The zipper glided down her back, and the comprehension that he was undressing her jolted her out of her imbalance. “I’m okay. I’m okay. Can you give me a minute?”
“Sure.” He touched her arm. “I’ll be at the top of those stairs. Just yell if you need me.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“No, Charlene. Thank you. What you did was incredible. You saved us both.” His voice was as warm as chocolate pudding, and the look in his eyes was just as comforting. His words confirmed that she’d surprised him, and she liked that, because she’d surprised herself too. Peter had always said that every day was an opportunity to learn. Today she learned she had a mental toughness that she hadn’t known she possessed.
“May I shower?”
“Of course.” He plucked a towel from a cabinet over the bed and handed it to her. “Take your time.” Marshall retreated up the stairs, and Charlene pushed her weary body through the process of showering. Her wrinkled fingers felt foreign as she washed the salt from her water-logged flesh, and it seemed an eternity before the cold embedded in her skin abated.
The engines were rumbling again as she studied her reflection in the mirror. She looked exactly how she felt . . . terrible. Bloodshot eyes stared back at her, with puffy bags beneath, and her lips were red and raw, and still felt crusty.
It was only when she stepped from the tiny bathroom that she realized she had no dry clothes. She was tempted to wrap the towel around herself but opted for one of Marshall’s shirts instead. It was so big, she tied a knot in the bottom hem; then she tugged on a pair of his shorts with a drawstring that she pulled in to keep them in position.
By the time she climbed up the stairs to the flybridge, she was almost feeling herself again. Almost.
“Oh, hey.” His eyes bulged at her clothing.
“Sorry, I had nothing else to wear.”
“Oh,” he scanned up her body again, then shifted his gaze to the ocean. “It’s fine. I should’ve thought of that.”
She slipped into the seat at his side. “So, what happened?”
As she sipped on a water that tasted absolutely heavenly, Marshall shifted his gaze from her to the ocean ahead of them and relayed what’d happened with the Coast Guard.
They laughed together when he told her his thoughts about the frozen fish skipping across the deck like a hockey puck. She was truly impressed with his forward planning and knew now that she was with the right captain to take her to Cuba. God knows what would’ve happened should she have continued her irrational decision to go with Warren and his brothers.
“In the end, we got lucky,” Marshall said. “They got a call about a suspicious boat that was spotted by a cruise ship about fifty nautical miles that way.” He pointed starboard. “So I’ve been instructed to head back to Key West.”
Her jaw dropped. Her mind raced. “We’re still going to Cuba, right?”
He spun to her. “Fuck no! I’ve turned around.”
His statement punched the air from her lungs. “What? I hired you to take me to Cuba.”
“Yeah, that was before we nearly got ourselves arrested.” His jaw clenched, and he looked at her like she had an ice pick in her eye.
It was a couple of heartbeats before she found her voice. And her fortitude. “Fine! I’ll pay Warren to finish the job.”
Marshall rammed the throttle back so quickly she was thrown forward on her seat. “Fucking hell,” he roared. “Are you serious?”
She nodded. “One hundred percent.”
His lips pinched together. His eyes bulged. His face reddened. If he was a volcano, he’d be set to erupt. “You need to tell me what the fuck’s going on.”
She clenched her fists so hard her nails dug into her palms.
He shifted in his seat to glare at her with his arms folded across his chest.
Charlene was at his mercy, and she didn’t like it one bit. Nobody but Detective Chapel knew her story. And even he, a seasoned detective who’d probably seen and heard almost everything, couldn’t fathom it. The more she’d explained her way of life, their way of life, the more she’d felt like an alien on her own planet. And the more he’d been skeptical. He’d taken her life story and twisted it in a way that changed her history forever.
She’d thought she’d never have to explain it all again.
She’d thought she’d never see an accusatory glare again, implying she was guilty.
She’d thought wrong.
She was looking at it now. But Charlene was in a unique position. She’d already lost everything that’d ever meant anything to her. She had nothing to lose.
So she flicked her wet hair off her shoulder, cleared her throat, and met his gaze. “Three months ago, a woman, who was a complete stranger to me, stabbed my father to death right in front of me.” She detailed how he’d died in her arms, despite her trying to stem the gushing blood. She described the onlookers who stood around, equally horrified and fascinated by what they were seeing. She explained about the ambulance arriving, only to tell her what she already knew. The more she told, the easier it became. It was almost like describing scenes in a movie; yet although she’d seen it, and lived through it, it was still unreal.
And once she’d started, she couldn’t stop. It was cathartic, and she settled into a pattern, laying down the foundation, layering it with all the events, and then waiting for Marshall’s response to each shocking revelation.
He was a good listener. His eyes showed his sorrow, his surprise, and his confusion as her details of the last three months slithered back and forward like a serpent. At some point, his arms had unfolded, and the animosity she’d felt from him when she’d started gradually, yet convincingly, shifted. She sensed amazement and shock, but most of all belief.
Marshall’s reaction was light-years apart from Chapel’s. While Chapel showed skepticism, Marshall showed acceptance. Chapel questioned nearly every comment, whereas Marshall nodded, apparently believing every word she spoke.
The urge to have his muscular arms embracing her felt as necessary as the air she breathed. But she didn’t move. When she’d reached the end, the point where she’d walked into Pirate Cove, she rubbed her hands on her thighs, met his gaze, and shrugged. “So, that’s it. Now I just need someone to take me to Cuba. Is that going to be you?”
He leaned over, kissed her cheek, and spun to face forward. “You might want to hang on.” He triggered the engine, and when he rammed the throttle and ripped the boat around in a quick 180-degree spin, she squealed and clutched onto the railing.
Seconds later, she burst out laughing.
He turned and grinned at her. “What?”
“I’ll take that as a yes then?”
He nodded. “But it’s not gonna be smooth sailing.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank me when have your feet in Havana.”
“I mean thank you for believing me.”
His eyebrows bounced up. “Why wouldn’t I? Your story is so unbelievable it has to be true. Nobody could make that shit up.”
As a giant wave exploded over the windshield, she contemplated how to answer that.
“I see truth in your eyes, Charlene.” Marshall cut through her thoughts, and she blinked up at him.
“Military training, huh?”
He waggled his head. “You could say that.”
As Miss B Hayve skipped over the ocean again, they settled into a comfortable silence. It was a bizarre experience to be sitting next to a complete stranger, yet to be feeling absolute faith in his abilities. But that was exactly how Charlene felt.
She could hardly believe she was twenty-eight years old and the only person she trusted was a complete stranger. Having only one trusted person in her life was always going to end in profound loss. Except she hadn’t realized that until it was too late. Maybe Chapel had been right. The relationship she’d had with Peter was abnormal. Charlene decided, there and then, that after this was over, she was going to choose a place to live and stay lo
ng enough to make real friends.
The rest of their crossing into Cuban waters was uneventful, and they arrived under the cover of darkness at three in the morning. Marshall let go of Miss B Hayve’s anchor and then set about unhooking the smaller boat off the back. He attached a Cuban flag to a pole off the back of Miss B Hayve, then leaned over to cover her name with a banner that read Bailarina del Océano, which, he explained to Charlene, was Spanish for “Ocean Dancer.”
Once that was done, he asked her to help him below deck, where they emptied the contents of the fridge, freezer, pantry, and medicine cupboard into three bags that he removed from beneath the mattress. He didn’t elaborate on what they needed the supplies for, and she didn’t ask. She’d already worked out that he was difficult to talk to when he was focused. No, difficult wasn’t the right word; impossible described his demeanor better.
Once they loaded the supplies onto the smaller boat, along with her suitcase, money, cane, and his night bag, they climbed aboard themselves.
Charlene was in awe of his planning, so she went along with his instructions without question. Within ten minutes of releasing the anchor, they were motoring toward the set of twinkling lights she assumed was Havana with a pile of groceries, all her worldly possessions, and a man sporting a don’t-mess-with-me expression.
The trip wasn’t anywhere near as smooth as the ride in Miss B Hayve, and Charlene soon found herself wincing at every bone-jarring swell they bounced over. Marshall didn’t seem to notice. Instead, his gaze flitted between the surrounding horizon and the flickering lights in the distance.
Although they traveled under the cover of darkness, Charlene wanted to point out that the roar of their motor could probably be heard from about a hundred miles away. But talking to Marshall was impossible over the din. The closer they got to shore, the more desperately she wanted to ask him how their arrival could go unnoticed with such an ear-piercing racket.
Marshall had got them this far, though, so she stared ahead, clutched onto the railing, and prayed a bright spotlight didn’t suddenly appear out of nowhere.
The sun still wasn’t even a glow on the horizon when Marshall eased back on the engine and shifted back on his seat. The change in his stance had her thinking that they’d made it past some pivotal point, although she couldn’t work out what it was. Lights dotting the distant shore grew closer and brighter, and soon she could make out shapes of buildings and other boats and, more importantly, land.
He’d done it. Charlene was about to step foot on Cuban soil.
Now what?
The question came out of nowhere. She hadn’t even thought through her next step.
She figured she’d somehow make her way to the Legendarios del Guajirito show. But that was the easy part. What was she going to do when she got there? She didn’t have a photo of Peter to hand around. She doubted it was even his real name. And the likelihood of someone remembering him after twenty or so years was narrow.
On top of all that, she didn’t speak Spanish.
Her eyes shifted from the approaching shore to Marshall’s bulging muscles as he worked the tiller. He’d already done enough. Just getting her here had been a huge risk. But she’d need his help some more.
A lopsided sign, its bottom right corner touching the water, announced that they were heading toward Marina Hemingway. She turned to Marshall, grinning at the prospect that they were nearly there.
But he must’ve read her thoughts and offered a shake of his head.
So she went right back to stewing over the day ahead and watching their approach to the shore.
The marina materialized as a city of ship masts and pretty lights, but Marshall veered away from it, heading toward a bay that she hadn’t noticed. Rather than go down the middle, Marshall hugged the boat to the shore. They passed rickety jetties and a few newer ones.
Marshall turned on a torch and lowered the engine a fraction. And as the whine in her ears abated, she contemplated how she’d ask Marshall for more help. He struck her as a man motived by two things: honor, a trait born out of his lengthy navy career, and money, a thing of necessity.
She was prepared to use both.
The bay gradually narrowed to a river, and that, in turn, became a small creek that Miss B Hayve wouldn’t have fit through. They passed a few more jetties with small, practical boats tied up alongside. This area was old, and if Charlene had to guess, she’d say it was also verging on underprivileged. Her mind flashed to her tin of money, nestled amongst her handbag and wet clothing in the suitcase, and she wondered if she’d been foolish for letting go of the prepaid, locked safe-deposit box in New Orleans.
Finally, Marshall angled the boat into a jetty that was leaning at such an angle, it was a wonder it was still standing. He looped a rope around the closest pylon to the shore and turned off the engine. The silence screamed in her ears as if the motor was still going. It made her think of her earlier question.
“So that wasn’t exactly a discrete entrance.” She wriggled her right ear for emphasis.
He shrugged. “Exactly. If we were trying to be discrete, we’d attract attention as someone trying to sneak in. This way we looked like every other boat heading into shore after a fishing trip.”
Charlene offered him an approving grin. Marshall seemed to have thought of everything. “So, what now?”
“Grab as much as you can. Anything you leave behind will be gone when we get back.”
“Oh.” The first thing she grabbed was her case—not for the sodden clothing, but for the money stashed inside. The second was the cane. Marshall smirked at her choices. When she’d told him about the cane and, in particular, what she’d found inside, he’d seemed to be fascinated by it. He’d asked a few questions, mainly clarifying why she hadn’t thought to ask Peter about it. And she’d responded that she wished that she had asked.
Without a word, Marshall dashed into the bushes with his flashlight, and she stood, hands on hips, wondering what the hell he was doing. A repetitive screeching sound announced his return through the bushes, and when she spied him again, he was pushing a rusted-out wheelbarrow that no longer had rubber on the tire.
Between the barrow and her, they managed to carry everything from the boat. Lugging her suitcase over the gravelly track, and carrying one of the bags they’d filled with pantry items, she followed Marshall into the bush and wondered if she’d ever see American soil again.
Chapter Fifteen
The two most important things in Marshall’s life right now were both in jeopardy. One was his boat. Despite the Cuban flag and changing her name to a boat registered in Cuba, she was still exposed. If the Cuban coast guard found Miss B Hayve without any crew aboard, they’d seize her for sure, and he’d never see her again. Of that he was certain. And while he had her insured, an insurance payout would be a pipe dream. Not when he’d left her to ride the swell in Cuban waters.
The other most important thing in his life right now was Charlene.
Despite knowing her for less than twelve hours, she’d sure made an impact. She had gone from being a complete stranger to a woman he was totally infatuated with. And that was no mean feat; it’d been a decade or so since a woman had captured his interest.
And it wasn’t just her beauty. It was everything. Her innocence. Her bravery.
Charlene was no ordinary woman.
She was tough too, with nobody to turn to, and no assets, other than those mysterious bundles of money. Not too many people could handle that.
Several years ago, he’d woken from his alcoholic stupor long enough to realize that he had nothing. No money. No home. No friends. No life. Ending his life had never been an option. He wasn’t a quitter, and he wasn’t about to start then. The only things he had going for himself were his navy pension and his love of the ocean. Fortunately for him, he’d made it work. He went cold turkey from the drink and set himself up in a rusty shed that rattled like a beast in a storm. But he considered himself lucky. The shed belonged to a little ol
d lady who exchanged her measly accommodation for his handyman skills. And that allowed him to save nearly every cent of his pension. Miss B Hayve came first, and he lived on her until he had enough to buy his own little shack. It’d taken him three years to recover from his destitution.
As he listened to Charlene’s footsteps behind him, he wondered how long she’d take to recover from the grenade life had thrown at her.
She was quite literally a damsel in distress. And while he’d never considered himself as any kind of knight in shining armor, he was good at a few things. Saving people was one of them. He’d lost a few civilians in his time—six, to be exact. Every one of their faces was permanently etched into his brain. Every one of them deserved to live. It was a shocking thing to have an unwitting hand in someone’s death. But that was the nature of war. And not just war. Some of the people he’d tried to save were the product of their society. No clean water. No medication. No food. He’d seen enough desperate situations to know that most people didn’t know how lucky they were.
That was how Aleyna’s family was before he’d met them. Dirt poor. His ex-fiancée, her five brothers, and her parents all lived in a tiny shack that leaked in the rain and had a dirt floor. They ate once a day, and that was usually day-old bread and whatever else they could scrape together. Things had changed significantly for them since the day Aleyna had reluctantly taken him to her home to meet her family.
Ironically, that meeting had been the demise of their relationship. Not because he was put off by her upbringing. Hell no, it was the opposite. It made him realize that she wasn’t in love with him at all. She was in love with what he offered. Stability. Money. Freedom.
When he’d broken up with her, he’d promised to help. Yet he was pretty certain Aleyna hadn’t believed him at the time. She was wrong. He just hoped Aleyna and her family were willing to return some of that favor now.
Without his flashlight and the trodden-dirt track weaving through the underbrush, he’d get lost for sure. He’d trekked this exact trail seventeen times, twice that if you included both ways, and each time was more grueling than the last. The damn vegetation grew thicker and more robust each time. Dangling vines threated to strangle them around every bend, if they didn’t claw the shit out of them first. Based on the occasional wince from Charlene, he expected her to have her share of scrapes and scratches by the time they reached their destination. Not that she was complaining. He liked that about her.
Zero Escape Page 13
