He hadn’t witnessed the ship’s final seconds and was glad of it. It would have been like watching a friend draw a last breath. And he knew from experience that was one sight better left unseen. Once again, he wondered what would become of him and the others now that their futures were officially sitting on the sandy bottom of the Straits. But before the self-condemnation and remorse could set in, he saw two dots of orange on the far horizon bobbing on the waves.
Olivia? He squinted his eyes. No, not Olivia. They were the empty preservers Mason had stowed in the bottom of their dinghy before the thing made its journey into the deep.
“Olivia!” he hollered again, fear beginning to sink its razor-sharp teeth into his heart and squirming in his belly like a venomous snake. His mind raced through all the possibilities…
Drowned. No. I saw her grab the life jacket.
Sharks. Hell no. That’s too awful to contemplate.
Caught in a current and carried out of sight. But she’s strong. She wouldn’t let herself—
It didn’t matter that none of the scenarios seemed likely; ice-cold terror still froze his brain and iced over his lungs. Chills raced up his spine. Goose bumps erupted over his skin. Jesus Christ on the cross! He was having a panic attack. An honest-to-God panic attack. After all the shit I’ve seen and done, now is when I—
And then he understood. In a flash of clarity he realized. If she’d met some horrible fate, if he never saw that crooked smile or those beautiful blue eyes again…well, he’d be tempted to give up and meet her in the watery depths. And it was that acute realization, that his life ceased to have the same importance in the absence of hers, that made it suddenly, starkly clear. He didn’t just like Olivia. He loved her. Heart and soul. Body and brain. With every step and every breath.
But somehow he’d missed it. And all those months he’d missed her, all those times he’d turned down some buxom broad at the bar, all those days he’d spent wondering where she was, what she was doing suddenly made sense. He wasn’t crazy. He was just in love. Head over heels. Ass over teakettle. All in. Nothing held back.
And it was beautiful. So goddamned beautiful.
And so utterly terrifying…
“Olivia!” His voice broke because his heart was busy striking hammer blows against his ribs. “Olivia! Damnit! Where are you?”
“Here!”
The relief that poured through him at the sound of her husky voice was so intense it made him dizzy. He sank a couple of inches into the water, closing his eyes and sending up a quick prayer of thanks to anyone who might be listening. You know, just in case.
When he blinked open his eyes and spun around in the water, there she was. The woman of his heart. No more than ten yards away and splashing in his direction. Which meant she hadn’t heeded his advice to stay put. In fact, she must’ve started swimming toward the action as soon as they took off, the brave, reckless, lovable creature. Her ponytail had come undone, so her sodden hair lay plastered against her skull. Her cheeks were flushed scarlet from exertion. And her mascara was smudged in huge, black swaths beneath her wide eyes, making her look like a startled raccoon.
He’d never seen a more gorgeous sight in his whole sorry-assed life…
Chapter Twelve
2:46 p.m.…
“Leo!” Olivia yelled, lifting her arm out of the water to signal him. He didn’t hear or see her. He’d already dived beneath the waves, headed her way.
She choked on a sob that should have mortified her with its strength. But she was so damned happy he was alive that she couldn’t make herself care that her tough outer shell had developed a series of huge, gaping cracks. When she hadn’t seen him or his men emerge from behind the dinghy after it sank, she’d contemplated the worst, that they’d all somehow been killed in the seconds her vision was obscured by that stupid, idiotic wave.
But as she’d swum and swum and swum, her muscles on fire from the exertion, she’d refused to let herself really believe it. Repeating the same mantra over and over as she fought the wind and the tide: He’s not dead. He can’t be dead. He’s not dead. He can’t be dead…
Then, just as one of the terrorists noticed her and took aim in her direction—yeah¸ that would be one second she relived in her nightmares—the bearded men were all yanked beneath the surface of the sea as if they’d been set upon by a school of sharks. But she’d known it wasn’t sharks that dragged them down. It was frogs. As in frogmen. As in Navy motherfriggin’ SEALs!
The relief had overwhelmed her, filling her chest with choking cries. She’d thought maybe she was about to turn into the spokeswoman for Kleenex and Visine, and have a good ol’ fashioned breakdown of hysterical, tear-filled happiness, but ten seconds stretched into twenty and then thirty…and no Leo, just waves upon waves lapping over the surface of the sea. She’d held her breath when she saw two dark heads briefly breach the surface, her eyes searching, her whole heart hoping…but no blond head bobbed up next to them. Then the two dark heads disappeared again.
She’d renewed her efforts, paddling against the current, buffeted by the surf, spitting out the occasional mouthful of salt water when a wave hit her full in the face, or pushing aside a piece of the floating debris left behind because the Wayfarer had given up the ghost. Just when she began to think there was no way—no way anyone could hold their breath for that long—all four men blasted out of the sea like human torpedoes. And she hadn’t stopped swimming in their direction until now when she simply floated, waiting for him to come to her, her heart so full of joy it was a wonder the organ didn’t burst from trying to contain it.
Then…he was there, surfacing next to her, water sheeting over his head and down his wonderful face. He pulled her into his arms and she was instantly enveloped by his wet warmth, his impossible strength, his…everything.
“You okay?” he asked, his deep voice purring in her ear.
“Leo,” she breathed, burying her nose in his neck while their legs briefly tangled as they kicked to keep themselves afloat. “I’m so sorry.”
“Stop apologizin’, Olivia,” he told her, cupping the back of her head in his wide palm and hugging her tight despite the blasted life preserver that kept distance between them. “There isn’t a damn thing you could’ve done differently.”
“But if I hadn’t involved you—”
“Shhh.” He pulled away, pressing a finger to her lips. His hazel eyes reflected the ocean, appearing almost turquoise. Then his bearded, scarred chin popped back, and he cocked his head. “Are you…are you cryin’?”
She thought about admitting to him that it’d been a very close thing. But, instead, she went with, “Nope. I think the salt water is just testing the limits of my waterproof mascara.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “Well, I think it’s found those limits, darlin’.”
She flattened her lips, but silently blessed him for making a joke and lightening the mood. Then she remembered he’d been shot. Goddamnit! How the hell could she have forgotten that? Her gaze darted to his right shoulder and the red bandana tied around it. Given the color of the fabric, it was hard to tell how bad the wound was.
“How bad are you hurt?” she demanded.
“It’s nothin’,” he assured her, and now she was the one to give him a sidelong glance. “The bullet just grazed me. I’ve had much worse.”
And she knew he had. After all, she’d seen some of his scars. Still, she was tempted to undo that bandana and assess the damage herself. But a quick flash of movement over his shoulder caught her attention. She narrowed her eyes.
“What’s up?” he asked, craning his head around. There was nothing back there except waves upon waves, a few floating pieces of white Styrofoam, and the sleek, black body of the yacht.
“I guess it was nothing.” She shook her head, wondering if the wind and sun and tide and…exhaustion—both physical and emotional—had finally gotten the better of her. “It’s entirely possible I’m hallucinating at this point.”
�
�The sunlight on the waves can play tricks on you.” He winked. And how the man could act so blasé after watching his ship get blown to smithereens, after being shot, and after fighting an underwater duel with a terrorist was beyond her. She was a wreck. I hope it doesn’t show.
“Are you okay to swim to the yacht?” he asked. Okay, so obviously some of it showed. Damnit! “I’m itchin’ to go see how the others are farin’.”
Oh yeah. The others. The men she’d dragged into this mess who were probably, right at this very moment, fighting off who-knew-how-many more tangos. “Hell yeah,” she told him, glad her tone was filled with far more determination than she actually felt.
He bobbed his head once, but before he could turn, a big, black weapon appeared behind him. And behind that were the murderous eyes of a radical. It felt like a bolt of lightning had buzzed across the top of her skull. She opened her mouth to scream a warning, but Leo’s spec-ops soldier ESP beat her to the punch. Before the tango could squeeze the trigger, Leo whirled in the water, grabbing the end of the barrel in one hand and the stock of the AK-47 in the other. As he twisted the weapon out of the radical’s grip, a spine-tingling crack echoed through the air. It could only be one thing: the terrorist’s finger bones against the trigger guard.
And, sure as shit, the man screamed in agony. His piercing cry cut off a half second later when Leo propped the confiscated AK against his shoulder and—Bam!—fired. A red hole bloomed in the middle of their enemy’s cheek, the back of his neck—
She looked away, fighting the urge to puke.
“Come on,” Leo said, slinging the strap of the AK over his shoulder before grabbing the front harness on her life jacket. He dragged her through the water toward the yacht and away, thank God, from the corpse of the radical.
For a couple of seconds, she was too nauseous to help him. Then she gave herself a mental kick in the ass for being a big, ol’ ninny and began paddling. “I got it,” she said, swallowing the bile burning at the back of her throat and forcing it back down into her roiling stomach. Eyebrow raised, he gave her a look so stoic that one would never think he’d been a split second away from taking a bullet to the brainpan. “Really. I got it.”
With a quick nod, he released her to make her own way. “Sorry you had to see—”
“You’re not really going to apologize for saving my life, are you?” she huffed.
“Nope.” A muscle near his mouth trembled. “Wouldn’t think of it.”
“Good,” she grumbled. “Because that would be ridiculous.”
“Like a trapdoor in a canoe or a back pocket on a shirt,” he said, intentionally thickening his accent.
Huh? Oh, she got it. Things that were ridiculous. “Like a screen door on a submarine,” she added.
“Like an ejection seat in a helicopter.”
“Like a white crayon.”
“Hey, now!” he said. “I used white crayons on black construction paper the time I made Casper the Friendly Ghost Halloween cards for my second-grade class.”
“My bad,” she relented, trying to imagine big, bad Leo “the Lion” Anderson as a second grader. She’d bet money he’d been adorable and smart and brave, the kind of kid to stand up to the playground bully. “So you win that round.”
“As it ever was and ever shall be, darlin’.”
“Ugh. And there’s that oversized ego all SEALs come equipped with. Somehow I was under the impression the Navy factory inadvertently forgot to install yours.”
“That ain’t the only thing that’s oversized on me.” He wiggled his eyebrows.
She rolled her eyes, fighting a smile. This was the kind of flirtatious banter they’d bandied about for three long months. Banter that made her hoot with laughter one minute and want to jump his bones the next. And now, like then, he always seemed to know when she needed him to throw in a little levity. Or, more specifically, in their jobs it was known as “gallows humor.”
When life served you a nice slice of shit pie, or when you were forced to do something awful—like put a ball of lead into someone’s face—the only way to keep from curling into the fetal position in a corner was to force yourself to remember there were still things to smile about, to laugh about. To remember the world wasn’t all bad.
See? Perceptive.
For a couple of seconds, they swam in silence. Leo easily sliced through the water beside her, the two weapons strapped to his back gently clacking against one another. She could tell he was tempering his momentum to match hers. And hers was pretty damn slow. She glanced up. Twenty yards… Just twenty more yards and they would be at the yacht.
Come on, Mortier. Power through.
“Where did that guy come from?” she asked.
“He was the one I shot off the dinghy,” Leo said. “I must’ve only winged him.”
“Ah.” She nodded, gulping when the image of the terrorist’s ruined neck flashed before her eyes and the bile threatened again. And that’s when it occurred to her. Four… She’d seen four men die violently in her life. And each time she’d been overwhelmed by nausea. To the point that it impeded her ability to function.
And that doesn’t bode well for the rest of my career. A CIA field agent who couldn’t do what was necessary when push came to shove was of no use to anybody, certainly not the government, and definitely not the other agents she sometimes ran missions with.
If I can’t do my job, what am I left with?
Before she allowed herself to contemplate the answer, the groan of the anchor motor on the yacht and the clank-clank-clank of the heavy chain rolling into its hull sounded over the water. The Black Gold was making her move.
Leo held out the AK by its strap. “You know how to shoot this?”
“Oh, now you’re ready to let me help?” She took the weapon at the same time she grabbed on to the stainless-steel ladder attached to the Black Gold’s swim deck. If the muscles in her legs and arms had voices, their combined cry at finally getting a break would’ve sounded like a hundred gospel choirs.
“Actually, I was sort of hopin’ you’d be willin’ to hang back here while I went up to see what’s what,” he admitted.
Okay, and given her recent epiphany regarding her inability to stomach the killing, maybe he was right to ask her to stay behind. Still, had he kept her aboard the dinghy, she could have warned him that the terrorists were about to turn and head right for them. She was an asset, by God. Just as long as she could make herself sac up and do her friggin’ job.
“Not on your life,” she told him.
“I reckoned as much,” he said with a wry grin, though there was something…more in his expression.
And then before he hauled himself out of the sea and onto the swim deck, he kissed her. Just a quick peck on the lips, but it was enough to make her heart take flight.
* * *
2:52 p.m.…
Bran ripped the tape from the mouth of one of the men he found trussed up on the main deck. The dude’s face was lobster red, his eyes bloodshot, but he appeared to be otherwise unharmed. “Who are you?” Bran demanded in a harsh whisper, keeping his weapon trained on the guy. Mason and Wolf were watching his six in case some shit-for-brains tried to sneak up behind him. They’d already systematically checked the back of the main deck and the topside portion of the living quarters, but they’d yet to search the crew’s cabins belowdecks or the bridge. “What the hell is going on here?”
“N-Nigel Moore. First mate,” the man managed, his scratchy voice a testament to his dehydration. His English accent reminded Bran of the old Monty Python movies. In a different situation, he’d have asked the guy to say, Your mother was a hamster, and your father smelt of elderberries! “We-we were hijacked by a group of armed men after lunch. They sailed us here and dropped anchor.” He shook his head, his expression wild as his eyes darted to the black hole at the end of Bran’s M4. “I d-don’t know why.”
Bran did.
And it looked like Olivia was right. Morales hadn’t screwed up in his
calculations. The Black Gold had simply been sailing by the wrong place at the wrong time. The guy hog-tied beside Nigel grunted, and Mason yanked the duct tape from his mouth. “And you are?”
Unlike Nigel, this guy wasn’t all that eager to open up. “Who am I? Better question is who the bloody hell are you?” he spat. “And what the bloody fuck just happened? We heard explos—”
Bran slapped the tape back over the dude’s mouth because he didn’t have time for explanations. Someone up on the bridge had just pushed the button for the anchor. The automatic windlass—the cylinder made for raising and lowering the forward mainstay—began spinning, and the steady clank of the heavy chain collecting in the hull below them was the audio equivalent of a semaphore flag waving around and telling him to get his ass in gear.
They needed to gain control of the yacht now. Before whoever was operating the controls motored them so far away from Leo and Olivia that Bran and the boys would have a tough time relocating them. Two people floating in the middle of the ocean were the proverbial needles in a haystack.
“How many others are on board?” He turned to Nigel, the more accommodating of the two.
Nigel swallowed, glancing over at his compatriot.
“Don’t look at him,” Bran growled, making sure his expression broadcast his impatience. “Look at me. I’m the one asking the questions. How many more are on board?”
“I’m not sure,” Nigel admitted, shrinking back from the mouth of Bran’s weapon as if it were a viper poised to strike. “There were s-seven hijackers, I think. And the captain and Maddy Powers.”
Bran could only assume Maddy Powers was the Texas oil tycoon Olivia had mentioned. As in Powers Petroleum? It made sense. And seven hijackers? One short of the eight assets Olivia seemed convinced took the chemicals. Which meant either one of the dickheads had drowned, or ol’ Nigel boy had miscounted. Still, Bran liked his chances.
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