Nor did she.
Not a single phrase or detail.
For what felt like hours she kept to her grim resolve, sitting motionlessly on a rough wooden desk chair and
ignoring the questions of five unsmiling men who entered in turn. They refused to answer any of her questions, so Carly refused to answer theirs, but with every minute that passed her fear grew.
Their questions became more urgent, their voices sharper, and still Carly told them only her name, her address, and that she was a United States citizen and wanted to speak to a lawyer.
Finally, the man in tweed began to show his impatience. He shifted the box of doughnuts that lay open on the table in front of Carly, untouched.
“We need to know about Santa Marina,” he repeated. Sideburns had been the bad cop, and Tweed was playing the good one. “Tell us about the Brandons. They are your friends, aren't they?”
Carly ignored him.
“What if I told you they were in danger?”
Her panic spiked. This was the the first bit of information they had offered her, but she couldn't give in. The Brandons might be in danger from the very man now facing her.
She turned away, afraid to reveal any anxiety. No answers, she thought fiercely—not until she knew exactly whom she could trust.
“Still nothing to say?” Tweed tapped his pipe against his wrist, frowning. “Hell,” he muttered. “Time is running out. Why didn't anyone tell me you'd be this way?” He nodded at the man beside the door, who left immediately.
Carly gave no sign that she had noticed. Instead, she pulled an emery board from her pocket and began to file her nails with pointed indifference.
Anything for distraction so that the panic wouldn't show on her face.
“You're making this far harder than it needs to be, Ms. Sullivan.”
She just kept filing her nails, her face aching with the effort required to stay expressionless. She couldn't hold out forever, but she could damned well try.
“Have a doughnut and be reasonable.”
A hysterical laugh built at his words. Have a doughnut and be reasonable? Where were the handcuffs and the Pentothal? If this was the worst they could do, maybe she really could hold out forever.
With a sigh her interrogator pushed back his chair and stalked outside, leaving Carly alone with one guard.
She glared at him.
He touched his sunglasses and stared back impassively.
Moments later the door banged open and bounced off the wall.
A man stood in the threshold silhouetted by the sun. Carly couldn't see his face against the light, but he was tall, muscular, and physically intimidating in a way none of the others had been.
She sat up straight, shoving down her fear. “Goody,” she drawled. “Another doughnut delivery.”
The man didn't answer.
Carly's heart pounded as she stared at the doorway. She finally made out his uniform as he stepped inside. Camouflage. Navy insignia. An officer.
The door swung closed behind him, and the dimmed light gave her a sudden glimpse of a chiseled face and wintry eyes.
“McKay,” she whispered her whole body sagging in relief.
“Out,” he snapped at the man in sunglasses, his gaze never leaving Carly.
The guard hurried outside.
“You're not hurt,” Carly whispered. “Thank God. I was so afraid.”
Emotions raced across his face but were quickly suppressed. “No, I'm healthy enough, though I've had my tail chewed by my commanding officer, who then ordered me to make a certain female informant be more helpful to the current investigation.”
“Me,” Carly whispered.
“Yeah. You.”
She swallowed stunned by her physical response to seeing him again. Her pulse was ragged but she didn't move. Too many questions hung unspoken between them.
“Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?”
“I couldn't,” he shot back. “Didn't Izzy explain?”
“He didn't tell me anything that mattered.”
“Dammit, Carly, there are some things you have to take on faith. That's the way it's got to be.”
She stood up and slammed her palms on the table. “I took everything on faith, and what happened? I was nabbed at the dock, tracked down like a criminal, and dragged here by force. No one has bothered to tell me a thing since I was brought here. They've been asking about Santa Marina and the Brandons, but how was I supposed to know they're the good guys? When Izzy disappeared I assumed that he'd been hurt or you had been sent somewhere together.”
“Izzy's fine,” McKay said gently. “He knew that our men would take care of you.”
“It would have been nice if someone had shared that information with me, the kidnappee.” Carly's voice was shaky. “When was someone going to fill me in? Santa Marina is the closest thing to home I've got and the Brandons are my only family.”
“You should realize that certain things have to remain classified.”
“I understand that official business takes priority.” She studied his face. “Seeing you like this, I realize you were under orders every minute. But those men who kidnapped me at the dock—”
“Goons,” McKay said. “Someone should whack them around a little to teach them some manners.” He took her hands and turned them over, his thumbs caressing her palms. “They didn't use force, did they?”
“Threats more than anything else.” One touch and her pulse was racing. In a minute, she'd be trying to unbutton that nifty camouflage shirt he was wearing.
She pulled away before he realized his instant effect on her. “They wouldn't say who'd sent them, and you told me to be careful who I spoke to.”
“So you refused to answer.” McKay smiled crookedly and shook his head. “Lady, you sure do know how to stir up a hornet's nest. Men from three different agencies
have failed to make you talk.” He cleared his throat. “No doubt you would have held them off even longer, too.”
Carly stiffened. “Are you making fun of me?”
“Hell, no. You're probably the toughest case these intel geeks have seen in months. I'm damned impressed.” He frowned and began to pace the room.
She'd missed that long stride, that deceptively loose way he held his body as he prowled a room. In his uniform, he looked bigger and more dangerous than ever. He also looked every inch the soldier. How could she have been such a fool not to notice sooner?
“Tell me what's going on.”
“Nothing good. It looks like Daphne and her father may be hostages. We have satellite reconnaissance photos that show them being taken from their home to their yacht, in the company of an ex-Soviet general turned international smuggler. The consensus here is that a counterfeiting operation is in the works, and Brandon got in the way because he refused to go along with the program.”
Carly felt the blood leave her face. “What will happen to them?”
“Nothing, assuming I get my team in place and pay an unexpected visit to Santa Marina before things get out of hand.”
“Team?”
“U.S. Navy SEALs.”
“Oh.” What else could she say? She'd trusted him nearly from the start because she'd believed that he could never be on the wrong side. It made perfect sense that he was a member of the best of the best, a brotherhood of unsung heroes.
She placed her hands on the table. “What do you need to know?”
“Everything. Staff habits, floor plans of the estate on Santa Marina, and the layout of the Brandon yacht. You stayed on the yacht six months ago, didn't you?”
Carly nodded. “I have some film I made during the trip, but it's back in New York.”
“We'll send someone to pick that up immediately. We'll need as many details as possible to plan our operation. Do you have films of the estate, too?”
She leaned forward eagerly. “I took a whole videotape last year at Daphne's birthday. Once a filmmaker, always a filmmaker. They'll have more detail than your satellite photos, too.”
McKay took her arm and escorted her to the door. “Lady, this news is going to make a lot of people here damned happy. Let's get to work, shall we?”
Carly's heart slammed at the contact with his hard body, even as questions raced through her head.
She held them back.
They would come later.
Now was for Daphne and her father.
“That's everything I can think of.” Carly stared at her cup of cold coffee with disgust. She had been cooped up in a windowless room for eight hours straight, dredging up information on the Brandons' staff, their estate on Santa Marina, and their yacht.
A courier had brought her films from New York and she had run through each one a dozen times as part of formal briefings. Her suited escorts from the dock looked peeved but the tables had been turned. Now the questions came from McKay and two other Navy officers, along with a gray-haired man in civilian clothes.
Carly finished the truly awful cup of coffee, feeling the zing of caffeine overload. “How will this information help you?”
“We need every possible detail for training purposes,” McKay said.
“What kind of training?” Carly desperately wanted to do more to help than sit passively answering questions, but to do that she needed to know more about the operation.
McKay glanced at his superior officer, who nodded.
“We already have a scale model of Brandon's yacht under construction, based on design plans from the builder and augmented by your films. In an hour I'll start putting my team through live-fire hostage recovery drills to get them in the mood.”
“Live fire?”
“We're going in hard, Carly. Every second of training has to count. Live fire reinforces the message.”
“Someone may be hurt.”
“Not on my team.” From another man the words would have sounded arrogant, but from McKay they came out as simple, God's-honest truth.
Carly shivered, remembering what Izzy had said about tight spots being McKay's specialty. “What if Daphne isn't on the yacht by the time you reach Santa Marina?”
“We're also running drills for the Brandon estate. Constructing those models for CQB will take longer, but they're already in the works.”
“CQB?”
“Close Quarters Battle.”
Carly studied her clenched hands, paling at the thought of a firefight around Daphne and her uncle. “I want to go with you. I know everyone on the staff, and none of them would question my paying an unexpected visit. You can put some kind of radio or microphone on me and relay the feed. That way you and your men won't be going in cold.”
“Out of the question,” McKay said tightly. “You'd be walking right into fire. This is a military mission, and you're a civilian.”
“But I'm Volunteering”
“And it is very honorable of you,” the gray-haired man named Grace interrupted. “But it's impossible. It's Carnival time down there and things are going to be damned tricky.”
“Have you managed to get any current information from the Brandons' compound?”
Neither Ford nor his superiors answered.
Carly glared across the table. “So you're going in by satellite photos and my eight-month-old films. That's not good enough.”
“Not entirely. We have some recent ground intel,” McKay replied. “For the moment no one is going in or out of the Brandon estate, and the yacht is now under constant surveillance.”
“Let me go. I can help you.”
William Grace stood up and held out a hand. “I'll be very clear, Ms. Sullivan. You've been an enormous help, but now you'll have to leave the details to us. Commander McKay and his SEAL team are equipped to handle missions like this, trust me on that. Now I'll have someone take you to your quarters and you can rest while our people get on with their business.”
McKay's face was carefully guarded. Carly knew that he agreed completely.
At any moment she expected the two men to pat her on the head and give her another doughnut.
They needed her badly enough to shanghai her there and detain her for hours before telling her the truth. Now that they had what they wanted they planned to brush her off like some kind of dimwit?
She hid a smile, a plan forming in her mind. If they wanted a retiring female who knew her place, that's exactly what they would get.
“Of course,” she said quietly. “That's probably the best idea.” She smiled demurely.
But not too demurely. McKay was no fool. “It's been a long day, what with being kidnapped and all,” she added.
“Excellent.” Grace looked relieved. “You enjoy your rest tonight and we'll talk again tomorrow. Meanwhile, leave it to us to decide what's best for your friends in Santa Marina.”
Carly didn't consider resting, not for a second. By eight the next morning she was strapped into the passenger seat of a private plane flying over the Caribbean with Santa Marina dead ahead.
“Excellent visibility, Ms. Sullivan.” The pilot pointed to the speck of land growing on the horizon. “You want me to set you down at the main dock?”
“No.” Carly scanned the horizon with a pair of binoculars lifted from the base before she'd slipped out. “I'm looking for a yacht called Daphne s Choice. It's usually moored just off Sunrise Point. You can set me down in the water about a half mile out to sea, and I'll take the inflatable boat in from there.”
“But—”
“Don't worry. I know these waters, and the weather's perfect. No storms are expected.” Except the storm that hits when I arrive.
She couldn't let McKay and his team go in without updated information, and no one was more familiar with Sunrise Point than she was. As an old friend, she could pay an unannounced visit to the Brandon yacht without raising the slightest suspicion. If she found nothing amiss, she would notify McKay, then head for the Brandon estate.
The plane banked and she watched the white granite walls of Santa Marina's government house glow in the sun, all the while reviewing her plan one more time.
“What do you mean, she's gone?” McKay towered over a crestfallen MP “When did you last check?”
“Five minutes ago, sir,” the officer explained in a thick Georgia accent. “I was told to get the lady some breakfast from the mess. I wasn't gone long, sir. When I returned, she didn't answer the door, so I went inside and—”
“And she was gone,” McKay said in disgust. “Did anyone actually see her go into her room at the barracks last night?”
“Yes, sir. Took her in myself, sir.”
“And have you seen her since?” he demanded.
The soldier flinched, yet remained at attention. “Sir, no sir. She said she was tired and was going straight to bed. I believed her, sir. We never expected that she would—”
“When I want excuses, I'll ask for them, soldier.” McKay picked up the telephone on the worn desk. “Get me the gatehouse,” he said gruffly. “This is Commander McKay.”
The line clicked, then was answered by a deep bass voice. “Sergeant Riley here. How can I help you, sir?”
“I'm looking for Ms. Sullivan. Have you seen her?”
“Affirmative, sir. I called her a taxi myself at 0500 hours.” Papers ruffled. “She said she had to go to Miami for some photos and tapes you required for today's briefing.”
“I don't suppose anyone considered phoning me for verification,” McKay said as he rubbed his forehead.
“No, sir. Ms. Sullivan was not on my ‘detain’ list. I checked just to be sure.”
No, of course she wasn't, McKay thought sourly. No one had expected her to sneak off right under their dumb, unsuspecting noses. The lady had done a number on all of them, him most of all. She'd had no intention of staying behind while her friends were in danger, and by now she was probably halfway to Santa Marina.
The thought chilled him to the bone.
“We'll discuss operating procedures later, Sergeant,” McKay grumbled. He hung up, then dialed the CO, already working out an alte
rnate plan. With Carly in the field headed toward a hostile force, they would have to push the drop schedule forward. If she wasn't careful, she could tip off Vronski that an action was imminent. Meanwhile, there was no way in hell he would allow the irritating woman to get herself hurt.
They were going in.
The sea was blessedly calm when the pilot launched an inflatable boat from the sea plane and Carly wriggled inside. He had given her water, a compass, and careful directions on how to start the outboard.
Now he watched anxiously while she yanked the motor cord. On her third try the engine growled to life, and Carly waved checked her compass, then sliced through the water toward the Brandon yacht, moored a half mile due west.
Her costume, as she thought of it, was artful yet simple. A scanty string bikini hugged her beneath a gauze shirt, which she would dump when she got close to the yacht. Her small, glittery bag held sunscreen, a bottle of designer water, a miniature camera, and a cell phone.
At her feet lay a bottle of excellent Russian vodka to be used as a prop, should she require it.
As she bumped along through the water, Carly fought down her anxiety. Panic was out of the question or she'd fall on her face.
With the white bow of Daphne s Choice rising before her, she pulled on a floppy hat and surveyed the deck discreetly. Two men with crew cuts and huge arms were standing near the stern. They were dressed casually in loose, flowing shirts.
No one Carly recognized and she knew all of the Brandon staff.
Which meant that these were the bad guys.
One of the men turned. Carly saw him point toward her while his companion raised a set of binoculars. Quickly she slipped off her gauze shirt, then began to wave wildly.
Keep it light, she told herself. She was a woman on vacation traveling in search of an old friend no more. Nothing to raise suspicion. By sheer determination she kept a big smile in place as she pulled up beside the gleaming yacht. One of the big men sprinted along the railing above her.
Her heart pitched when she saw his gun leveled at her face.
McKay was making a final predeparture check of satellite photos of the Caribbean when his second glanced up.
Going Overboard Page 26
