“What?”
“What you’ve been wanting to say for over two months. It was my fault the kid was killed. If I’d followed your orders, Brian would still be alive, and you and the others wouldn’t have been almost killed pulling me out of there.”
“The kid wasn’t a kid—he was a twenty-four-year-old highly trained, elite operative. He made his own decision to follow you. His death isn’t on you.” The LC’s voice was so tight and angry that it sounded as if he was gritting his teeth. “I’m only going to say this once, so put down that whip for a few minutes and listen up. You didn’t do anything that I didn’t want to do or wouldn’t have done if I were in your position. Damn it, do you think I wanted to leave them there? I wanted to try to warn White’s squad every bit as badly as you did, but as the officer in charge I was responsible for the mission and saving the lives of the men I could. But you go with your gut. You act when most people are still sitting around, trying to figure out what to do. That’s what makes you so good.”
Dean was shocked. He didn’t know what to say.
But a whip? Was that what he’d been doing?
“No one blames you for Murphy’s death,” Taylor continued. “If you hadn’t stopped in the yard, we would all have been in that building and died. Think about that.”
Dean did.
“If you want to keep beating yourself up about it, that’s up to you. But if it starts making you second-guess your decisions and affecting your performance, then it becomes my problem. But, Tex?” Dean waited. “Disobey another direct order from me like that again, and I’ll see your ass in the brig. Understood?”
Dean knew he was getting off lightly. They both knew if they got out of this, Taylor could have his ass. “Roger that, sir.”
“Don’t fucking start with the ‘sir.’ You’ll make me self-conscious.”
“Does that mean you are all right with me going back to Lewis?”
“No, I’m sure as hell not all right with it. But you gotta do what you gotta do, and I’m not going to try to stop you.”
And he trusted him. That was what he wasn’t saying. But Dean heard it, and it meant more than he’d thought it would. He and the LC would never be best buddies, and undoubtedly they would lock horns again, but they trusted and respected each other. That was what mattered.
“I’ll call you if Kate has anything. And, Tex?” Taylor paused. “In answer to your question, yes, someone has.”
The LC had already hung up when Dean realized what he meant. He’d asked him “if anyone had ever . . . ?”
So the LC wasn’t immune, either. Someone had gotten to him.
It was nice to know Taylor was human. He was so buttoned up and by the book, sometimes Dean wondered. Distance from the men was part of being an officer, but except for Colt, the LC kept himself apart more than usual.
Dean had changed his ticket and was waiting at the gate for his 1400 flight to Lewis to board.
It was thirty minutes delayed, which was why he was in cell range and not thirty thousand feet up when the call came through that confirmed what his gut had been telling him. It wasn’t over.
• • •
This was a mistake.
Annie had spent most of the ninety-minute drive from Stornoway to the small fishing village of Rodel in South Harris trying to have a good time. The seven other protesters in the rented minibus certainly were. But she didn’t feel like humming songs until someone guessed the tune or laughing along with the others at the range of vocal abilities. She just wanted to be alone to think. To gaze at the coastline and the crashing waves from the beach or the privacy of her hotel window, not watching it blow by in a blur from a car window.
She wasn’t ready for company, she realized. She was still in the licking-wounds stage.
“You’re very quiet, Dr. Henderson.”
It took Annie a moment to realize the woman was addressing her. She wasn’t used to her new title. But as proud as she was of all the work that had gone into her PhD, she was going to be the type who only used “doctor” in formal academic or research situations.
“Annie, please,” she said. “I guess I’m more tired than I realized.”
“Not surprising,” the woman said, turning from her place in the passenger seat to give Annie a smile. “After all that you’ve been through. But I’m glad that Martin invited you to come along.”
“Me, too,” Annie lied, returning the older woman’s smile. She’d been surprised to see that Julien and Jean Paul’s friend Sofie was part of the dive group. Annie hadn’t seen her since that night and had assumed she’d left. But apparently Sofie had a thing going with Martin. They seemed an odd pairing, but it was none of her business.
Annie wondered whether Sofie had been questioned by the police, too, but no one had mentioned it.
“As the only American in the group, you’ll have to tell us what you think about the latest story,” Sofie said.
Annie didn’t understand. “What story?”
“You must not have seen the news today,” Martin said. “It’s all over the papers.”
“There’s another article about your lost legion,” Marie explained, clearly amused. “What do you think? Is it true?”
“I have no idea,” Annie said.
“They even posted a picture of the reporter’s missing brother with a few other men she claims not to be able to locate,” Sofie added.
Annie tried to act interested when her mind was other places. “Really?”
Sofie passed the paper back to her. “It isn’t very good quality. You can’t really see their faces.”
“Who needs to see their faces?” another woman in the van said with a wag of her eyebrows. Annie hadn’t caught her name, but she sounded English. Or Scottish. Or Irish. Annie hadn’t really gotten the accent distinctions down, and she’d learned not to ask. If she guessed wrong—no matter what it was—people tended to get offended.
Annie understood what the woman meant immediately. The photo was of four men on a beach. They were dragging a sailboat from the water and all wore board shorts, baseball hats, and sunglasses. And nothing else. All four were exceptionally well built. Um. Exceptionally well built.
She scanned the photo quickly and then slowed as something processed. Her heart stopped and she sucked in her breath as her eyes went back to the second man from the right.
Oh . . . my . . . God.
She felt the blood drain from her face as she took in the familiar physique—minus the scars and burn marks. She would know those broad shoulders, muscular arms, and six-pack abs even if she didn’t also recognize the bearded jaw, broad smile, and blue hat. Although this hat was new and still had the Dallas Cowboys star patch on it. She wrinkled her nose with distaste. That explained the beaten-up, old-school-uniform powder blue cap with the missing logo.
She noted the names below the picture from left to right: Brandon Blake, John Donovan, Dean Baylor, and Michael Ruiz.
Dean Baylor. Dan was Dean. Her heart squeezed. Finally she at least knew his name.
Suddenly the rest hit her, and everything fell into place. He was one of the SEALs who’d supposedly vanished. That was why he was hiding. That was why he’d walked away from her.
It all made sense. He didn’t want her mixed up in whatever had caused him and the other survivors to go into hiding.
“Is something wrong?” Sofie asked. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Annie shook her head, forcing herself out of the daze although her mind was still reeling. “I was just reading the article. It’s interesting, but I’m afraid I have no more insight than anyone else on whether it’s true.” She forced a lighthearted laugh from a chest that was beating like a war drum. “But it certainly makes a good story.”
“It certainly does,” Martin agreed as a big gray building—from the sign, apparently a hotel—appeared on t
he road in front of them. He turned into a small parking lot overlooking the water. There were a few other cars around, but the hotel itself appeared to be permanently closed. “We’re here.”
Annie was glad for the interruption. As they climbed out of the minibus, she tried to process what she’d learned. Did this explain why Dean had left or was she just trying to make excuses for him and deluding herself again? What if the truth was that he really didn’t care about her?
Now that she knew who he was, did that really make a difference?
The group unpacked their gear and made their way down the grassy path from the parking lot to the pier where the chartered boat was already waiting for them in the small harbor.
In her short stay in the Western Isles, Annie had grown used to the stunning vistas, but Rodel, with its dark sea loch, stone shoreline, and grassy green rolling hills, seemed quintessentially Scotland. Beautiful, but eerily desolate and remote. It wasn’t hard to imagine things like sea monsters lurking in the deep black waters. If Loch Ness looked anything like this, she could see why the Nessie legend had persisted for so long.
The shuttered hotel seemed to be the only building for miles, although from her dive research she knew there was a medieval church nearby.
In no other place to which she’d traveled had she ever felt so completely removed from civilization as she had in some parts of Scotland, and Rodel topped all others. She felt as if she were standing at the edge of the world. It was a strange feeling. She felt at once small and alone, yet also closer than she’d ever imagined to the natural world around her.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sofie said.
Absorbed in the vista, Annie hadn’t heard the other woman come up behind her. They were standing at the edge of the pier while Martin spoke with the captain. Annie hoped he was qualified. He looked about eighteen.
“It is,” Annie agreed.
“Pretty to look at,” Marie said, joining them. “But I’d go crazy if I had to live in a place like this. I can’t imagine they have very good Internet connections—I can’t even get a cell signal.”
Like any millennial, Annie probably would have said the same thing a few days ago. But she actually kind of liked not having a cell phone—for a few days at least. It was oddly freeing. Although she’d have to get another one soon, if nothing else for emergencies and so her mom could reach her. She was surprised Alice hadn’t had one waiting for her at the hotel with her number already speed-dialed in.
Some of the group had brought their own wet suits and gear, but Annie and the others were relying on the charter company’s rental equipment. They’d given them their general sizes ahead of time, and after a thorough inspection, Annie began the process of gearing up. As much time as she’d spent in a wet suit, you would think she would like them better. But they were a necessary pain in the ass. Actually a dry suit would be better for this type of cold water, but most companies didn’t rent them.
Although the day was blustery and gray, they wouldn’t have far to go even if the weather turned. The wreck of the 1950s steamship SS Stassa, which had run aground in 1966, was at the head of the loch and not that far from shore. It was still mostly intact, and lying on its side in about twenty-five meters of water.
They boarded the blue-and-white converted fishing trawler called the Gaelic Princess, and Captain Niall—who was indeed eighteen but assured them that he’d been doing this for “years”—ferried them the two-thirds of a mile or so out to the dive site.
After an inauspicious start, Annie found herself getting a little excited. She wasn’t a wreck bagger—she’d just made that term up—but she found them fascinating. She probably had James Cameron and the movie Titanic to thank for that. She’d been a child when she first saw those eerie images of the rusticle-laden ship materializing out of the deep blue water.
Up close, shipwrecks were even more moving. There was something both incredible and haunting about seeing an enormous steel machine lying in a watery grave.
Annie was the last diver in the water. She was sitting on the edge of the boat about to drop back when she was pulled into the water from behind.
• • •
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
That had been the last thing the LC said to him before he hung up, and Dean hoped to hell he could keep his shit together. But sitting on the tarmac waiting for the flight to take off was like playing an agonizing game of trying not to lose his mind.
God, how much fucking longer were they going to be sitting here?
The police were being notified, but until Dean got there—until he saw her—he wasn’t going to be able to relax or “calm the fuck down” as the LC had so eloquently put it.
But this thing was a hell of a lot bigger than any of them had guessed.
Dean’s tip to Kate about OPF targeting large companies—large public companies—had paid off. It hadn’t been just about a failed ecoterrorist attack on the drillship. Jean Paul had murdered his two compatriots and gone after Annie not because of the environment or a protest. He’d gone after them because of money. OPF was a front for something much bigger than ecoterrorism—and a hell of a lot more profitable: shorting stock.
Basically, as the LC explained it, shorting stock was betting against the market with borrowed shares of stock. If the stock went up, you could lose your shirt, but if the stock went down, you could rake it in. It was more complicated than that, with things like margin and calls, but the basic idea was that you could win big when the stock went down and lose big if it went up.
Dean’s observation about the group targeting progressively bigger and bigger companies had led Kate to look deeper into the companies’ finances and stock. She’d found a pattern in the short interest chart. Immediately before OPF hit a target company, she’d noticed a spike in the percentage of shares of that company being shorted. It was as if someone knew what was going to happen.
Someone obviously did. OPF. The investors behind OPF shorted the stock of the company they were planning to sabotage, and then afterward when the stock price dipped, they covered the stock they’d borrowed at a higher price, pocketing the profit.
They made out like bandits—literally—every time they bombed one of these publicly traded companies. Kate estimated they’d made millions.
It was fucking brilliant—assuming the blast went off and the stock dipped.
The problem was that this time the ship hadn’t been destroyed or damaged, and the stock hadn’t dipped. It had gone up. And when the margin calls went out, those investors were going to lose a lot of money. They were the types of investors—probably an organized crime syndicate—that didn’t like losing money and would be looking for someone to pay.
Someone like Jean Paul. That had been the second alarming piece of information. It was beginning to look as though Jean Paul’s death had not been an accident, and that he might have been killed intentionally. A witness had come forward and said that the tourist’s car had sped up as she made the turn, “almost as if she’d been targeting the guy.” And not only had the woman disappeared; she’d been using a name and a passport that appeared to be fake.
If Jean Paul had been killed, it was because he’d cost lots of bad people lots of money. And if they knew about Annie, would they blame her and go after her, too? She was no one. There was no reason to think . . .
But Dean couldn’t take the chance. Nor could he escape the knowledge that if something happened to her, it would be his fault. By sending her back to Lewis, he might have put her right in the bastards’ hands.
Fuck.
Finally the captain’s voice sounded over the intercom. They were ready for takeoff. Dean sat back in his seat and prayed as he’d never prayed that his gut was wrong.
• • •
It was the longest forty-five-minute flight of Dean’s life. He’d turned his phone on as soon as they hit the ground, and the
text waiting for him made his stomach sink like a ball of lead.
Kate had connected the dots. The two guys who’d attacked them in Oban had washed up and been identified. They were part of a crime syndicate in Germany and had been on Interpol’s and the CIA’s watch list for a long time. Unfortunately no one had thought to share the information with officials in Scotland, and they’d gone through immigration without a problem. They had been photographed after clearing customs, however, with a woman. The text from the LC included a grainy airport picture of a woman of indeterminate age with long blond hair.
Police in Inverness, where Jean Paul had been taken and killed, confirmed her identity as their missing tourist. Not surprisingly, the woman Interpol knew as Greta Johansson, a Swedish national, was part of the same syndicate. With the Swiss Meier and German Richer, a Belgian, and two Frenchmen, it was a regular United Nations.
Dean couldn’t get off that plane fast enough. Fifteen minutes later he was in a cab and found out the rest in a quick phone call to the LC. Jean Paul’s cell phone number didn’t match the one that Dean had pulled from the hit man’s phone, which meant that not only was his picture still out there, but the two guys hadn’t been reporting to Jean Paul as they’d thought. It probably belonged to the woman, but she still hadn’t been located.
Neither had Annie. The police had gone to the protester camp, but apparently they hadn’t made a lot of friends after the attempted bombing and no one was talking.
Dean had the cab make a beeline for the camp, and five minutes later he was running down the dock.
It might have taken longer if he hadn’t recognized one of the guys from the table the first night he’d seen Annie and her so-called friends in the pub. Sergio had tried to slink away, but Dean intercepted him. The hand around his throat probably convinced him that Dean wasn’t in any mood to fuck around, and Sergio told him what he wanted to know faster than he could piss himself—which he did.
Annie had gone to Harris to dive an old wreck “about an hour ago.” Dean knew it. The Stassa was the first dive he’d done when he signed on with Old MacDonald. But Dean knew his worst fears had been realized when he showed Sergio the picture of the woman and he confirmed that she was part of the group.
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