“Sir, I think you'd better take this call. It might be Ms. Sullivan. She sounds funny—”
McKay snatched up an extension before the man had finished speaking. “Who is this?” he demanded.
The connection was tinny, broken by occasional bursts of static. A cell phone, McKay thought, or maybe a marine connection.
“This is Carly calling for Ford. That's you, isn't it, dearheart?”
Dearheart?
“This is McKay. Is something wrong?”
Her laugh echoed over the line, but there was something forced about it. “Oh, everything's fine down here in Santa Marina, dear. Sun and fun and lots of lovely things to drink.”
Ford heard the clink of ice cubes and then a brittle laugh from Carly. “Oops. I just spilled another drink. Maybe I've had one too many.”
Her giggles sounded as if she were halfway to Margaritaville.
“Carly, what the hell—”
“I'm here on Daphne s Choice and I miss you terribly. It wasn't at all nice of you to choose your job over a week of partying on the yacht. There are at least fifteen men here that I don't know. Doesn't that make you jealous?”
McKay's nerves snapped to full alert. “Fifteen men,” he repeated, understanding that Carly was feeding him clues. “Russians?”
“Mad and bad ones, I'd say. They are all so … big and masterful.”
“They're heavily armed?”
“Mmm. There are two of them right here, and I just know they think I'm a crazy redhead.”
“You're crazy, all right,” McKay muttered, a shaft of ice slicing deep into his chest at the thought of Carly surrounded by Vronski's thugs.
“I'm lonely without you, too, dearheart. Now hush and listen to me. I have to watch the minutes here.” She gave a loud, dramatic sigh. “I think you should bring your work down here right now. You've had enough time to look at old videos and relax. Round up some of your friends and bring them along, too. I'll make you real glad you came. Know what I mean?” She gave another drunken giggle, which he knew was forced. Carly seldom drank—and never giggled.
He tried to match her light tone. “Better watch that drinking, honey lips. Whiskey goes right to your head, remember.”
There was a pause, and then Carly chuckled. “That's me, old honey lips.” She made a string of loud kissing sounds. “Better hurry up because it's getting pretty wild here with Carnival. Lots of noisy strangers.” Her voice tightened. “Even some big truck thingies with turrets in the streets.”
“I hear you,” McKay said curtly.
“You want to talk to Daphne?” Once again ice cubes clinked near the receiver, as if Carly was waving a glass. “I don't know where she went. Daphne!” she called, her
words slurred. “Where did you go? Uncle Nigel? Too bad. I guess someone took them away in that big silver boat with all the radar. And things were just starting to get fun. Hey—”
McKay heard a man's voice and rustling, as if there was a struggle going on. The cry of seabirds rose in counterpoint to a man's voice speaking Russian. Furious Russian.
“No way I'm not done yet,” Carly said breathlessly. “I want to say goodbye to my friend. Why, you big—”
There was another burst of angry Russian, then the line went dead.
McKay gripped the phone, his jaw clenched. Carly was in deadly trouble. Evidently her guards thought she was making a frivolous call to her boyfriend, thanks to her clever performance, but she'd been caught. The two men would be shark bait for allowing her to make any kind of communication. Whoever the new arrival was, he hadn't bought her story and he wouldn't let her out of sight again.
McKay stood rigidly in the center of the briefing room and stared at a fixed point, marshaling his panic and summoning up the cold professionalism on which his life and the lives of others depended.
Carly's life, too.
He couldn't afford to make any mistakes in a reckless rush to find her.
Review the message, he told himself. Assess. Plan. Implement. Get Carly the hell out of there.
Then he would lock her up to keep her from ever pulling a crazy stunt like this again. But first he swore he'd kiss her senseless for being so damned smart and providing him with such excellent intel, at the risk of her life.
He'd read her message loud and clear: There were strangers, probably hostile, everywhere on the island and fifteen men positioned on the yacht, where Carly was
currently being held. She'd also managed to warn him that Daphne and her father had been taken from the yacht to a vessel equipped with lots of radar, and that there were “truck thingies with turrets in the streets.” Tanks?
All in all, it was excellent intel. McKay and his team would act on it immediately, once he relayed the information along the chain of command.
Striding from the room to alert his team, he barked out an order to his second. “Get me a printout of that call immediately, then run it for translation. Someone was speaking Russian and I want to know exactly what he said, even if he's only ordering another case of cold Stoli from the galley.”
But McKay knew the Russian was issuing far more serious orders. He prayed desperately that they didn't include harming Carly.
She was going to throw up, Carly thought.
She was curled on a dirty cement floor, her hands and feet bound by heavy industrial wire that cut into her skin every time she moved. Her stitches ached and her forehead throbbed from the blow she'd taken from one of the goons aboard the yacht.
After that, everything slid into a blur.
She had awakened in darkness with a shattering pain at her temple and imminent nausea. Through the wall she heard the low rumble of machinery and an occasional burst of voices, but no one had come to check on her.
Fear left a cold, metallic taste in her mouth as she sat up, fresh pain spearing through her stitches. She hadn't seen Daphne or her father since several of the thugs had pulled them from the yacht at gunpoint. Two other boats had been rocking nearby, both bearing the logo of the Santa Marina police, but with the Brandons held captive at gunpoint, she doubted that Inspector St. John and his officers would attempt an armed rescue.
Carly fought back tears at the memory of Daphne's white, frightened face as their captors pushed her flat on the seat and thundered away. She prayed that her information to McKay had been helpful and his team would reach Santa Marina in time to avoid disaster.
A door creaked to her right. A square of light opened against the darkness and footsteps clicked closer. Carly
sucked in a breath as something slammed into her side and a string of low curses jolted her from pain to full awareness.
“Daphne?” she whispered.
“Thank God.” Daphne gasped as she felt the metal biting into Carly's wrists. “The bloody swine. Are you hurt? Did they—”
“No. Other than a bang on the head, I'm fine. Where's your father?”
“They took him off the yacht. I don't know where or why.” Her voice broke. “Ransom, maybe. Or for political leverage. I never thought this could happen here in Santa Marina. My father is well respected and he never took security for granted. Why, Carly? Who are these people?”
“I don't know. Russians, I think.” She chose her words carefully. “Have they made any ransom demands yet?”
“Not that I know about. I was taken to the estate for several hours, then blindfolded and brought here—wherever here is.”
“Were they rough?” Carly had a sudden, terrifying thought. “What about the baby?”
“So far so good. But we have to get out of here.” More footsteps rang outside the room. A door banged shut nearby, and angry voices echoed beyond the wall.
Carly frowned, hearing something familiar about the voices.
The door swung open. Light cut through dancing dust motes and cobwebs, where a man stood silhouetted. A moment later Daphne gave a ragged cry of surprise and hurled herself against the shadowed figure.
“David—why are you here?”
“Later,” he said gruffly, holding her close. “You're safe now.”
Daphne sank tighter against his chest. “You came.”
“As soon as I could.” Her fiancé's voice broke. “By God, they didn't hurt you, did they?”
“Just a few bruises. They didn't even bind my wrists
like they did to Carly. But we have to go now, before those goons return.”
“Of course,” he said soothingly, pushing a strand of hair from her face. “You're certain they didn't harm you?”
“I'm fine.” Daphne's hand slid to her waist. “But I'm afraid they could. David, I meant to tell you before.” Her breath caught. “I'm pregnant.”
“A baby?” Breathing harshly, he laid his hand over hers. “My baby,” he whispered. “I never thought—”
“Ours,” Daphne said.
He cursed under his breath. “There's no time. St. John is right outside.” He spoke slowly, as if he couldn't focus. “I'll talk to him and see that he helps us.”
“Inspector St. John?” Carly tried to ignore the uneasiness in the back of her mind. Inspector St. John was a close family friend and his presence changed everything. For the first time since she'd been hauled aboard the Brandon yacht, she felt the odds shifting in their favor.
Grimly, Halloran produced a pocketknife and cut Carly's knotted wire bonds at her feet. She sighed as the metal sprang free, then pushed clumsily to her feet and held out her hands, painfully aware of every passing second.
Daphne's fiancé looked up as St. John appeared in the doorway with a lethal-looking weapon cradled in one arm. “Get the car and bring it around,” Halloran snapped. “Daphne's pregnant, and we have to get her away from here immediately. She never should have been brought here in the first place.”
“Pregnant?” The tall policeman sucked in a breath. “A damned fine time to discover that. Still, it's no problem. I'll take care of her.”
“No. It's too late for that.” It was a low, anguished hiss. “Get the car. That's an order, St. John.”
Carly stared numbly from one man to the other, her horror growing as St. John leveled his weapon with silent purpose.
Furious, Halloran stepped in front of Daphne. “I said get the car.”
St. John didn't move. “I'm not pulling out now,” he said tensely. “Not with two million dollars at stake. Not even for a baby.”
Carly choked back a wave of nausea. Halloran had found them only because he was one of the kidnappers, as was the man whom Nigel Brandon had trusted and worked with for more than three decades.
Cold-blooded traitors, both of them.
Daphne went rigid in her fiancé's arms. “I don't believe this.” She stared in horror. “You're involved?”
Halloran studied her distractedly. “Not now, Daphne. Nothing matters but getting you out.” He pulled her toward the door, cursing as the inspector stepped in front of them. “Don't try to stop us, St. John.”
“We'll play this out exactly as planned and no one will be hurt.”
“You'll get your money, St. John. I gave you my word. Now put down the gun and move away.”
“I'm afraid your word isn't adequate.” St. John inched sideways, his face grim and determined. “A man's entitled to have something to show for thirty years of service, but all I have is debts and promises.” He gestured with the rifle. “Give me the money now or move back against the wall.”
Halloran bent to reach into his pocket, and as he did, he covertly pressed a knife into Carly's hand.
“Stop moving around,” St. John ordered.
“You're a fool,” Halloran hissed. “He'll kill you first. Your only chance is with me. He'll—”
St. John was pitched sideways against the wall. A stocky man kicked St. John's weapon across the floor, then barked a sentence in what sounded like Russian. His eyes blazed as he stared at Halloran.
“Go on. His only chance is what?” he rumbled, his voice heavily accented.
No one moved.
“I asked a question.”
St. John struggled up onto one knee. “I wouldn't let them leave. I kept to the terms, the way we agreed. I even arranged for the woman to be trapped in the freezer, as you wanted but you said no one would be hurt, Vronski.”
“Did I really?” the Russian said slowly. “My memory is not always reliable, I'm afraid.”
“You killed one of my men.”
“A casualty of war.”
“This isn't war, dammit.” St. John struggled to rise. “You lied to me. I made certain that your distribution system was set, and you promised—”
A hail of bullets slammed St. John down onto his back. Carly bit back a cry and turned away from the explosive burst of blood.
“Promises are for old women and fools,” the Russian spat. “Did you think I would trust a man who betrayed his oldest friend?”
Daphne shrank back as the Russian turned and studied her coldly.
“No,” Halloran snapped.
“You question me?”
“No one was to be hurt, or have you forgotten in your greed?”
“Remember who you speak to. Remember what is before you.” The Russian spoke in cold fury. “And all of what is behind you.”
“You mean the money? I have enough of that to last a lifetime.” Halloran pushed Daphne protectively behind him. “It was never about money for me. It was always about proving myself and making you proud of me.”
“There can never be enough money, you fool.” The man called Vronski tossed a videocassette bearing the logo of Daphne's foundation at St. John's lifeless body. “Soon we will swim in money. Hundreds more like this one have been packed and are ready to begin shipping tomorrow—as soon as Brandon is brought to heel.” The Russian nudged the plastic case with the toe of his shoe.
“Otherwise, he will be crushed. There will be more money than you can imagine, and you will help me build an empire here on Santa Marina.”
“No one was to be hurt,” Halloran repeated shakily.
“Are you so weak to care? Your woman has served her purpose. Her father is very close to full agreement.”
“It should never have come to this.” Halloran's designer suit was rumpled and dusty, but he stood straight and tall. “Daphne will not be touched.”
“Imbecile.” Vronski's face filled with ugly color. “Have you forgotten what I gave up to make you all that you are? I cut you from my life and erased your name from my lips. I gave up all the years we could have had together as father and son so you would be free, unquestioned, a man of power with the perfect education, the perfect clothes, and the perfect friends.”
Daphne gave a sob of shock and tried to move, but Halloran pushed her back. “She is worth more than all you gave me.” He gripped Daphne's arm, breathing hard. “You will not harm her or the child she carries.”
“David, no.” Daphne's voice was a tortured whisper.
“Silence,” Vronski said coldly. “I eat with jackals and walk with traitors.” His eyes glinted, and Carly thought they carried the unfocused sheen of madness. Careful to draw no attention to herself, she eased Halloran's knife into the pocket of the loose cotton pants the Russians had insisted she change into.
Vronski turned to a uniformed man in the doorway. “Take the two women back to the yacht,” he barked. “You know what to do there.”
“I ask you to stop now. I ask as your son, the son you loved enough to sacrifice everything for.” David spoke firmly, though his hands were shaking. “I can't allow you to do this.”
A vein beat madly on Vronski's forehead. “No?” he whispered. “And how will my only son stop me? You know nothing of threats, Dimitri.”
“David. That's who I am. The rest is a bad dream.”
Vronski seemed to stagger. “All because of this woman? This weak, shiny creature and her silly friend?”
“Yes. Because of her. Because I love her.”
Vronski turned slowly, almost wearily. “Because of a beautiful face you can forget your father and a l
ifetime of plans written in his tears?”
His son nodded stiffly. “Yes. Keep the money. Just let us go.”
“Very well.” Vronski's shoulders slumped. “Then it is done. The money is forgotten, just as you are.” Before Carly's stunned gaze, he drew a gun and leveled it at his son's chest.
In a blur of movement he fired, his eyes hard every inch of his body held rigid in a soldier's stance.
Get me an update,” McKay snapped. “If things are falling apart on that damned island I want to know it now, before we hit the drop zone.”
Two hours, he thought, watching the ocean glint outside the windows of the noisy C-130 transport plane, glad for the headset that allowed communication over the unholy din of the engines.
The call from Carly had come only two hours before. They had immediately moved forward their departure, and now the plane was nearly within sight of Santa Marina.
“Eight minutes to drop zone,” the jumpmaster said cutting into the conversation.
“We have updated records as of twenty minutes ago, Commander McKay. These faxes of satellite photos just came through.” The intelligence liaison officer was ruddy and built like a fire hydrant, with a Maine accent that could score granite. He pointed to two spots on the grainy photographs and adjusted his headset slightly. “Our best assessment is that Brandon is still being held at the family estate near the southern tip of the island. Only one car has left the area, and it was carrying a woman our spotter identified as Daphne Brandon. She was accompanied by one of Vronski's top men.”
Then where in hell is Carly?
McKay didn't voice the question, knowing that the
intelligence officer would first present all the details concerning the governor, since his rescue from a hostage situation held top mission priority.
“The car was tracked?”
“Affirmative. She was taken to a building near the docks. We have two spotters on site now, and they've identified the location as one of the warehouses used by her foundation.” The officer cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “We still have no information on the whereabouts of Ms. Sullivan.”
McKay's hands clenched and sweat trickled along his Kevlar vest, which he wore beneath a load-bearing harness carrying fifty pounds of equipment and ammo.
Going Overboard Page 27
