by Jenna Ryan
“He decapitated a Ninja Turtle once.”
“Hacked it apart?”
“Accidentally closed its head in a cabinet door. He cried for an hour, until I finally got the head to stay on again.”
McCabe grinned. “I did that once with a Han Solo figure. My father had to glue the head back on. It wouldn’t turn after that. I called it a war wound, blamed Jabba the Hutt, and told Han war wounds make people stronger.”
“Did you punch Jabba out while you were at it?”
“Thought crossed my mind, but it seemed too much like something Mockerie would have done, so I stuck him on a shelf instead and made him a non-participant in any further battles.”
Capping the bottle, Rowena turned in her seat. “I don’t want to be a non-participant when it comes to getting Parker back. That’s not negotiable, McCabe. He’s my son. I’m coming in with you.”
“Figured that.”
“Just so we’re clear.” She swung the bottle back and forth like a pendulum. “Have we decided how to do this? It’s going to be a bit tricky, boarding a yacht without being noticed. Still, I’d rather not enlist any more outside help than necessary.”
More people, more chance of being detected. McCabe agreed with her there. And skin diving was out. The two of them could get in, but there’d be no way to get Parker out. Which didn’t leave a whole lot of options.
Nodding, he said, “We’re approaching Miami. I thought about landing there and taking a boat to Laurel Key, but in the end it’s easier for us to set down on the far side of the island and use a launch to reach the Irish Lady.”
She stopped swinging the bottle. “What kind of a launch are we talking about? I can’t imagine an eighty-year-old woman would have a boat with a lot of speed and power.”
“She doesn’t, but we will.” He picked up the radio, adjusted the frequency. “This is RM-1, just passing over Miami. Are you there, Dancer? Over.”
“Yeah, I’m here. So’s the powerboat you wanted. I’m docked on the leeward side of the island, ready and waiting. Over.”
“Light the strip in ten minutes. Shut the light down as soon as we’re on the ground.”
“Will do. Good luck. Over and out.”
Rowena folded her arms, regarded him. “Do you mind telling me when exactly you made this plan and who the hell Dancer is? I don’t recall asking for any third-party intervention.”
McCabe guided the plane through a layer of filmy clouds. “I’m not a magician, Ro. I can’t conjure up the tools we’ll need to snatch Parker off that yacht.”
“If he’s there.”
“Nanny on board,” McCabe reminded her.
“Uh-huh. What’s Amanda’s caregiver’s name? Daisy? Maybe Daisy has grandchildren, and Amanda asked James to loan her the yacht for a while.”
“Yeah, that’s way more likely than James having hidden Parker on board. Daisy doesn’t have any grandchildren, and neither does Amanda. No kids, no grandkids, no great-grandkids. The Irish Lady’s currently sitting in the Neutral Zone. My money’s on your son being on it.”
“Guess we’ll find out,” she murmured as they left the glitter of nighttime Miami behind them and winged out over the ocean. “By the way, how’s the landing strip on Laurel Key?”
“The truth?” As he expected, she shot him a look of pure exasperation. It made him smile even as he kept track of the various gauges. “Nonexistent.”
She straightened in her seat, looked down. “But you just told Dancer to light it up.”
“Yeah, well, I meant shine a light from the boat.”
“Shine it where?”
“There’s a long patch of grass near the beach. It’ll do.”
She stared. “We’re landing on a patch of grass, and you didn’t see fit to mention that until now? Jesus, McCabe. This isn’t the Millennium Falcon, and you are not Han Solo.”
“No, I’m not.” He circled one of the larger islands, prepared to make his final approach. “But lucky for both of us”—the plane’s tires bumped twice on the grass and settled—“I’m almost as good.”
…
Dancer reminded her of a rat. An unkempt, underfed bilge rat with scraggily hair, two very prominent front teeth, and small eyes that never stopped moving. He sniffed every few seconds and made her think of a street addict. Possibly an alcoholic as well, since his hands shook while he rolled a cigarette.
McCabe didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. He simply tossed their gear onto the portside deck and asked the man if the boat—a decent-sized power boat with what appeared to be a full lower deck—carried extra fuel.
“Yeah, plenty,” Dancer replied. He smiled and held out a hand to help Rowena aboard.
At close range and in better light, he was taller than she’d first thought. Just as crusty, but more of a rodent-like aging rock star than a bilge rat. The knowing smile on his face also told her he was a great deal sharper than he appeared.
Okay, so much for the book-cover thing. She of all people should have known better than to make snap judgments, especially where McCabe’s choices were concerned.
“I used to play bass guitar in a band called Underworld,” Dancer told her. His black eyes sparkled in the lights that burned low in the bridge above. “I did more than a few bad things, almost got sent off to prison. But McCabe here, he was a hard rocker at the time and he liked our vibe. Must’ve seen potential in me. Got me in with the FBI. Street level, undercover. Made my ma proud for the first time either of us could remember.”
“Sounds like you’ve led an interesting life.” Rowena hopped down. “I’ve heard of Underworld. A woman was found dead in one of the band member’s hotel rooms after a concert in Detroit. I never heard how that turned out.”
“Never will, either. Not the real story anyway. Lotta life’s like that. Lotta crimes even more so. Welcome aboard, pretty lady.”
“Rowena,” McCabe said in passing. “The pretty part pisses her off.”
So did her current lack of control in a situation as tenuous and terrifying as this one was shaping up to be. McCabe held all the cards, most of which he’d pressed tight to his proverbial vest and out of her sight.
“Are you sure James isn’t on the yacht?” Though she couldn’t envision that herself. He wouldn’t want to be confined to such a small space with a young child, not even his own. No, the yacht was a holding place, the relocation a precautionary measure. And yet…
She was edgy, off balance, and tense, with her nerves jangling and her muscles tight.
McCabe stowed their gear. “The longer this takes, the greater the chance that Mockerie will show. He’ll know moving the yacht is a red flag for me. He’ll also have extra eyes close by. I want to talk to Amanda.”
Rowena rounded on him while Dancer observed them discreetly from the bridge. “Are you crazy? James could show up any time, and you want to have tea with his great aunt at”—she consulted her watch—“three thirty a.m.?”
McCabe made a head motion at Dancer. The boat powered up and began to move. “I meant after we have Parker.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“It does if you trust me enough to let Dancer take Parker to safety.” McCabe caught her hand partway to his jaw. “I’ll grant you I deserve a good hard slap for hurting you, but not for this. Think, Rowena. If Mockerie intercepts us and you have Parker, he’ll kill the boy in a heartbeat. And that’ll only be the first strike on his part. You’ll be next, with me watching the show. If you want your son to be safe, absolutely safe, Dancer’s the way to go.”
Fear and anger tumbled together with fear for Parker’s life ultimately coming out the victor. The hand that would have slapped him grabbed his shirt instead. “You’re forgetting that I learned things about James’s business dealings. I don’t know what or who it is, but he has some kind of connection or contact at the FBI. You just told me Dancer’s with the FBI. How can I let him take Parker knowing that? For all I know Dancer could be planning to take Parker strai
ght to James. I can’t let that happen.”
McCabe’s eyes never left hers. “Because I’m asking you to trust me, Ro. Dancer isn’t Mockerie’s connection. He’s been doing what he can to help me figure out who that person is, but you can believe me when I tell you it’s not Dancer.”
She couldn’t wrest her gaze away. She knew the rawness inside her showed on her face, but she didn’t care. It was all about Parker’s life at this point. And getting him away from James for good.
McCabe’s features softened briefly. “I won’t let anyone hurt your son. I swear to you, once we have him, he’ll be safe. Dancer knows what to do.”
She let the battle between her heart and her mind continue for several more seconds before she released her grip on his shirt and allowed her hand to drop away. “I understand that you and I have to do this, and that Parker needs to be as far away from us as we can get him, but I want to know where he is and who has him. I want to hear his voice when he gets where he’s going and at any other time of my choosing. Can you promise me that’ll be possible?”
He nodded.
Tears burned in her throat and behind her eyes, but Rowena refused to release them. She wouldn’t fall apart. Not now when it mattered so much. Instead, she breathed in and calmly out. “Okay. We’ll go with your plan.” The wind lifted her hair as the boat sliced cleanly through the water. “What do we do first?”
…
“They left Las Vegas last night on McCabe’s private plane. Destination unknown, but I was, of course, able to cut through the bullshit and determine that they were en route to Florida… Don’t throw your computer against the wall.”
The command was unmistakable. Tinged with weariness, but it stopped Mockerie, who already had his fingers wrapped tight around the casing.
He breathed like a bull for thirty seconds before snarling back. “She’s after the kid.”
“No question about it.” The person on the other end of the communication maintained an emotionless tone. “In fact, I would speculate that she might have him by now. You shouldn’t have docked your yacht at Laurel Key, James. Neutral ground has no place in this feud between you and McCabe.”
“I didn’t think he’d violate the space.”
“He didn’t. No malice, no upheaval, that’s the rule, isn’t it? Unless you lied and there’s more to it than that.”
Mockerie’s muscles had gone rock hard. His brain was a bright red inferno. He couldn’t think, probably hadn’t been thinking, not clearly at any rate, since he’d discovered that Rowena was alive. How could he be expected to combat the fury surging through him while that knowledge was eating him up from the inside out?
He’d been forced to turn to his FBI contact, his supplier of valuable information and occasionally decent advice.
“You need to cool down,” his contact said. He heard a long expulsion of breath and knew smoke would be swirling through a dimly lit room. “Nothing you do in a rage will ever outsmart McCabe. He knows as many people as you do, both in and out of government circles.”
Mockerie pictured a torrential downpour and used the image to douse the wild blaze in his head. “He’s a pariah in a lot of those circles.”
“Only when it’s convenient,” his contact pointed out. “On other occasions, he’s very much in demand. Unobtrusively, of course, but he has his allies. That’s something you lack in abundance.”
Mockerie summoned a thin smile. “I pay better than he does. I also have people on board the Irish Lady. Mercenaries with skills.”
“Oh, well, in that case, I’m sure he’ll be dead the moment he attempts to board the yacht.”
Mockerie’s thin smile took on a razor-sharp edge. “You want to shut up before I reevaluate your worth to me.”
The chuckle that reached him set his teeth on edge. “Threaten all you want, James. Right now, you need me. Rather desperately, I should say. When this matter with McCabe is resolved, I’ll worry, but not until then.”
“This matter with McCabe is going to be resolved in short order,” Mockerie declared. His fingers shook as he lit a slender cigar. “Bear that in mind, along with the fact that I know where your better half lives. And how vulnerable she is when you’re not there to protect her.”
“Kill her, kill yourself, James. I have McCabe’s number as well as yours.”
Fuck this conversation. “Use it,” he said coldly, “and I’ll let you watch him die, for as long as that takes, on my carving table. Then I’ll rig up a camera so you can repeat the pleasure while I go to work on you.”
…
“He’ll have a half a platoon below deck,” Dancer spoke over Rowena’s shoulder. He pointed beyond the rail of the powerboat with a grimy finger. “Tide’s gonna bump us right up against the stern of the yacht. There’s a ladder. Shouldn’t be hard to lower it.”
“Or we could use the one on the side that’s permanently affixed,” Rowena suggested.
McCabe checked his hand guns—four of them that she could see—plus what appeared to be an assault rifle slung over his shoulder.
“Everything’s silenced,” he told her. “If we’re lucky, we won’t have to use any bullets. This is a ‘just in case.’”
“Just in case what?” Rowena demanded.
He grinned, tossing her a silver canister. “In case the gas doesn’t work.”
Now why didn’t that surprise her? Still… “I don’t want Parker affected by whatever this stuff is.”
“He won’t be. The music and voices are coming from the bow.”
“That would be the forward lounge,” she confirmed.
“And that probably means there’s a poker game in progress. These guys aren’t expecting us, or anyone. If Mockerie alerts them, it’ll be a different story, but for the moment, I’m thinking we’re good. I’ll lower the ladder. You and Dancer watch for trouble.”
“Won’t there be a guard on deck?” Rowena whispered to Dancer as McCabe hooked the bottom rung and gave the attached rope a firm tug.
“Was earlier, but he’ll be bored, not expecting trouble. McCabe won’t have any problem with him.”
“Let’s hope.”
An eternity passed before the ladder began to slide down. It made surprisingly little noise, but if the guard did happen to be patrolling the aft end of the yacht he was bound to hear it.
With her palms damp inside grippy gloves and her stomach jittering, Rowena began her ascent.
“Nice view,” she heard Dancer murmur.
“Just don’t fall off and screw this up,” she said back and heard his quiet laugh.
Once they were all on board, Rowena got her bearings quickly. Two salons topside. Bar and games room as well. Viewing deck at the front. Directly below that deck was the forward lounge.
Black Sabbath drifted out and back. Loud, rough laughter joined it. Where the hell was the night guard?
“Stay behind me,” McCabe instructed.
Did she have a choice?
The darkness closed in around them like a noxious black fog. The water below was dead calm. So was the air. It was positively creepy.
Spying a movement on the opposite deck, Rowena paused to peer through a window. Dancer crept past her while she searched what appeared to be an empty salon. The shades were up on all the windows portside and starboard. The black blobs beyond the deck rail had to be a clump of trees on Laurel Key.
When she spotted the movement again, Rowena slipped into a narrow passageway and waited. McCabe had given her a Magnum and three extra magazines. To save Parker, she’d use them without compunction. But it wouldn’t be her first choice.
“Well, hello there, sweetheart.”
She heard the click of a rifle as a man’s outline stepped into the other end of the passage. Rowena kept the hand holding the Magnum down and slightly behind her.
“Must be my lucky night,” the man crooned. “Shape I’m seeing in the moonlight makes me think mermaid. Except I don’t suppose too many mermaids have legs as long and shapely as your
s.” His voice roughened. “Where’d you come from?”
“Laurel Key,” she lied. “My grandmother saw your boat and got nervous. She’s in her eighties. Strange boats anchoring off her island worry her some.”
“Uh-huh.” The man’s teeth gleamed as he moved toward her. “How’s about we introduce ourselves before I decide what to do with you. My name’s Carson. I work for a man named James Mockerie. And the closer I get, the more familiar you look.”
“Like a ghost,” Rowena agreed. “We’ve met before, Carson. Time’s a funny thing. Maybe I’ve changed. You haven’t—much. I’m Rowena, remember? You were there the night I died.”
Whipping up her gun, she took aim at his chest.
“Now it’s your turn.”
…
McCabe’s ears were tuned to sounds few people would notice. He heard two barely audible thwacks and immediately whirled into a crouch.
“What?” Behind him, Dancer ducked. “Is someone there?”
“Yeah, but I can’t see him.” Or Rowena he realized with a start. “She was between us, Dancer. What happened?”
“She stopped to look in a window. I figured keeping her behind me might be a smart thing to do.”
“It might be if she wasn’t Rowena.” Grabbing the rifle from his shoulder, McCabe stowed his handguns and stood. “I heard shots back there. Circle around. I’ll go this way.”
The music and laughter continued below deck. Money was being won and lost. Beer and whiskey were probably flowing. Not enough to get anyone pie-eyed, but a sufficient amount to distract however many men Mockerie had positioned here.
McCabe estimated eight, plus the night guard. The Chambers woman would be around as well. And there’d be a cook. He needed to remember that.
Retracing his steps took him to a narrow passageway. He heard a groan and approached with caution. It sounded like a man.
“McCabe.”
Rowena’s hissed whisper came from the far end of the passage. He spied two shapes, one of them hers, the second flopping like a very weak fish on the deck boards.
“His name’s Carson.” On her knees, she motioned him forward. “He caught me off guard. I shot him. He’s been with James for at least five years.”