below deck, the gunshot would have been heard. Just in case Danny had headphones on, Michael put the gun under his right armpit-which hurt like a bitch-unscrewed the silencer, then retrieved the weapon. Two more shots, and this time someone would have to be dead to miss the sound.

  Michael crouched in the head doorway, waiting. It was tough t
o be patient. His mind went one of two places-Tate or pain. He had to keep bringing himself back to his target.

  Three minutes went by and Michael saw the door to the master suite move.

  Danny had ducked-at least that’s what it looked like from the position of his gun. It didn’t matter. He could have crawled out on his belly. For all his size and weight, there was nothing the man could have done to save his own life.

  Michael put three shots into the door. Danny fell like a massive tree, his head cracking loudly on the teak floor.

  Michael backed up until he could sit on the edge of the john. His whole body throbbed with pain, mitigated slightly by relief. Even that only lasted a minute. Tate was still out there. And Charlie.

  He hadn’t heard a thing from upstairs, but that didn’t mean Charlie hadn’t recovered. At least his brother didn’t have a gun. He’d probably end up shooting himself if he had.

  Michael stood, momentarily dizzy. Then, after a few deep breaths, he headed back to the saloon. The smell of death followed him, tainting the scent of the ocean. He felt pretty sure that the coppery taste at the back of his mouth would remind him of tropical islands for some time to come.

  The saloon itself was in good shape. Michael’s gaze went right to the big leather chair. The government would be selling off the boat once Ed was in prison, and it felt damn good to know the bastard would never sit in that chair again.

  Michael needed Tate to get back. Looking toward the beach, he didn’t see any water taxis-but then, they were pretty far offshore.

  Shit, he couldn’t put it off any longer. He turned to the small room that had been their prison for ten days. Jazz’s body was still in the doorway, and beyond him, Charlie.

  IT HAD TAKEN TOO LONG for the police to get their act together once the street cops had taken her to the station. She’d had to scream to get the right person’s attention, but once Chief Eccles understood what was at stake, he made things happen.