by Jo Leigh
She’d never felt this before, this rage so bright and hot that she knew without a doubt she could take his gun and blow him away. She’d never even guessed she had this murderousness in her. Her vivid imagination hadn’t been enough. She’d always pictured herself as the victim, not the killer.
Although she hadn’t been to Cayman in years, she remembered the soft white beaches here and how she’d enjoyed playing with the turtles and snorkeling. This memory would forever be overshadowed, however long forever turned out to be.
They walked, the two of them, past the seaside cafés and shops, toward the center of town. Toward her bank. He held on to her each step of the way, hurting her as she passed one khaki-dressed police officer after another.
She said nothing. She obeyed and would obey. There was only one chance in a million she could get herself out of this, but she wasn’t going to try even that. Not with Michael’s well-being at stake.
He slowed her down as they crossed the street in front of Grand Cayman Bank. “Who am I?” he asked.
“Uncle Ed.”
“Say it again—and smile this time.”
She forced her lips to curve up. “Uncle Ed.”
He walked into the shade on the right side of the street and took out his cell phone. With one push of his button he was on the phone with Jazz, and she was trembling. “Jazz, let’s see what you can do to his left hand.”
“No!” she said, but he yanked her back, close to a pastry shop window.
“Say it again.”
She looked at him through a red haze of hatred, but she made herself smile, pretend this wasn’t death, that Michael wasn’t being hurt this very second. “Uncle Ed.”
“Again.”
“Uncle Ed.”
“Better. Just don’t forget I have the phone right here.” He patted his pocket. “There’s only one way he doesn’t die, and die ugly.”
IT HAD TAKEN MICHAEL too long to wrap his hand in the bathroom towel, to swallow half the bottle of aspirin. He knew Jazz would be coming back any minute, and when he did, there were going to be some changes.
Now that Tate wasn’t directly in harm’s way, he could do what he’d wanted to when Jazz had grabbed his wrist.
He went back to the bedroom. He could still unlock the door, even with his dominant hand out of commission. But that wasn’t the plan. He needed Jazz to come in here.
Once he’d taken that prick out, he’d move on, but slowly. Each member of the crew had to be taken out before he’d blow the whistle on Martini.
On the one hand, he wanted Jazz to hurry the hell up. On the other, a few more minutes for the aspirin to take affect wouldn’t hurt.
He cursed his luck for the hundredth time. Why had he bailed out Charlie so many times? Why’d he have to promise his father he’d watch out for that loser? And why the hell had he fallen in love with Tate Baxter?
There was no good outcome to this scenario. She didn’t deserve any more anguish, not on his account. Goddamn, he was a fool.
He turned too sharply and pain radiated up his arm. Yeah, some more time for that aspirin would be just great. Was that Jazz? Shit, he had to be ready to do what needed to be done.
TATE SAT AT THE BANK vice president’s desk, waiting for him to draw up the transfer papers. After 9/11, things had changed, even here, and there was a lot more red tape to tamp down on money laundering. If only they knew who Ed Martini really was. But they wouldn’t discover the truth from her.
She’d smiled, answered questions, been attentive, but now she had to remember what Michael had told her. Even though it might be the wrong choice, she had to try. If she could stop Ed now, she could still get to Michael before Jazz had done too much damage.
She began with the breathing. Taking in larger and larger breaths.
“What are you doing?”
“I—”
He pinched her on the back of her arm, and she bit her lip so she wouldn’t yelp.
“Stop it.”
“I don’t think I can.”
He smiled broadly and leaned toward her, bringing his lips close to her ear. “First his right kneecap, then his left.”
She breathed harder, deeper, faster, knowing she would hyperventilate and that would make her pass out. It was her only job, her only shot. To do what she’d done for years—have a panic attack, only this one had to be deliberate and it couldn’t last hours. She had to faint, to be cared for by someone, anyone, except Uncle Ed.
He pinched her again. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare.”
“Please, I can’t help it. It’s the agoraphobia. I have no…no control.”
“You’d better find some, bitch. Or he won’t have one—”
Mr. Granger, the vice president, reentered the room and Ed’s face changed again. He looked up at the man with concern.
“Could you bring my niece a cup of water? She’s not feeling well.”
“Of course. One moment.” He picked up his phone and asked his secretary to bring fresh water. Before he hung up, he asked, “Is there anything else I can do?”
Ed shook his head. “No. She’ll be fine.”
Tate looked at him. Tried to smile. Then everything went black.
17
MICHAEL STOOD JUST to the left of the door, waiting. His right hand, immobilized in a towel, was strapped to his back with the aid of two torn pillowcases. It felt weird, but he couldn’t strap the hand in front—it would present too easy a target.
He didn’t think he’d be fighting long. Jazz would come in, Michael would knock the crap out of him using his three remaining limbs and get the gun. The gun would make the rest of his job simpler still.
His only worry at this point was Tate. She was out there by herself. Michael hoped that Ed had ditched his weapon before going to the bank. He doubted very much even an offshore bank would appreciate a customer coming in with a loaded Glock.
But even if he didn’t have a gun to use on Tate, he’d have no trouble getting her to sign the papers. Breaking his hand was the smartest thing Ed could have done. Tate wasn’t used to these kinds of tactics and she had no idea what Michael was capable of.
How could she? He’d been so afraid of getting her hurt that he’d behaved like a civilian this whole trip. He’d been knocked out—twice—caught behind a sofa, tripped up by his brother. She probably thought he’d made up his military training.
He should have kicked ass and worried later. Even with Charlie here, with Tate so vulnerable. He’d never behaved this stupidly before, not on any mission he’d ever had. He’d have been drummed out of the Army for this.
There was a noise outside, a thump, and it brought him right back into the room, into this mission right here. He breathed deeply and evenly, balanced himself to make optimum use of what he had to work with. Jazz was going down. And if it was painful on the way, so much the better.
The lock turned and the door swung open. Michael waited until Jazz walked in, ready for anything. Only, it wasn’t Jazz. It was Charlie. He was crying like a baby, but his gun, silencer and all, was pointed straight at Michael’s chest.
TATE OPENED HER EYES. She didn’t know where she was, who the man standing in front of her was, what was going on, and fear shot through her. She scrambled back, barely realizing she’d been lying on a leather couch, and then she saw Ed.
He made everything worse. Her chest seized, her vision narrowed. And she was pretty sure he wasn’t going to get his money because she’d be dead any second.
“I’ll call the hospital,” the man said, his accent broad and his face terribly worried.
“No, it’s all right,” Ed said. “Just give us a moment. She’s disoriented, that’s all. She had a rough night on the boat.”
The man eyed Ed, then her. “It won’t take them but a moment—”
“No, thank you. We just need a few minutes alone.”
“Very well. I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
“I appreciate it,” Ed said, his smile looking so genuine it
made Tate’s pulse pound harder.
The moment they were alone, Ed’s demeanor switched to his true self. Malevolent, angry, brutal. He got right into her face, his arms on either side of her. If he’d been a lover, he’d have swooped in for a kiss, but there was nothing but hate in his eyes, in the way he sneered at her. “You have one more chance. You get out there and sign those papers. One more thing goes wrong, and your man is dead. You’ll go back to a corpse, you got that?”
She nodded. “I didn’t do this on purpose. Please don’t hurt him.”
“He’s already hurt. Don’t think I won’t tell Jazz to kill him.”
“I won’t.”
He smiled, stood up. “There, that’s better. I knew you were all right. Let’s go get this paperwork out of the way, then we’ll go relax at the beach. How does that sound?”
“Great,” she said, struggling to make her voice stop shaking and sound normal.
What she couldn’t do was stop the rest of her from shaking. God, how she wanted to, but her body wouldn’t obey. Even when they got back to the office where the papers waited in neat order, she couldn’t hide the way her hand trembled as she picked up the pen.
“If you’d like to wait until you feel better,” the bank executive said, “it’s no problem.”
She looked at Ed, then at the man. “Mr. Granger, I’m sorry. It’s not going to be better later. I’m agoraphobic—do you know what that is?”
“A fear of being in public, yes?”
She nodded. “I know I need to sign these papers in person, but it’s difficult for me. I’m just sorry to trouble you with my problems.”
“There’s no problem at all. In fact, once you’ve signed at the X’s, there’s no reason we can’t do everything else for you and your uncle. We have his information, and I’ll have Joseph give him the new account number right now.” Granger picked up the phone.
While he made the arrangements, she signed each line following a red X. Fifty million dollars would be transferred from her account to Ed’s, and that would be that. Even if he was convicted of all his crimes, she didn’t think the bank could reverse the transfer. It was the Caymans after all, and from their standpoint everything was being done according to the law.
She didn’t give a damn about the money, except that it would hurt her father to realize what had happened. He would have given the bastard the fifty million from his own funds given the choice.
As she signed her name for the last time, it was very clear to her that she was signing her death warrant. Michael was hurt. He wasn’t going to be able to carry out his part of the plan, and she’d botched her part…What was left but for both of them to die?
All she could hope for at this stage was to stop Michael’s pain. If she simply went along with everything Ed said, there was a chance they would be merciful. What a thing to wish for.
“CHRIST, MIKEY, I DON’T want to do this. You know that. You’re my brother, for God’s sake.”
“Then put the gun down.”
“I can’t.” Charlie wiped his nose with the side of his arm. “He’ll kill me.”
“He” was Jazz, standing in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest, his big teeth shining as he smiled like a child on Christmas morning.
“He’ll kill you anyway, you idiot.”
“No, no. You don’t understand. I brought them this deal. I’m just clearing my debt.”
“You know too much, Charlie. They can’t let you walk away. What if you decide to blackmail them later?”
“Are you crazy? It’s Ed Martini. No one double-crosses Martini.”
Michael took one step toward his brother. “That’s ’cause no one lives long enough. There’s no way you’re getting off this boat, Charlie. Not onto dry land.”
“Shut up. You think you know so much. You didn’t even know I could get into your safe, huh? You didn’t know I watched you that night when I was sick. You thought I was sleeping, but I wasn’t. I was behind the door and I watched you type in the numbers.”
“That was pretty slick, there, Charlie. You sure had me fooled.”
“Yeah, I know. You think I’m an idiot, but I’m not. I thought of this whole plan all by myself.”
“Dad would be so proud.”
Charlie lifted the gun and waved it at Michael’s face. “You don’t talk about him. He trusted you. You were supposed to take care of me—and look what you did. You’re the reason I got to pull this trigger. It’s not my fault.”
Michael felt so incredibly tired and he hurt so goddamn much that he almost wanted Charlie to pull the trigger. Only there was someone much more important he had to think about. Besides, he didn’t want to give Jazz the satisfaction. “Charlie, put down the gun. I’ll get you out of this. Alive.”
Jazz laughed, but Charlie didn’t see the humor. “You fucking liar. You just want to be with your rich girlfriend. Well, screw you!”
“It’s not about her, Charlie. It’s about Dad. About the promise I made him. I don’t want to hurt you. And I don’t want them to hurt you.”
“I’m the one with the gun.”
“You are, but Charlie,” he said, his voice growing calm and quiet, “you’ve never been very good in this kind of situation.”
“See? There you go again.” He stepped closer and pushed the barrel of the gun into Michael’s chest. “I am not an idiot!” he screamed, sending spittle and fear into Michael’s face.
“Oh, Charlie,” Michael whispered. “I don’t know why it had to be so hard for you.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry, buddy.”
“It’s too late now.”
“I know, but I’m sorry anyway.”
Charlie looked down at the gun, and Michael spun half a step back, then knocked Charlie’s feet from underneath him. He grabbed the gun, turning it sideways, and as Charlie fell, Michael put a bullet right into Jazz’s chest.
Charlie looked up at him with shock and hurt in his eyes. Michael pointed the weapon at his brother. “I’m sorry,” he said again, but this time it was to his father. He fired once more.
“I’M SORRY, MS. BAXTER, there’s one more thing we need to complete before we can let you go.”
“That’s okay,” she said, trying not to panic. She looked at Ed and willed him to understand this wasn’t her fault.
“What’s the hang-up?” he asked.
“In order to transfer this amount of money, Ms. Baxter and you need to fill out statements that will go on record here. As a cooperating member of the international community, we have to have a signed statement that the money will not be used in money-laundering schemes or for any purpose that could be construed as terrorism or supporting known terrorists.”
“Sure,” Ed said. “We’ll sign whatever you like.”
“Excellent.” He put the papers down in front of them, but Tate noticed there was a slight bulge under hers, toward the bottom. She looked up to find Mr. Granger staring at her. He glanced pointedly at the paper.
She moved the top sheet aside and saw a note in faint script. Are you in trouble?
She wanted so badly to say yes. She looked at him again, smiled as earnestly as she knew how and shook her head.
He nodded. She signed. It was over. At least this part. She still had to make it back to the boat. To find Michael, to help him, no matter what condition he was in. Just thinking about his hands made her sick. What was she going to do if they’d done worse?
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. Someti
mes 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.
