Tropical Getaway

by Roxanne St Claire

  “We’re not sightseeing, Roper.” Dane grabbed his arm. “Don’t waste my time.”

  The fort was dark and blessedly cool inside. The ticket office had been transformed into a triage desk, and several Red Cross nurses stood in a group, talking. One of them looked up. Come on, Florence Nightingale. Help me.

  Dane explained who he was looking for and the expected dubious look crossed her plain features. She explained that they had about twenty patients in their ICU and none of them fit the description. But she’d take him there to look.

  He flashed an appreciative smile. “Thanks.”

  “Did you say he was shot?” she asked Dane as they started down the hallway.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  She looked up at him warily. “I don’t remember any bullet wounds, and I’ve been here almost since the storm.” They arrived at what was probably the soldier’s dining area more than two hundred years earlier. “But let’s look. Then I can check the deceased files for you too, for unidentified gunshot victims.”

  Dane scanned the rows of beds surrounded by IVs and machines. The modern hospital equipment clashed with the old, giant, white stone walls with narrow slits for windows. Walls originally built to house and protect armies of men, not a sea of ravaged hurricane victims.

  Dane walked past every bed. At every man, at every dark head, he stopped and studied the face. They slumbered and moaned, injured, maimed, broken, and nearly dead.

  When he finished, he turned to his escort. “Is that it?”

  “I’m afraid so.” She laid her gentle nurse’s hand on his arm. “You ought to try Fort Matthew. The worst cases are there.” At his pained look, she added, “And the best doctors.”

  Near the makeshift triage center, Roper was on his cell phone.

  “Come on,” Dane urged him. “Fort Matthew is next.”

  Roper continued talking into the phone. “Don’t go on the ship,” he said steadily. “Get every man around it, call in what we need. Stay low and open communication. I’ll be there in a few hours. Keep me posted.” He flipped the phone closed and turned to Dane. “Sorry, pal. We’re going back.”

  “No!” Dane nearly seized the muscles of Roper’s thick neck. “One more fucking hospital, Roper.”

  “The DEA has one of your ships surrounded. Some assholes were dumping crates off the back.”

  “So tell your men to go in and get ’em, for Christ’s sake. What do they need you for?”

  “They’ve got a hostage. A passenger. A woman.”

  Fear danced up his spine. “What do they want?”

  “A free ride out of there. Otherwise, they’ll kill her.”

  15

  “Y ou cannot leave us, cherie.” The pressure of Maurice’s arm propelled Ava back into the galley. The words didn’t scare her, Arnot’s tone did. Beneath the gentle French accent she could hear a ruthless command of the situation.

  “Chef…Maurice—”

  “And you cannot talk.”

  He moved her toward the work area in the back where Philippe stood and watched them, his gaze darting from Maurice to Ava.

  “Is everything gone?” Maurice asked him.

  Philippe nodded and angrily muttered something in French as he stared at Ava.

  “Non, non.” He looked at Ava and gave her a squeeze and a smile. “We need her company.”

  A band of terror gripped her chest. “For what?”

  Maurice’s gaze flashed with a menacing spark she’d never seen before, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. “You must not ask questions, cherie. You must do exactly as you are told.”

  She had to know. “Or what?”

  The darkness returned to his expression, and this time it didn’t go away. He dropped his arm and stepped away from her, as though to focus more clearly on her face.

  “What proof were you talking about in the hall?” Maurice asked.

  The CD-ROM was slipped into the zipper pocket of her handbag, which hung over her shoulder. Could it give her negotiating power? Should she offer to give it to them in exchange for freedom? Or maybe she should leave it in its hiding place, so it could lead the authorities to Maurice…after they found her body.

  The band around her chest squeezed tighter, cutting her breath and ability to speak. “I told you,” she said in a strangled voice. “I overheard a conversation. I heard Genevieve talking.”

  A silent look passed between Maurice and Philippe. They didn’t believe her. She opened her mouth to elaborate, but shut it. Philippe made a demand in French.

  “Non,” Maurice growled with growing impatience, and spat something indecipherable back at him.

  Ricardo returned, pounding the tile floor with his bulk as he approached. He threw a hateful glance at Ava. “The fucking DEA is all over the harbor.”

  All three of them stabbed her with accusing stares. Her legs felt as though they were turning to water. “Please…please,” she choked, her gaze locked on Maurice. “Let me go.”

  Maurice ignored her and spoke to Salazar. “Did you succeed?”

  Salazar nodded. “It’s crazy over there, but I registered for you. You are officially off this ship with the rest of the crew. The prick on the launch knows me, though. He saw me get back on board.”

  “And her?” Maurice glanced at Ava.

  Salazar’s stare accompanied his strained, thickly accented voice. “Who knows? But we may never get off now.”

  “You won’t. But I must.” Maurice put a hand on the Spaniard’s arm. “And you know I’ll take care of you.” Then he turned to Philippe. “Put her in the back. Securely.”

  Philippe grabbed her arm and pulled Ava toward the dry storage room. She stumbled and shook off his grip, a familiar boiling of her blood starting to mix with the fear that ricocheted through her. “Wait a second!” she heard her voice go shrill and she grabbed the material of Maurice’s sleeve. He couldn’t be that ruthless. He had to have some sort of soft spot. “Maurice! Please, let me go!”

  He shook off her grip and spoke directly to Salazar. “Get them on the phone and tell them we want a helicopter. After it’s dark. One pilot.” Then he turned to Ava. “Be sure to remind them we have a guest.”

  “Maurice!” Panic pounded in her chest.

  Philippe pushed her into the storeroom. “Don’t make a sound, Ava,” he said roughly as he shut the door behind him, eliminating all outside light. The spark of anger simmered back to sheer terror as she blinked to adjust her eyes to the darkness.

  “Why can’t you let me go?” she implored Philippe. “I can’t hurt any of you.”

  “No. You can help us.” He pushed her onto the only crate left on the floor.

  “H—How?” She grabbed the rough wood edges to keep from falling.

  Something glinted in the dark as he leaned close to her. “You can be our escort through unfriendly waters.” A cold sliver of steel touched her bare shoulder and lightly traveled down her arm.

  She shivered, staring at the blade.

  He straightened and opened the door, momentarily bathing the tiny room in light as he dangled the knife by its white handle.

  “I’m not superstitious,” he whispered as their gaze met over the knife. In the glimmer of light, she could see his eyes blazing. “Are you?” He slammed the door and left her buried in darkness again.

  She dropped her head into her hands and gave in to the shivering that overtook her body.

  In the unmarked DEA Cessna, Dane could only hear one side of the conversation as Max Roper barked orders into a satellite phone from the copilot’s seat, and it didn’t sound good. Max hung up and said something quietly to the pilot, then he hunched over and climbed into the seat next to Dane.

  “Who’s Ricardo Salazar?” Max asked, raising his voice over the engines.

  “A cook on Valhalla,” Dane answered, digging for a mental personnel file of the big man he barely knew. He had a heavy Spanish accent and he had only recently been hired—by Arnot. “Do you have an id on the hostage?”


  Max shook his head. “Salazar’s on the ship.”

  “No idea at all who the hostage could be?” Dane pushed.

  “All of the passengers are accounted for, although it seems your offices aren’t exactly the picture of efficiency today.”

  “We don’t often have a few hundred hostile passengers who aren’t allowed to take their luggage. And no senior management on the ground to supervise the whole thing.”

  “Well, my men in your office said it was pretty damn confusing, but they got things straightened out. That’s how we id’d the two on board.”

  “Then why do you think the hostage is a passenger?” Dane felt a nagging suspicion he just didn’t want to face.

  “Frankly, we don’t know for sure. But I expect Salazar and company will call us before we have to call them. By the time we land, we’ll have established contact with them.”

  “Very few people cruise alone, Roper,” Dane informed him. “If there’s one woman on board, someone would miss her.”

  Max nodded thoughtfully. “It doesn’t matter who it is. She’s a hostage.”

  The nagging fear nipped at his gut. “Can you reach my house on that phone?”

  “You can get the goddamn White House on that phone, Erikson. And it’s scrambled, in case you’re hoping to send a secret message somewhere.”

  Dane swallowed the curse he wanted to spit in Roper’s arrogant face as he climbed into the copilot’s seat. He had to hear her voice. Just to be sure.

  Marj’s familiar voice greeted him. “Mister Dane! Where are you? It’s like de dams of hell have broken here!”

  “I’m on my way, Marj. Let me talk to Ava.”

  A long silence. Son of a bitch.

  “Marj?”

  “She ain’t here, Mister Dane.”

  He squeezed his eyes against the truth.

  “She, uh, well, she left a couple of hours ago.”

  “Who took her? Where did she go?”

  “She left by herself.”

  “She walked?” Maybe she just got lost on the hillside or went to a beach.

  “No, Mister Dane. She drive dat red car, sir. De one de pretty Miss Charlotte gave you.”

  The Ferrari? Jesus H. Christ—if he hadn’t been so scared, he would have laughed. Even he never attempted to take that low-slung machine around the S curves of St. Barts. He cursed himself for not shipping it back to the redhead who’d sent it as a reminder of their brief time together.

  Marj tried to explain that she never saw Miss Ava leave the study, but she did see the red car sputtering in the driveway. Oh, he bet it did just that. Marj’s voice cracked like a little child admitting she’d done wrong. “I’m sorry, Mister Dane.”

  “It’s okay, Marj,” he assured her. “I’m sure she couldn’t be stopped anyway.”

  “Well, somebody did see her at de office, so you should try to call dere now.”

  As he spoke, he glanced back at Roper. How much care would he take with a hostage in his effort to seize the day? Dane’s heart twisted and he clung to the rapidly diminishing hope that Ava sat in some quiet office commiserating with Cassie or other Utopians.

  “Thanks, Marj. I gotta go, sweetheart. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

  He thought he heard her moan a little before the connection broke.

  “Whatd’ya find out?” Roper was right behind him, breathing down his neck.

  “Nothing.”

  “Liar.”

  “Bastard.”

  Max grinned. “Need to call any more girlfriends, Erikson?”

  “You worry about the bad guys, Roper. I’ll worry about the innocent victims.” Dane glanced at the satellite phone keypad. “And, yeah, I got a few more friends to track down.”

  When he connected with the Utopia offices, his worst suspicions were confirmed. No one had seen her.

  “God damn that woman. Why couldn’t she just stay home and cook?”

  He heard Roper choke back a laugh and Dane hung up the phone. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

  “I think I might have an id on the hostage.”

  Roper raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me. One of your girlfriends.”

  Dane yanked the seat belt around his waist. “This may be a fun day at the office for you, Roper, but there are a lot of real live people down there that I care about. And I have a feeling you’re going to need my help, whether you want it or not.”

  “We’ve made plenty of busts without the owner of the real estate present, Erikson. You’ll stay on the dock and be quiet.” Roper glared at Dane, all humor gone from his eyes. “Don’t try to be a hero, pal. And none of the real, live people will die.”

  The sound of an airplane interruped Ava’s anxious thoughts. Still perched on the crate, she had no idea how much time had passed. At least a few hours, maybe more. She’d heard their voices raised in anger occasionally, a mix of French and Spanish, and sometimes English when all three of them had to understand one another.

  Every interaction with Arnot replayed in her mind. Had there ever been a clue? She cursed herself for being so charmed by the little Frenchman, for rushing to judgment just because he teased her and lavished her with praise.

  Her eyes had adjusted somewhat and she could make out certain items in the darkness. She remembered the day she’d explored this room looking for oregano, and how quickly Philippe had shooed her back to the galley. But Arnot had been so kind, so warm. She bit back a curse and the next batch of tears that threatened.

  Her bag still hung on her shoulder and she considered the disk inside. It didn’t implicate Arnot. Nothing did. Salazar said he’d registered Arnot at Utopia, so no one knew he was on this ship. No one except Ava.

  She opened her thin, envelope-style purse. The disk was still folded in a protective sheet of white paper. The bastard should at least get caught if she died. In the dark, her fingers traveled over each item in her bag in search of a pen. Lipstick, a small wallet, a roll of mints, the Ferrari key—no goddamn pen. She reached into the zipper compartment. Something long and thin. A pencil? She held it up in the dim light. Lip liner! That would work.

  She opened the piece of paper and thought for a minute. What if this was her last communication with anyone before she died? What would she want to say? To Dominic?I’m sorry you lost both your children. To Mama? Thank you, sweet Mama; I love you so. And Dane. What would she say to Dane? You’re gorgeous and good and I want you more than you could ever want me? I’m so sorry I died without making love to you.

  The doorknob rattled and she jumped and stuffed the disk and paper back in her purse. She heard the lip liner hit the floor and she cursed her time-wasting dramatics. She jammed the purse behind the crate just as the door burst open. Blinding light from the galley flooded the storeroom, and Ava blinked.

  “Come here.” Arnot’s voice was gruff and edged with impatience. “You have a phone call.”

  She stood, trying to steady her cramped legs. A phone call? Was this a hoax?

  As she stepped into the galley, she saw that a thin band of sweat flattened Maurice’s thinning hair and his usually smiling mouth was set in a hard grimace, his eyes darting and wary. And he had taken ownership of the white-handled knife.

  He lifted it to her face. “They need to confirm that you are alive. Talk to this man. This Max Roper. You will tell them only that you are alive.” The blade settled into the soft hollow under her jaw and she held his threatening gaze. “If you mention my name, this will end up on the other side of your neck, cherie.” He intensified the pressure.

  She nodded and tried to back away, but Ricardo Salazar blocked her, easily grabbing her wrists behind her with one hand and thrusting a cell phone up to her ear with the other.

  “Yes?” she rasped, then cleared her throat. “Hello?”

  “You okay, princess?”

  Every drop of composure threatened to melt away as she fought a sob. Dane. No words would come to her and she gasped for air.

  “Ava? Are you the
re?”

  “Yes,” she choked. “I’m fine.” She felt the cold steel pressure on her throat and kept her gaze locked on Maurice.

  “We’re going to try to get you out of there.”

  Arnot and Salazar had her sandwiched so tightly enough that they might be able to hear both sides of the conversation. Did they know it was Dane?

  “That would be good,” she whispered, feeling the tip of the knife with every pulse beat in her neck.

  “Have they…have they hurt you, baby?”

  The endearment, spoken so softly only she could have heard it, made tears burn again. Her gaze shifted to the white handle of the knife. “N—no. Not yet.”

  She heard him take a short breath. “Do everything they tell you to do, Ava. Do you understand?”

  Terror released its grip ever so slightly. If there were a God in heaven, Maurice Arnot would not get away with this. How could she tell Dane that the chef was on board and behind everything? She took a chance. “When this is over, buddy, I’m going to cook for you.”

  Arnot glared at her, and she felt the knife’s edge press. She could only pray Dane knew her well enough that the comment and its emphasis would resonate with him. Please, Dane. Please.

  “On the ship?”

  Did that mean he got it? “Yes.”

  “Please don’t argue with them, Ava.”

  “I won’t.” Oh, God, she wanted to hold him again and kiss him one more time and tell him…“I’m sorry.”

  “I just want you back.” She heard the crack in his whispered words. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  Maurice jerked his head toward Salazar, who yanked the phone away from her ear.

  “A helicopter,” Salazar barked in the phone. “In one hour. On the deck. No one but the pilot, and no searchlights. When we’re on the chopper, we’ll let her go.”

  They’d never let her go. Arnot knew she’d reveal his identity. She had one hour left to live.

  Dane stared at Max as the connection broke. He had to trust the guy now. Had to tell him what he knew. Dane had suspected Arnot, since at least three of the drug runners worked in the galley. And though he knew the chef had registered with the Utopia offices and was believed to be off the ship, he also knew Arnot was the one other person Ava might think she could trust.