Lowering the gun marginally, Micki bit back the retort that she had told him that hours ago. "And just where do you think we should go, Oh-Imperious-Leader?"
"To the first cabin we saw from the air. You know, the one where the irate 'fisherman' waved us off."
"Let me guess. You don't believe he was a fisherman."
"Remember that blockhouse, on the island where they shot at us? I think these counterfeiters use that for their main storage, and some of these 'fishing shanties' for short term drop-offs. We must have interrupted that guy clearing out whatever goods were in that particular one."
Micki utilized some sarcasm of her own. "Then it doesn't make sense for us to go knocking at his door again, does it?"
"Think about it, Micki. Odds are he's not still there. I think the helo crash has brought too much heat to this area. They're all on the move, and the ones that aren't shifting merchandise are out looking for us to make sure we don't live to tell about it."
"And if he's still there? And if he has company?"
Luke shrugged. "Then we have the element of surprise on our side and—" he nodded toward the weapon in her hand "—my gun."
Micki's gaze flicked down to the Beretta.
Luke pressed his point as the closing storm front made its presence known again. "It's the only shelter within reach, and as far as I'm concerned, I'm damned sure going to survive this to nail Ray's killers." He took a step closer to her, Fizz trailing at his heels. "Aren't you?"
Ray's killers. The phrase seared through her heart like the lightning that energized the air around her. Razor was dead, and it was worse than some stupid, stupid accident. It was murder.
Pulling back the gun when Luke reached for it, she clicked the safety on in a gesture that contradicted the first move. Face to face with him, Micki held his gaze so there was no mistake.
"I don't know why this is so important to you, Yank, unless you get some sort of bounty for snagging these guys. But I'm putting in with you because Ray was like a little brother to me. And nobody kills somebody I care about, and then tries to kill me, without paying for it. Got it?"
"Got it." When Luke put out his palm, she relinquished possession of the gun. Returning it to his camera bag, he hoisted the strap onto his shoulder before catching her eye again. "And the reason I care, is because Ray was my little brother."
For a moment, Micki was too stunned to do anything but watch as he turned and crossed back to collect her camel-colored survival backpack.
"Wait a minute," she said as he passed her on the way to the jon boat, "your name is Hardigan. Razor's was McNally."
Luke didn't answer, but continued to stow their gear onboard the tiny craft. Pushing it off the sand, he held the bow and finally shot a glance over his shoulder. "I was thirteen when my mom married John McNally, so I kept my father's name. Mom and John went on to have four kids, all boys. Ray was the first."
Micki scowled, suddenly unsure if she believed any of what he'd just told her. "How convenient."
Luke's brown eyes narrowed on her for a second, before he turned his back in favor of the ocean. "I can't make you believe me, but it's the truth."
The familiarity of his stance sent a flutter through her. Although it had been dark and she had been standing several yards away in The Sandpiper's parking lot, his body language was exactly the same.
"Last night," she said quietly, "outside The Sandpiper. You were looking out to sea, just like you are now."
And you were feeling the same pain, she added to herself. Grieving for your brother. Oh, Luke.
Part of her wanted to go to him, to hold him and comfort him, just like another part of her wanted him to do the same for her.
"Ray always loved the sky, I always loved the sea," Luke said without turning. "The wind and the waves; that was us."
"I'm sorry," she said, an apology meant to cover a lot of things.
Luke turned to her then... and something happened. It wasn't anything she could name, just a feeling; a bonding. He said nothing for a long moment, and then smiled as he extended a hand to her. "Are you coming?"
"Yes, we're coming." Shaking herself out of it, Micki swatted his hand away and waded through the knee-deep water with Fizz. "Just so you know, this doesn't change anything between us. I want these blokes as bad as you do, but—"
She interrupted herself as she lifted her dog into the boat, climbed in after him, then continued as if there had been no break in her declaration.
"—but I still hold you responsible for the loss of my plane. Got that, Yank?"
With a theatrical groan, Luke pushed the boat off, and swung himself in like she had done. "How could I ever forget?"
Without further conversation, Luke put his back into the task of moving them through the white-capped ocean. Sitting on the bottom of the jon boat with Fizz, Micki again thought about the rationality of going to the lair of the men they had tried so hard to avoid for most of the day, and of being out on the water during a violent thunderstorm.
Maybe it was the expression on her face, or maybe it was the way she flinched from the forked lightning and the ensuing growl of thunder, but Luke said, "Don't worry, I'm not crazy hell bent on revenge. Our priority here is to find shelter from that storm. Survival comes first, Micki, you know that."
Survival comes first. Silently, Micki watched the small strip of sand slip away behind them. With it went a good portion of her belief in a sane, safe world where law and order ruled, and The Good Guys always triumphed. Luke had accused Dirk of being a common crook. And a killer.
But he was wrong. She knew Dirk Jurgensen, and she believed she knew him better than most. There was no way he would ever knowingly endanger a life, much less Razor McNally's, who had been a kid brother to them all. Micki knew this with an unshakable certainty akin to her determination to survive. Luke had to be wrong.
Lightning again tore at the sky, closer and more frequent now, and she did her best not to shudder at the booming crash of thunder that quickly followed. She had no time or energy left for doubts. Survival came first, and to survive she needed to believe that Dirk, of all people, could still be trusted. He would miss her when he came to get her for their dinner date, and he would bring help.
In the meantime, it was her and Luke against that violent and dangerous world. They were going to survive, whatever it took. Together they were going to persevere, if only to nail the men who had really killed their 'little brother.'
Only then would her world make sense again.
CHAPTER SIX
With the Yank, everything was a fight. He was obviously close to exhaustion but would he give up those oars? No way. At least not without a major brawl. So, it wasn't until after three skirmishes and about twenty minutes that Micki finally won possession of the oars.
Good thing too, she thought, watching Luke rest as she put her back into the stroke. After his dive and the long hours spent rowing, he was in no shape to do it, no matter how he insisted otherwise. Although now, pulling another laborious stroke against an ocean that swelled and bucked beneath them, Micki was beginning to wish it was one fight that she had lost.
Even protected by the grouping of islands, the conditions had deteriorated considerably. The sun was now just a memory, the blue sky camouflaged beneath an angry-looking darkness that dropped rain at regular, but short, intervals. Lightning and thunder were now a singular event, an alliance of nature, flashing and booming through the dim world around them with a fierceness that made even Luke flinch.
Micki fought her astraphobia, and kept on rowing. While there were presently no cloud-to-ground strikes, the idea of being caught out on the water in a small boat did not appeal to her one bit. She had no wish to be 'toast,' as Luke put it, but since the top of her head was the highest point around, she presently felt a deep dark kinship with a lightning rod. They had to find shelter—immediately—or else she was likely to lose it. Turning into a wimp who needed to crawl into someone's arms until the storm passed was not a trait
she wanted Luke to see; especially not when he was the only 'someone' around.
She shivered, as much from the rapidly dropping air temperature as from the thought of nestling in Luke's protective embrace. Her skin, chafed and goosefleshed, was a chill reminder that she shouldn't have been so cooperative when he left her jacket in the swamp. She was opening her mouth to chastise him on that when the sound of a speedboat powering up, somewhere nearby, became a more important concern.
It was close, perhaps just beyond the point of the island that they were headed toward, and it was a good bet that whoever was in that boat wasn't out here for recreational fulfillment. They must be near their destination; the first of the 'fisherman's' shanties they had discovered that morning.
Micki leaned heavily on the port oar, struggling to turn them toward the shore. They had to get out of sight—and quick.
Luke, always taking charge, pointed toward a small inlet ahead. "There. This is as close as were going to get if they're still out and about."
"I see it," she grunted, fighting against the powerful drag of the sea that wanted to pull them around the point and into the open.
Getting into a half-crouch, Luke inched his way toward her. Their already unstable boat pitched alarmingly, causing Micki to fight to maintain control of it and their course. As broadside waves threatened to swamp them, Fizz lifted his head for a protesting whine. The speedboat revved to pull away from its mooring, just as Micki found herself losing the battle with the powerful current. Grimly, she fought on, gripping the oars even more tightly as Luke neared her.
"I can do it," she shouted, although the nose of the jon boat still wasn't obeying. Much farther and they would lose the chance to make the cover of the inlet.
Amazingly, Luke didn't try to pull the oars away. Instead, he carefully climbed over her and began to fit his legs around hers on the bench.
"I said I can do it." Her voice was nearly lost in the roar of the wind and the water sluicing about them. "I'm not giving you these oars."
"I don't mean for you to," he answered, fitting his hands behind hers the same way he had fit his body behind hers on the bench. He moved with her in the stroke, not yet adding his strength to hers, his voice calm and steady in her ear despite that they were dangerously near the point of no return. "It's going to take both of us to make this haul. You ready?"
Micki nodded, increasing her grip on the oars next to his hands.
"Okay then. Ready, set, pull!"
They strained together and after three long strokes, the boat began to respond.
"She's coming about!" Micki yelled.
"Keep going." Luke's breath was warm against her chilled ear. "We're not home yet."
No kidding! Geez, the Yank had to take the prize for World Class Understatement.
They fell into a desperate rhythm, a primal struggle of muscle with muscle and metal against wave. With every dip and pull, every exertion against an elemental force that fought them, they prevailed as one, and their craft responded. As they neared the inlet, it became obvious that the sound of the speedboat was growing more distant. Whoever it was, they had laid course toward Marathon and not in their direction.
Toward Marathon. The thought drew a sob of exhaustion from Micki as she and Luke took the last stroke that sent them sailing into the relative safety of the inlet. The waters were calmer there, more protected from the wind, for a while anyway. The guy in that speedboat had the right idea, making for safety while he still could, instead of settling for the false security of a tiny cove. Still, Micki could not censure her reaction to a haven—any haven—and she fell back against the sanctuary of Luke's chest before she realized what she had done.
Her eyes closed. They were safe. Momentarily.
Luke's blistered hands moved to cover hers on the oars. "You did very well." She felt his cheek nuzzle her hair. "Together, we're a pretty good team."
It felt good, leaning against his muscled chest, his arms almost but not quite around her. It felt very, very good.
Too good. Micki opened her eyes and hastily pulled away, tugging her hands out from under his and getting to her feet. Lightning flashed about her, and she immediately sat down again. The storm was too close, but their proximity to their pursuers' lair gave her the perfect excuse to hide that fear, and her reaction to Luke's closeness.
"We'd better get moving," she said, nodding at the sky, "if we're going to find that shelter."
Pulling on the oars, Luke sent them gliding toward the shore without further discussion. As soon as the hull ground against the coral, Micki reached for her backpack and climbed out. The storm shook the very air around them, turning the tiny key into a hideous carnival ride where everything strobed in slow motion. Three steps away from the boat with Fizz, Micki realized Luke wasn't following.
Was he abandoning her again?
Micki turned quickly, but found her assumption unjustified. Luke was still sitting in the boat, but he was busy acquiring a fresh ammo clip from one of the side pockets of his camera bag rather than rowing off. Silent for a moment, she watched him release the empty magazine from the gun butt, and then caught a flash of brass from the top slug as he loaded the fresh clip.
Empty magazine? She looked twice, but there definitely weren't any shell casings in the clip he had just removed. That meant the Beretta was—had always been—empty. Was that the reason for his brazenness when she had held the gun on him?
Why that lousy, untrusting, no good, son of a...
He had obviously replaced the full clip with an empty one before coming back from his dive!
Luke looked at her then, cutting off her unspoken rebuke. She had never seen that expression of grim determination before, and it gave her a dread feeling in the pit of her stomach that was suddenly unmatched by even the worst Florida thunderstorm.
"Let's hope," he said, cocking the mechanism ready for firing, "that we don't have to use it."
***
Pacing the length of his glass-walled office in the maintenance hangar, Dirk Jurgensen kept a watchful eye on the loading of the Curtiss C-46 cargo plane, and a fretful mind on Micki. The loading was going well; the crates from the last rental truck were currently being stowed for their passage to Bermuda. Reynolds was efficient at overseeing workers and moving merchandise, even if he was stupid enough to think that he could actually get away with shooting down a civilian aircraft.
Damn him! Growling softly, Dirk turned in his pacing and headed back the other way, away from the silent marine-band radio atop his file cabinet. What was going on out in the islands? Why hadn't someone reported finding at least some trace of Micki? She couldn't have simply vanished!
Reaching the far wall, Dirk turned again, shooting a glower at Reynolds' back. If the pudgy little man were conscious of the visual daggers directed his way, he gave no indication as he bullied the men who struggled with the heavy crates. That only increased Dirk's irritation. Micki was missing because of Reynolds and somehow he vowed to find a way to get even.
There had always been an undercurrent of competition between the two men, Reynolds always stopping just short of outright defiance of Dirk's command. That was also going to stop. A well-placed rumor here, a too-good-to-pass-up temptation there, and he would have the greedy little toad smack dab in the middle of a compromising situation. Manipulation was the sort of thing Dirk was good at, and 'compromising situations' were something their mutual boss did not tolerate.
Smiling at the thought of revenge, Dirk started back toward the radio. Where the hell was Micki? The 7:00pm departure plan was now squashed. It was already ten minutes after and, watching as the last of the merchandise was loaded, Dirk knew he wasn't going to be able to stall with the excuse that 'the plane wasn't ready' for very much longer. Sooner than he liked, Reynolds would be demanding to leave before they got too far behind schedule.
A roll of thunder reverberated around the hollow tin of the maintenance hangar, evidence of the storm that raged outside. Micki must be frightened hal
f out of her wits—if she was still alive.
Clamping down on his anguish before it consumed him; Dirk looked at the silent radio. If she were hurt or... anything... then it was Reynolds' fault. His and Hardigan's. Luke Hardigan, with his fake Rolex watch and his thinly veiled 'looking for a bulldog' line. Who was he anyway? Who sent him? And what did he really want with the pages he had copied in Micki's office?
That was another thing Dirk needed to do. He needed to clear out her office, leaving no leads for her so-called friends to follow. But he couldn't; he couldn't leave Reynolds with a fully loaded plane of valuable cargo and a relief pilot who may be greedy enough to fly it. It was the same reason why Dirk wasn't out there personally looking for Micki. Instead, he had to settle for stalling, buying time to protect his interests, and hoping to God that someone would find Micki and bring her back.
As if willed to life by Dirk's worry, the radio crackled. "Sweeper One to Bulldog. You copy, Bulldog?"
Grabbing the mike, Dirk answered quickly. "Bulldog, go ahead. What have you got?"
There was a moment of static as if the caller were choosing his words carefully. "The jon boat is missing from Charlie Cabin. Looks like our friends are on the move. They won't get far, though. No gas, no motor."
"Stay on it. I want them found."
"But the weather's blowing up bad out here. Gonna hit any time. Sweeper Two's already headed in."
"No!" Dirk thundered, slamming a fist down on the file cabinet. "Tell them to get back out there. I want her found within the next half hour."
The crackle and hiss of static lasted far longer this time. "But the lightning—"
"I don't want to hear it!" Dirk's rage nearly choked him. "Just find her!"
Breaking the connection, he spun about on his heel. The incompetent idiots; he should go out there and find her himself.
The overhead lights flickered throughout the hangar, but remained on. Dirk glanced up, imagining the tempest that lay beyond the galvanized tin. He had lived in the Keys long enough to know the sort of deadly lightning wrapped up in a squall of this magnitude. This looked like it was settling in for the night, the weather report forecasting the leading edge of the front to continue its track out across the Gulf waters.
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