And the brazen bastard had signed it. T.K.
The fire marshal insisted on checking out the attic to be sure there weren’t any embers that would later ignite. Then he examined the ceiling, the walls, and helped remove the bed from her home to the curb, where it could be hauled away by the trash collector.
When he’d gotten all he needed for his report and had left her home, Morgan hugged Jackson. On seeing Kunz’s message, her insides had gone liquid. “They opened that window while we were in the house. The alarm was on before then, so they had to do this while we were in the kitchen.”
“Oh, no.” Fear stretched Jackson’s eyes wide. “The photos!”
They rushed into the kitchen and looked at the bar. Its granite top stretched the length of the room, slick and shiny and sheening the light reflected from the overhead.
No pictures.
While they’d dealt with the fire, one of the goons had stolen the photos.
Morgan reported the incident to Commander Drake, who was uncharacteristically shaken by the bold invasion it had required. “I want you out of that house now, Morgan. And don’t go back until we resolve this. I mean it.”
“But all the hotels are full, Commander.”
“You can stay with me.”
Jackson shook his head. “Her husband …”
Morgan knew what Jackson meant. Kenneth Drake had been killed in their home. He’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’d been a G.R.I.D. hit, and Sally Drake, not Kenneth, had been the target. Kunz wasn’t going to get Sally while targeting Morgan, or Morgan while targeting Sally. “No. We’re not going to make a two-for-one easy for the bastard. I’ll be with Jackson,” Morgan said. “We’re going to move the Sunrise into the bay before the storm comes; then …” She started to say they’d be on the boat, but thought better of it. The lines were supposed to be secure, but then so was her house. “I don’t know where we’ll be. I’ll phone in, and you can reach me on—”
“I know,” Sally said, obviously not wanting to disclose how they’d be communicating either.
Morgan would stop at a store, buy a couple disposable cells, and use them to communicate. She’d use her personal cell to transmit unrelated information to others and take the batteries out when it wasn’t in use. It wasn’t a perfect method to avoid being tracked, but it was the best available. She thought about the hurricane. Lil, she thought, don’t you dare knock out those towers.
“Okay,” Sally said. “But stay away from your house.”
“I will.” Her sanctuary was gone. Violated and gone.
Sally’s blown breath relayed crackling static through the phone. “Morgan, I swear there’s a special place in hell for that bastard.”
“I vote we send him there just as soon as possible, Commander.”
“I’ll second that,” she said with heart. “Keep me posted.”
Morgan hung up and started gathering a few things. “Why did he burn my bed?”
“It’s flammable and away from the kitchen. It was a diversion, honey. That’s all.”
Hatred fired in Morgan, burned deep, and permeated her every cell. “There is no ‘that’s all’ with Thomas Kunz. He’s showing me that there is no safe place. He can get to me no matter where I am. In my car, on the base, in my home, and even in my own bed.”
“Morgan.”
She stuffed her things into a bag. Shoved them down, her anger hot. “What?”
“Stop this.” Jackson said.
She whipped around, glared at him. “Stop this?” He held her furious gaze a long moment, then pulled her into his arms and held her close, burying his face at the curve of her neck and cupping her head in his hand. “Don’t do this, baby,” he whispered close to her ear. “If you get angry, you can’t be effective. Then he wins.” Jackson brushed her ear with the tip of his nose, pressed a kiss to her lobe, her temple. “He wins.”
She turned her face to Jackson’s, kissed him hungrily, passionately, redirecting all of her emotions to him, accepting all he was feeling into her, taking her time, sharing not exploring, giving her attraction to him full permission to expand and grow and fill her with desire.
He let out a low groan and parted their lips. “Better.”
“Much better.” She tipped her nose, rubbed it against his. “Let’s get out of here.”
The Sunrise was parked at the dock under a street lamp. Normally at this time of night, the fishermen and deckhands were done for the day and would have gone home. The slips would be full and the docks busy but calm, filled with tourists lazily strolling down the wooden planks, looking at the boats, discussing the unusual names on them, the towers and fishing rigs, dreaming of owning one, and just relaxing and enjoying the night breezes floating in off the gulf.
But with Hurricane Lil bearing down on Magnolia Beach, the entire chemistry of the marina had changed.
Tourists were asked to get off the docks and out of the way. Fishermen and deckhands worked frantically to clear the decks of anything strong winds could make flying projectiles. Anchors were checked, chains extended, mooring ropes loosened and drawn in, and the boats lined up, waiting to get out of the pass from the marina to the gulf so the boats could be taken into the bays where they’d be more protected from the storm surge and devastating winds.
“The only other time I’ve seen this place so crazy was for the blessing of the fleet.” Jackson motioned to the stern. “Grab that rope, will you?”
Morgan pulled the rope into the boat and looked up. “Taylor Lee?”
She walked right past Morgan as if she hadn’t heard her.
Impossible. Morgan signaled Jackson. “Something’s wrong.”
Taylor Lee paused a couple of boats farther down the dock. “Hey, where’s that beer you promised me?”
A man came topside from the cabin on a forty-footer parked six slips down. Morgan dropped down low, peeked at him over the Sunrise’s side. “Jackson,” she shouted in a stage whisper, then pointed low just off the deck. “Stick.”
Jackson slid down beside Morgan. “Any sign of the other two?”
“No. Just him.”
Jackson looked around. “They can’t be far,” he told her. “The bastards run in packs.”
Morgan tapped her cell phone and speed-dialed Home Base. When Darcy answered, she whispered. “Stick is at the marina. Taylor Lee’s roped him in. I can’t believe she didn’t call in backup or—” Morgan looked at the dock beside her, and her blood ran cold. Jazie was coming down the dock, arm in arm with Merk.
“Have they lost their minds?” Jackson asked. “What the hell are they doing?”
“I have no idea,” Morgan said. “But I damn well don’t like it.” They were going to get the ass chewing of a lifetime for this … if any of them survived.
The next thing Morgan knew, Jazie had shoved Merk into the back of the Sunrise and then leapt in after him, coming down on his neck with the heel of her shoe. “Jackson,” Jazie said, shooting him a frantic look, “I could use—”
Merk landed a right cross solidly on Jazie’s jaw. Her head jerked back, and before Morgan could get to them, Jazie whipped out her Glock and shoved the barrel against Merk’s nose. “Do not move,” she warned in a tone Morgan had never before heard come from her throat. “If you do, I will shoot to kill.” Her sweet, soulful tone sounded positively lethal. “I kid you not.”
“Darcy,” Morgan said into the phone. “Get a chopper down to the marina ASAP. We need someone to take out the trash.”
“All three cans?”
“Not yet.” Morgan said. “One in the can, one in hand, and one unaccounted for at this time.” She shot a look back over at Taylor Lee, who had her back to Morgan.
Jackson bound and gagged Merk, then pulled him out of sight from the dock. Then the two of them and Jazie turned their attention to Taylor Lee, who was calmly sipping a beer, chatting with Stick a half dozen boats down the way as if she hadn’t a worry in the world. If the dock hadn’t been so busy, he surely would have noted the scuffle. �
��Jazie, what the hell are you two doing?” Morgan asked.
“It’s the craziest damn thing,” she said, perching on the seat with her back to Stick’s boat. “You know Taylor Lee’s been spending every spare dark moment trolling the bars down here for these jokers. She swore they had to be on a boat, and I had to half-agree because they weren’t in any hotel. Anyway, she got a glimpse of them inside her head in a bar, and it just wouldn’t let go, so we had to find the bar.”
“The point, Jazie,” Morgan said from between her teeth. “Now, please.”
“She called and asked me to come with her. Rick had some kind of meeting tonight with the county commissioners.”
Probably with Emergency Services about hurricane preparations. “So you came bar-trolling with Taylor Lee and you two ran into the assassins?” Morgan attempted to push the briefing along.
“We found the bar Taylor Lee saw; then there they were—two of them, anyway.” Jazie hiked her eyebrows. “We haven’t seen Payton.”
“And you felt totally comfortable putting yourself in their faces without requesting backup or uttering a single word to me?”
“It wasn’t like that, Morgan,” Jazie assured her, picking up on her anger. “The opportunity just kind of presented itself, and you were tied up with the photographs and the lab explosion, and then with getting your house burned down.”
“Oh, hell,” Jackson said. “Tell me she’s not going to crack him in the head with her beer bottle.” Disbelief etched Jackson’s voice and turned to horror. “Morgan, she’s going to crack him in the head with a beer bottle.”
Morgan darted her gaze from him to Taylor Lee just as she sideswiped him in the back of the head. Morgan scrambled off the stern and onto the dock. “Jazie, stay put.”
Jackson followed Morgan, who ran down the dock to Stick’s boat and slid to a stop. Taylor Lee stood sipping her beer and watching all the activity going on in the surrounding boats. “Hey, guys.”
“Unbelievable.” Jackson dragged a hand through his hair. “Un-freaking-believable.”
“Unorthodox,” Morgan corrected him. “Which is probably why it worked.”
A flash of movement caught Morgan’s eye. Stick dove over the side of the deck. “Damn it.” Taylor Lee drew her weapon.
“No, don’t shoot!” Morgan shouted. The dock was slammed. They couldn’t afford gunfire under these conditions.
Jackson glared at Taylor Lee. “You should have secured your prisoner before finishing your beer.”
“He was secure,” she said, her temper close to exploding. “I’m not incompetent, Jackson. I cuffed the bastard to the deck rail.”
“Enough.” Irritated, Morgan lifted a hand. “No sign of Payton?”
“Not firsthand. Stick was showing me his boat, but he said he had to get to his hotel within an hour.” She cast Jackson a defiant look. “I suggested I go with him, but he turned me down.” Her expression conveyed her feelings on that. “I intended to follow him, but saw Jazie take down Merk and figured Stick would get suspicious when he didn’t show up to help secure the boat, so I went ahead and knocked him out.”
“What hotel?” Jackson asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s get back to Jazie.” The wind whipped Morgan’s hair into her face. She shoved it back and returned to the dock.
“They’re going to get killed doing things like this.” He sighed his worry.
“They’re trained professionals, Jackson,” Morgan said. “We operate differently, but not mindlessly.”
“For God’s sake, Morgan, she whacked him with a beer bottle.”
“Which didn’t present any danger to anyone but him … and her.” Morgan tapped her temple. “Think collateral damage.”
“Okay, I’ll give her that. But he’s a freaking assassin. One of most proficient in the world or he wouldn’t be working for Kunz.”
“No buts, Jackson. It worked.”
“Right up until the part where he got away.”
Morgan gritted her teeth. She couldn’t argue that point, and she could smack Taylor Lee herself for putting herself in that kind of position. “She handcuffed him. How was she to know he’d get out of the restraints?”
“He works for Kunz.” Jackson’s voice went flat. “She should have expected the unexpected—and the worst.”
While they argued on the dock near the boat, Taylor Lee boarded. “Jazie’s out.” Taylor Lee’s face showed blind panic. “She’s out cold.”
Morgan and Jackson rushed aboard the Sunrise and saw Jazie sprawled face down on the deck. Taylor Lee was on her knees beside her, checking Jazie’s pulse. Relief washed over her face. “She’s breathing.”
Morgan dropped down and checked her pupils. “Jazie?”
Her eyelids fluttered open. “Payton …” “Are you okay?” Morgan asked.
“Yeah.” She rubbed the back of her head, then shook it to clear her mind, sending her long hair tumbling down her back.
Morgan checked her neck, her shoulders and arms. “I want you to go to the hospital and get checked out.”
She nodded. “I’d be brave and refuse, but I think I’d better get the doc to take a look.” She rubbed the back of her head with her fingertips. “I’ve got a hell of a goose egg back here.”
“A chopper will be at the landing pad shortly.” It was used often for medical evacuations from the beach and the marina.
“I’ll walk her down.” Taylor Lee moved around Jackson toward Jazie.
Morgan stood up, going toe to toe with her team. “Take fewer chances with your asses, okay?”
Taylor Lee’s long black hair blew in the wind, and she hooked a resigned thumb in the belt loop on her hip-slung jeans. “Okay.”
“And less alcohol, too.”
“Morgan, how can one troll bars for men and not drink?”
“Get creative.” Morgan smiled but kept the warning in her tone so Taylor Lee didn’t miss it. This was a direct order, and she wanted the woman to know it.
Her cell phone rang. Cursing under her breath, Morgan answered.
“How’s that garbage?”
“Spilled into the sea.”
“All of it?”
“All we had. I’m afraid so.” Embarrassed by that, Morgan frowned. “But don’t cancel the chopper. Jazie appears to be all right, but she was knocked unconscious with third-party help.” Darcy would get her meaning. They’d had two; a third assisted in the release. “I want her checked out.”
“I’ll notify Dr. Vargus. Chopper’s ETA is three minutes.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ve got those phone numbers. Haven’t yet reviewed them, but they’re in.”
“Can you fax them to the harbormaster’s office?” The office was on the dock, and Morgan could get them right away.
“Sure.”
“Thanks, Darcy.” Morgan flipped her phone closed and dropped it into her purse. “Let’s go.”
Taylor Lee and Jazie walked down the dock to the shore. Jackson fell into step beside Morgan, and they went to the harbormaster’s office. Neither of them said much, their irritation at fever pitch over losing not one but two G.R.I.D. operatives. They were in worse shape now than they were before. The assassins knew the entire S.A.T. team by sight.
Fifteen minutes later, Morgan and Jackson were sitting in a booth in Diane’s coffee shop reviewing the listing of phone numbers that Darcy had faxed over.
Morgan was hot, worried, and irritated that she and her team stood on shaky ground. Not having a clear fix on their allies and enemies when they were dealing with G.R.I.D. had her scared half out of her wits.
Jackson reached across the table and covered her hand. “Don’t do it, Morgan.”
Puzzled, she asked, “What?”
“Beat yourself up.” He softened his voice so only she could hear.
It wasn’t necessary because the coffee shop was crowded and noisy. Everyone was speculating on the storm. When Jim, meteorologist and reporter from the Weather Channel wa
lked in, a loud wail of a groan rang out that literally shook the walls. Jim was the most respected and appreciated man everyone hated to see—for obvious reasons in hurricane country. Where Jim was sent, the storm followed.
Jackson added a packet of sugar to his coffee, then ran his fingertip down the page of phone numbers. When he reached the bottom, he flipped the page. “You guys are mental … I mean, other than shooting me, you use your minds in your work, not physical tactics. Be grateful Taylor Lee or Jazie wasn’t killed.”
“I am grateful.” Their training was light in physical combat. They were Special Abilities and didn’t have the combat training Amanda, Kate, Darcy, and Maggie Holt had gone through. The S.A.T. missions required the team members to use mainly their special skills, their minds. Jackson was right about that.
He finished reviewing the list of phone numbers.
“None of these look familiar to me.” He frowned. “Do you have a calendar?”
She pulled one up on her organizer. “What date do you want to check?”
“May 16.”
“This year, right?” she asked. When he nodded, she checked. “Saturday.” “I need a pen.”
Morgan passed one over. He ticked off dates, verifying each of them to be Saturday.
“Three of these calls are from the same number,” he said. “One came through while Bruce was still in Iraq. Two were made after he left Iraq but before we know for a fact that he had returned home.”
“What are you using as verification of his being here?” Morgan motioned the waitress for a refill on her tea.
The weary-looking woman poured it from an ice-filled pitcher and set the glass down, then returned to the counter. The place was buzzing, every seat was taken.
“His arrest.” Jackson lifted a shoulder. “It’s all we’ve got where we can prove Bruce was Bruce.”
Morgan pulled out her phone. “What’s the number you’re seeing repeated?”
“Don’t call it from your cell,” Jackson warned her.
He didn’t want her identity showing up on caller ID. “Darcy,” Morgan said, informing him of her intentions.
Shooting her an apologetic look, he reeled off the number. “It’s foreign. No clue where, though I have my suspicions.”
Vicki Hinze - [War Games 04] Page 22