by Nicole Snow
This looks more like he’s been pulling together proof against the Cornaro Outfit.
Not scheming up more elaborate crimes.
A shiver zips up my spine just as my mind registers a faint sound.
I click off the flashlight and duck down, scuttling behind the open door.
Footsteps, already growing closer, louder.
Fuck.
It’s as black as the ocean floor in this room. I close my eyes, focusing on the light scuffing sounds.
Two people, I think. Men from the sound of their footsteps. Rubber soles on their shoes. Moving slowly. Cautiously.
I focus harder, let my hearing be my eyes.
They’re in the office now, moving closer to the set of bookshelves. I see a silhouette through the crack in the door, a misshapen head.
Night goggles. Meaning they can see a hell of a lot more than I can.
One man drifts away, back into the hall. Another’s coming closer. Almost to the door, the only barrier between me and them.
I wait, holding my breath, counting out the seconds between his steps.
When my instincts tell me, I count to two, registering the man’s next uneasy steps.
Now!
In one fluid movement, I slam the door into him like a heavy shield.
He grunts, but my timing was too perfect.
He’s pinned between the door and the wall, under my full ferocious weight.
Using his stunned state to my advantage, I rip the gun out of his hand while kicking open the door, then wrap a brute arm around his neck. Once I’ve got him in a chokehold that could smother a bull, gun pressed snug against his temple, I hiss into his ear, “Tell your buddy to drop his gun or you’re dead.”
He struggles, but only for a moment, knowing I have the upper hand.
I tighten my hold on his neck, the pressure pinching his throat shut. “Tell him!”
“D-drop your gun!” he growls.
“Skinner?” Goon Number Two speaks up.
There are only two inside the building, I’m certain, so I give the man’s neck another quick, painful squeeze before I let him talk.
He grunts. “Y-yeah! Drop your gun.”
With my arm still around his neck and the gun at his head, I push the man through the opening in the shelves, using him as my buffer. There’s enough light in the office so I can see the other man, his gun pointed dead at us.
“Drop your fucking gun or your friend’s dead,” I bite off.
“Can’t do that,” Goon Two sneers.
“Okay. Your funeral.” I pivot the gun and fire. Knowing they’re wearing bulletproof vests, I’d aimed for his hip, the weak break in the armor. The squeal he belts out tells me I nailed it.
He fires an erratic shot while going down.
I twist the man in my hold, keeping him upright as the bullet strikes his chest.
“Fuck!” he shouts.
I grin. Even though the kevlar saves him from a hole in the chest, it still smarts like hell, absorbing the full shock of an angry bullet.
The other man fires again.
But his bullet strikes the man in front of me in the thigh this time, and I aim for the shooter’s hand. He screeches as my shot bites skin.
The guy in my arms is shouting. “You fuck, it hurts!”
I let go, and he hits the floor, still moaning.
The other guy is on the ground, twisting like a fish out of water. He gives me a look of disbelief.
I collect Goon Two’s gun, then click on the light switch. They’re both bleeding. I’d seen a first aid kit on the wall in the hallway, and I collect it along with some rope.
If being a SEAL taught me anything, it’s that pain has a special way of making people talk.
These two sing like fucking canaries while I’m tying them up and putting gauze over their wounds.
I must be getting old, going soft.
Before, I never would’ve cared a shit if they were bleeding out or not.
I like what I’m hearing, though.
I barely have to ask a leading question.
Turns out, Cornaro was trying to take over King Heron Fishing outright, but Ray was harder to convince than the asshole suspected. He wouldn’t ride off into 'early retirement' like the mob boss wanted.
The two keep going, offering me more scraps if I let them go. I pretend to be interested, even while making sure the knots on the ropes holding them in the chairs are tight.
Then I shoot a couple of pictures of the hidden room, a few choice printed photos Ray had tacked up showing black boxes full of military grade rifles, and text them to another old contact.
Without hard proof, it would’ve been a conflict of interest for me to tip off Wes Anderson. Now, as an FBI agent, he can step in and help nail Joel Cornaro’s dick to the wall.
He wants that as much as I do.
Everybody who went through Bali and lived to tell the tale wants nothing more.
My phone vibrates seconds after sending the pics. I grin, seeing his name.
“Where are you?” Wes Anderson asks as I answer.
“King Heron Fishing. Main office.”
“No shit? We’re going to hogtie this son of a bitch! On my way now.”
“I’ll be here. Got a couple of his hatchet-boys singing real pretty.”
“Damn, you’re good, Calum. There’s a place for you at the Bureau any time, you know, if you ever decide you’re bored with retirement.”
I laugh. “I’ve had that offer before. The answer’s still no.” I click off, and a part of me feels proud. But I know damn well I’ve had enough sleuthing and chasing after this.
A nice, dull retirement farming coffee doesn’t sound half bad. Hell, maybe I’ll even think about doing turtle tours myself.
Just as I’m dropping my phone back in my pocket, it vibrates again.
Cash.
He’d already called once, updating me on Ray’s condition.
I tap the answer icon.
“Flint? They’ve got Valerie and Ray Gerard!”
My insides freeze over. “They’ve...what?!”
“They came in through the back, cut the power, including the backup generator. Must’ve had a boat.”
Goddamn. My blood runs ice-cold.
“I told you to get a fucking boat!” Cash screams at me. “I could be chasing them right now if you had one.”
It’s too late for the boat, but not for Val.
I’ll die before that happens.
I won’t lose another victim to Joel fucking Cornaro. Pulling the gun out of my waistband, I swing it at the two goons. “Whoever doesn’t tell me what I want to hear gets a bullet square between their eyes. You get one chance to answer. Understood?”
Their heads almost pop off nodding.
“Where are they taking the Gerards? Where would Cornaro bring prisoners?” It steams out between my teeth, pinched together so hard I think I’ll snap my jaw.
Both men talk so fast, my head spins.
As soon as I’ve heard enough, I head for the door.
“They have her on his yacht,” I tell Cash, flying down the hall at a ground-eating run.
“Where?”
“Kahe Point.”
“The power plant? Jesus,” he growls. “How? The Coast Guard patrols out there constantly.”
“Bastards are hiding in plain sight. All the more reason to move.” I click off and shove the phone in my pocket while running for my truck.
It makes a twisted kind of sense. The docks near the power plant are the only ones large enough to accommodate a large yacht out that way, other than the large public marinas, and they’d want to avoid them for good reason.
The plant has twenty-four seven surveillance, but unless it’s an actual trespass of property or FAA airspace restrictions, minor infractions go unreported. Plenty of ships have been known to shore up on the docks during rough weather.
I hope that’s still the case.
We have to get to these pirate fucks.
/>
One wrong move at the wrong time, and Val’s dead. I have no doubt about it. Their failed attempt to kill her before just makes them more determined.
I’m almost screeching out of the parking lot, when a vehicle flies in, blocking my route. Hitting reverse, I back up enough to make it around the SUV.
“They’re inside!” I shout at Anderson.
He hits the gas, moving out of my way and shouting through his window, “I won’t ask where you’re going, but call me if you need backup!”
I don’t want backup, dammit, but I need it.
It just can’t be the FBI. Not yet.
Hitting the call button on my steering wheel, I reconnect with Cash. “Call in everyone. We need all hands on deck for this. And find out where the hell Davis is. He went after the SUV that dropped off Ray!”
“On it, Flint. She’s going to be—”
I hang up. Don’t need anyone telling me she’ll be okay. That everything’s gonna be fine and dandy.
It’s very not okay.
Val’s changed my fucking life. Changed the way I think. Reached down inside me and altered the makeup of my soul.
I’ve been fighting it tooth and nail, pretending it’s not there, but there’s no denying it.
She’s in my head first thing when I wake up and before I drift off to sleep.
She made me feel again.
Living with Val was so easy, so real, right from the start—even when she was a walking amnesia case.
She’s in my marrow, my beating heart, my depths.
This shimmering bright spark I never knew I was missing until it was there, lighting my fire, and I don’t want it fading again.
She can’t be missing.
I want her.
I love her.
Fuck! My fist crashes against the steering wheel.
Hell of a time for a visceral, emotional confession, I know.
But I never stood a chance against those gorgeous gold eyes, that adorable laugh, that rocking body.
Valerie Gerard is candied perfection wrapped in sunshine. And I’ve already laid claim, even if I haven’t done it openly.
I’m not losing her. Not to anyone, especially these savage pukes!
I’m still working myself into a frenzy when Cash’s name appears on the dashboard screen a minute later. I click the answer button on the steering wheel.
“Davis just got there. Same with the others,” Cash says. “He followed the men who dropped off Ray, where they met a boat, and says to turn off the highway a mile before the plant. We have to hit the docks from Waimanalo Gulch or we’ll set off sensors.”
“Copy that.” I hang up and stab my foot harder on the gas pedal.
I’m thankful for every one of these men helping me. I’d already offered them payment, which they’d refused. They don’t want money. They want another shot at Cornaro.
Same justice I’d wanted, once, but now, honestly?
I just want Valerie home.
Safe and sound and in my bed where she belongs. Every night.
I don’t know if I have the patience for a live capture.
I’ll kill that SOB this time. Fucking dismember him.
I turn off the highway, onto a gravel road that goes nowhere, except to the gulch. I’m pissed because this is taking me farther away from Valerie, but it’s the only way in, so I have to deal.
About a quarter of a mile later, I see Davis, standing next to his vehicle. He waves me into the trees.
I turn, slam the truck into park, and leap out. “Was she hurt?”
“No. She was walking fine, last I saw. I’m sorry, man, I couldn’t overtake them. There were four dudes in the boat and two in the truck.”
Shit.
They came in force. Outnumbered and outgunned us.
I could kick my own ass for failing to do more to secure my stretch of beach, though there’s only so much a private citizen can do to stop a water landing.
Davis is built like a brick shithouse of a man. Solid and wide and tall. Something in his tone has me wondering.
“How many drove away with her?” I ask, scratching my neck.
“Only the two guys in the truck. They were a diversion. The rest were in the ship.”
“The four on the boat?”
He shrugs. “Couldn’t get a good look, but sure seemed that way. The boat went back out to sea. A little runner or something. Saw her and Ray get transferred to a bigger ship a little ways offshore.”
“Empty?” I really shouldn’t ask, because what I don’t know won’t hurt me. “Did they abandon the runner?”
He shakes his head.
“So they brought it back. Were any of those four men driving?”
“No. Not anymore. I’d called Nate for back up. He’s on the boat with them now.” He pauses, a broad grin crossing his strong onyx face. “You know how sneaky he can be. He’ll have it commandeered in no time. Should meet us on the beach shortly.”
With Cornaro’s own boat. I like it. If I wasn’t so pissed, I’d smile.
No SEAL worth his salt gets hard over guys going full Rambo.
It shouldn’t ever get to that point. It’s the perfect blend of shadows, stealth, and subterfuge that make our missions a success and men into heroes.
“Good thinking,” I tell him, giving his shoulder a brotherly slap.
Davis nods at the road, the sound of screeching tires. “Here’s Cash. The rest of the boys are already headed for the docks to intercept our new ship.” He pauses, turning up his face as he eyes me. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yeah. That runner’s our ticket in. Let’s go.”
Cash parks and catches up to us. He’s traded his usual island doctor polo shirt and slacks for proper tactical gear, his green eyes flashing in the darkness.
“Here’s the scoop—it’s a luxury yacht with all the amenities,” he says. “Four decks, one hundred and eighty feet, six state rooms, two with balconies. Shit cost him forty million two years ago.”
I’m not surprised Cash knows all that about the mothership. He’s a bloodhound for details. He probably had the ship’s schematics on hand long before tonight.
If I wasn’t still trying like hell to forget our botched rescue, I’d have known it, too. I told myself forgetting was the best way to get over Bali.
Cash, he never tried to get over it, not for a day since we returned. He was dead set on getting even. That poor lady died in his arms.
He’d tried harder than all of us to save her.
The rest of us just had weapons to fight for her. But Cash tried to save her medically, watched her bleed out all over him.
For him, that was worse than a total failure where we lost several good men.
That’s also why I’ve carried my burden. I wanted to relieve some of his, but that hadn’t happened. Whether I’d shouldered the moral weight of her death or not, he still has his own guilt to carry, this boulder of pain bigger than the load the gods dumped on Atlas. I couldn’t change that for him.
Not then.
Now, I can.
After tonight, none of us are bearing more burdens because Val is coming out of this alive.
Joel Cornaro will never see another sunrise.
19
Black Pearl Muse (Valerie)
“Interesting. My crew spoke highly of your beauty, Ms. Gerard, but they never mentioned you had such a devious little head on your shoulders. Maybe it’s you I should’ve been doing business with from the very beginning after Stanley’s untimely departure.” Joel Cornaro eyes me from head to toe, a slithering gaze.
My insides quiver at the glare in his eyes. The wry sneer on his face. The absolute darkness exuding from his person. The rattle of those thick gold chains around his neck every time he walks.
Ray and I sit on a white leather couch inside a luxury yacht vastly bigger than ours. It’s newer, which means it’ll be faster, too.
Flint won’t be able to find us once this ship heads out on the open sea.
“I thought I’d seen it all, dear Valerie. Then you did the impossible. You surprised me. I found out who your boyfriend is.” Cornaro smiles like a particularly ugly shark. “The infamous Flint Calum.”
My insides frost at the way he snarl’s Flint’s name, almost like he knows him intimately.
I don’t understand. How?
Cornaro continues pacing in front of us in these slow, languid laps. Like he has all the time in the world to keep up this torment.
“He ruined a very important demonstration of mine, once upon a time, and lived to tell the tale,” he says. “I should’ve known I hadn’t seen the last of a man who’d come halfway around the world, chasing after a marked woman.”
Oh, God. The dead woman. The Bali kidnapping. That has to be what he’s talking about.
Throwing an ugly gaze at Ray, Cornaro pulls out a lighter that’s just as gold as his necklaces and takes a long draw off his cigar, making the tip glow red. “All I was after was a little fishing company to help my wares reach their lovely buyers. Seems I’ve hit the jackpot purely by chance.”
He steps closer.
I flinch back, hating that I do, wishing I could spit right in his face.
“I should be in Vegas. You’d make a ravishing Lady Luck,” he says, his wretched eyes crawling all over me. “Although...I have more money than anyone in Vegas. First world problems, I know. Gambling with money grows passé with more interesting collateral.”
Ray, who can barely sit up, tightens his hold on my hand. “She doesn’t have anything to do with King Heron. I told you that, asshole. Leave her alone.”
“Ah, but she does have something to do with Mr. Calum, doesn’t she?” Cornaro’s slick smile fades as he steps closer. “And you never told me.”
“He didn’t know,” I say.
Cornaro doesn’t look my way, still glaring at Ray. Then his hand arcs up, pressing the red-orange end of his cigar against my brother’s forehead.
Ray doesn’t scream, but I do.
I lunge, grabbing at his arm, pulling as hard as I can. “Stop it! Stop it, you freak!”
He’s stronger than he looks, shoving me back in the cushions. Cornaro pulls the cigar away from Ray’s head with a low chuckle, and then sticks the cigar back in his mouth before leaning down to blow a thick smoke contrail in my face.