Deception Island

by Brynn Kelly

  “Put it in neutral and leave it running,” he said. “The sand drops off steeply.”

  They eased into shore. The man held the bow while the capitaine hauled Holly’s backpack over his shoulder. Her forehead throbbed where he’d smacked into it. He stepped into the water and held out a hand. She ignored it and jumped, splashing into warm water up to her knees, her feet sinking into fine, sloping sand.

  The capitaine spoke in clipped, urgent raps. Holly picked up a word: Michael. A couple of the prison inmates had spoken a language like that. Where had they been from? Ukraine?

  She fought to keep upright without the rocking of the boat underfoot. She took a step, her sea legs heavy and graceless, as if gravity had doubled its force and was coming in sideways. No way would she be able to run. Her heart thunked. There went plan A. Three months ago she’d been seasick from the ocean’s incessant movement after so many years run aground in prison, now her body was freaked out by the absence of it. Great.

  The capitaine pushed the inflatable off the sand as the man jumped in and shoved it into Reverse. One down. As the engine faded, the air filled with the screech of a zillion insects and God knew what else. Would she be kept here? Surely not. The island was only a few miles from her mooring—a long stretch of land, but narrow, as far as she could remember from the GPS. Rescuers wouldn’t have to look far. The tension under her ribs unwound a notch. Maybe this wasn’t such a professional operation, despite the capitaine’s commanding presence.

  His hand closed around her upper arm, urging her forward. She shook him off, but the sand rose and fell under her like a tide, and she stumbled sideways. He caught her waist, swept his other arm under her legs and lifted her as if she were a child.

  “Put me down.”

  “It’ll be quicker this way—and I can keep an eye on you.”

  The world swayed. She gripped his shoulder, beating down a surge of nausea. What choice did she have? The disorientation hadn’t been this bad after even the longest sailing trips she’d done as a teenager. But after six years of walking on concrete and baked dirt in a Californian prison, maybe her mind wasn’t as quick to adjust. And this was the first time she’d set foot on land since she’d been dropped onto the boat off the coast of San Francisco.

  When the heiress had taken the helm to sail into Samoa, then Cairns, Darwin and Bali, Holly had been secretly stashed in Laura’s stateroom in one of the senator’s superyachts, surviving on military ration packs and banned from showing her face. There she’d waited for long days while the heiress flounced off on her one-woman environmental crusades—endangered Sumatran orangutans, rising sea levels, dying coral reefs... How long until Holly got her land legs back? Hours? Days?

  The capitaine adjusted his grip and pulled her into him, one hand pressing into her thigh, the other firm around her waist. His warm, earthy scent coasted around her, like rain pounding dusty ground.

  At least she was doing a good job of appearing to be a helpless society-page diva, however unintentional. She might as well save her strength, while sapping the capitaine’s. Even in darkness, the air was too hot and damp for sweat to evaporate.

  A short, wiry man waited on the dry sand above the waterline, his head wrapped in a red bandanna. She might be able to take him down on a good day, even if she had no hope against the Spartan. But today wasn’t a good day. And he carried an assault rifle that was almost half his size. The capitaine spoke to him in the same language as before. The man dropped his beady black gaze to her wet T-shirt, smirking, and muttered something. The capitaine snapped out a sharp answer, tilting her slightly to turn her chest into his. Protecting her honor, or staking his claim? Either way, it worked—the man lifted his gaze and sneered at her captor instead.

  They plunged down a sandy path winding through rain forest, the capitaine’s stride long and sure as he followed the man’s bobbing flashlight. Insects screamed like the world’s biggest electric drill, in surround sound. After half a mile the guy’s breath hadn’t even wavered with the effort of carrying her. Lines etched between his eyes hinted at inner tension, but outwardly he was as fit as he looked. She’d kept up her fitness in prison with endless, pointless jogging around the yard, but sailing had required a different strength. It had left her with toned arms and legs, but she hadn’t stretched them into a sustained sprint for years. Running from him—even when she got her land legs back—was looking like less of an option. She’d find another way to get quality time alone with the sat phone. Even Superman slept, occasionally.

  Or did he?

  The thick canopy gave way to a long narrow clearing. Moonlight reflected off a small plane. In the shadows, a dark figure waited. She pressed her lips together, tasting salt. How far could they fly in that—to Sumatra, Timor, Borneo, Australia? Right up to Singapore or Malaysia? Tens of thousands of islands, a gazillion square miles of jungle—even if a search was launched, rescuers had no chance of tracking them. Damn.

  Chapter 3

  The capitaine lowered Holly to her feet, next to a heap of bags. The ground tilted, and she tipped onto hands and knees. Whoa. Their escort laughed. The capitaine barked orders, and he stuttered something and jogged off toward the plane.

  “You’ll be okay in a few hours, princess.”

  She rolled onto her back, gripping the rocking earth, swallowing bile. “You know I’m not royalty, right?”

  He strode to the bags and hauled something out. “The daughter of the future American president? Closest I’ll get to a princess, princess.”

  Correction: the furthest. He was Captain Calm again—the hint of tension erased from his face. She should have tried to chuck him out of the boat when she had the chance.

  “You want to change out of those wet clothes?”

  She shook her head. The dampness shielded her against the pulsing heat. And she wasn’t about to strip for him.

  He held up a long-sleeved jumpsuit. “Time to suit up.”

  “What do I need that for?”

  He threw it to her, pulled her running shoes out of her backpack and dropped them on the ground. “Warmth, mostly. It’s cold up at 15,000 feet. And tie your shoelaces tight.” Why did his mouth twitch, as if he was hiding something? “Can you get it on by yourself, or do you need help?”

  “I’ll be fine.” She snatched the jumpsuit. “As long as I don’t have to stand up.”

  The suit was big enough for a gorilla. She wriggled it on while sitting on the ground as he pulled one on himself, followed by a harness. Were they going to clip themselves to the plane? He shouted something to his crew, then knelt beside her. “Don’t zip up your jumpsuit yet,” he hissed.

  He hauled her backpack toward them, and pulled a rope and harness from his shoulder.

  “No need to tie me up,” she said, lying back down. “I won’t be running anywhere.” Yet.

  “It’s not for that.” He glanced at the plane and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Nerves? “Sit up. Stay still and be quiet.”

  She pushed herself up to sitting, her breath shallow. He knelt and slipped his hands down each side of her neck and along her shoulders, pushing the jumpsuit off again. Her face chilled. What the hell did he intend to do?

  He fiddled around inside the backpack and pulled something out—her sweater, with the rectangular outline of her laptop and sat phone inside it. “I need you to carry this.” Placing it firmly on her chest, he looped a strap in a figure eight around her shoulders, holster-style, and tied it tight. He pulled the jumpsuit back up her shoulders and zipped it to her neck. Hands a blur, he jammed and zipped other bits of electronic equipment in her pockets, his gaze darting over her shoulder to the spot the men’s voices drifted from.

  He didn’t want them to know what he was doing. Why? I need you to carry this, he’d said. Like he was asking a favor, like they were in this together. He pushed the harness under her le
gs. Lifting her hips, she let him slide it under her bottom and up over her back and waist, her body fizzing with awareness of his touch. Ridiculous. She sure had a talent for being attracted to the wrong man. Evidently her mind and body hadn’t learned a thing since Jasper had sucked her in when she was nineteen and spat her out four years later, right into the eager hands of the Feds. You’re sworn off men, remember?

  She allowed the capitaine to pull her to her feet. The sat phone was hers—now she just needed a few minutes to fire it up and get out a message. He leaned in to adjust the harness and check the clips.

  “I don’t get it. What’s the harness for?”

  “Safety.” His forehead was etched with concentration as he yanked tight the straps on her shoulders.

  The man who’d been waiting in the shadows sauntered up and spoke. He was nearly as big as the capitaine and wore a grubby pilot’s cap. The capitaine’s gaze flicked up to catch hers for a second, eyes hooded in warning, then he calmly turned, picked up her backpack and threaded it onto his chest. The man grabbed it and yabbered something, sharply. The capitaine shrugged and muttered a reply, pulling off the bag and unzipping it. He held it out in offering. The man reached in and pulled out a bottle of shampoo, then dug around thoroughly, emerging with a bra. He held it up and grinned a gap-toothed smile.

  “Give that back, you pervert.” Holly stepped forward. The capitaine shot out an arm and she tumbled into it, forced to grab his shoulder to keep from falling.

  “Easy, princess.” He yanked the bra from the man’s hands, stuffed it into the bag, zipped it and pulled it back onto his chest. He strode a few yards to a larger bag she hadn’t noticed—not the one he’d pulled the jumpsuits from—and lifted it onto his back, fiddling with clips and straps.

  The pervert strolled toward Holly, thumbs tucked in his belt loops, buggy eyes checking her out like she was dessert. She shuffled backward, not trusting herself to take large steps. He pulled up inches from her, his breath stinking like fish oil, and reached for her hair. “Miss America,” he whispered, in a murky accent.

  She ducked away, fighting to keep her balance. If he made a play for her, what could she do? She could hardly stand up straight, let alone defend herself.

  Suddenly, he lurched sideways and sprawled onto the ground. He snapped out several words, anger flashing in his eyes. The capitaine stood over him, drawn up to full height, chest massive, jaw set, arm still outstretched from shoving him. Playing good cop, bad cop?

  No—she’d been caught in that game enough times to know this was for real. He was protecting her, all right. Just what was the dynamic here?

  The capitaine spoke, quiet and dangerous. The pervert’s eyes narrowed. He scrambled to his feet and spat on the ground, an inch from her foot, but maintained his distance. She exhaled. Thank God that wasn’t about to happen, at least.

  The man unleashed a series of bitter words and held out his hand to the capitaine, palm up. The capitaine slapped a mobile phone into it. So that was why he was so keen on her equipment—he wasn’t allowed his own. Someone else had to be pulling the strings, leaving him to do the dirty work. Was he a hired gun? His bearing and commanding tone weren’t those of a lowly henchman. This was a man accustomed to leading, a man who didn’t trust whomever he was taking orders from. That conflict could work to her advantage, as could his evident protective instinct, if she played it right. And if she was good at anything, it was playing people.

  The pervert fiddled with the phone and held it up. The flash seared her eyes. Taking photographic evidence she was alive? How long did they plan to keep her that way?

  * * *

  Half an hour later she sat cross-legged on the cold metal floor at the back of the plane, g-forces churning her stomach and spinning her head. If her balance had been warped before, it was tied in knots now. The seawater soaking her clothes felt like it was snapping into ice in the chill of the altitude. Fat lot of use the jumpsuit was.

  And what was with the transparent plastic roller door on one side of the plane? What kind of scrap-heap plane had a door like that, and no seats? The wiry man sat beside it, gun slung over his shoulder, beady eyes staring at her. Only a finger-width of metal and a pervert pilot at the controls separated her from a couple of vertical miles of nothing, with a sudden stop at the bottom. At least the roar of the engine was muffled by the helmet the capitaine had eased over her head. But why the goggles and harness? He hadn’t clipped her to the plane, so what was the point? Or had the whole getup been an excuse to find hiding places for the electronics?

  She struggled for breath, the thinness of the air escalating the growing panic of watching her window of escape close. She swallowed, hard, to equalize her ears. Her body might have given in—for now—but her mind certainly hadn’t. The electronics equipment digging into her ribs was as good as an escape pod.

  The capitaine eased up behind her. She flinched. He cradled his legs around hers, his knees splayed either side of her waist. “Time to strap up,” he shouted. “We’re approaching the dro...” The thundering engine engulfed his words.

  “The what?”

  He fastened a series of clips at her shoulders and waist and pulled on the straps, yanking her spine hard up against the backpack strapped to his chest. They were clipped together? He stretched out his legs so they rested, hot and solid, either side of her thighs. Her heart sped up. Okay, this was getting weird.

  “When we open the door, wrap your legs around the undercarriage of the plane.”

  “When we what? Are we landing?” She hadn’t noticed a drop in altitude.

  “When we jump, I need your chest out, legs curled back and head up. You know this, yes? Like a banana. A banana with its arms out.”

  “Jump? Are you shitting me?”

  “Hold tight. The plane will turn.”

  She swayed in time with the capitaine as the plane banked, then corrected. The thin man gave the thumbs-up and rolled up the plastic door. Wind whistled into the plane, flapping the guy’s bandanna. Holly clutched for a handhold on something, anything. All she found was the capitaine’s thighs. His quads clenched into rock under her gloves. Her belly lurched. They were parachuting? He pushed forward. She resisted, but he had all the power. She tried to twist away. He grabbed her arms and straightened her.

  “If you want to live, do what I say,” he shouted into her ear. “If you fight this, if you grab for me, I might not be able to pull the cord and we’ll both die. Best thing you can do right now is relax.”

  Relax? What kind of a psycho was he? He slid forward, shoving her ahead of him. Her stomach churned like a washing machine.

  “Don’t be so tense, princess. I’ve done this a thousand times.”

  “Pushing your luck then, aren’t you?”

  Another shove and her legs dangled out the door. Nothing but thin air lay between her shoes and the ocean. A whole lot of thin air. The water shone silver in the moonlight, interrupted by patches of darkness, like black holes. She retched, and clamped her mouth shut. Vomit would only spray right back into her face.

  “Best not to look down.”

  No kidding. She snapped her focus straight ahead. Death was not in her game plan. As the man said, she had no choice but to trust him, for the next few minutes, at least. Just as well he was a 250-pound slab of muscle.

  No. That made no sense, right? Wouldn’t his weight just mean they’d hit the ground with a bigger smack? Would she hit first, or would he? Physics had never been her thing.

  “Don’t forget, wrap your legs backward,” he shouted. “Rest your head back on my shoulder and look up. When we’re in the air, keep your arms extended and curl your legs back. Banana, remember?”

  Holy Moses. She was really going to do this. Wind buffeted her jumpsuit, flattening the fabric against her. She didn’t need encouragement to wrap herself into him. If she could nail their bod
ies together, she would. He’d obviously done this before, and right now the more immediate threat was the deep blue sea—or worse, the land. She closed her eyes, tried to block her thoughts. Banana, banana, banana.

  Her stomach plummeted. Air rushed at her exposed cheeks. Her eyes flicked open. A shadow loomed overhead, retreating. The plane. Oh man, they were falling. Her sinuses pinched. Her nerves pelted panicked messages into her brain. Even through the goggles, she struggled to keep her eyes open. A piece of fabric flapped against her cheek like a jackhammer. What was she supposed to do again? Arms back, legs extended? No, the other way around. They righted and stretched out parallel to the earth as wind buffeted her jumpsuit. The pull of the harness suggested the capitaine was still attached, at least.

  The pain behind her eyes intensified, as if someone was shoving needles into her skull. Was something about to pop? This couldn’t be healthy. An hour or so ago she was being rocked to sleep by a gentle ocean swell, and now this?

  She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing her mind to imagine herself skimming over the water in a yacht, as she had every endless night in prison, returning her to the happiest time of her life: the three years she’d spent working at the sailing school in Los Angeles, trading honest labor for a place to crash and a chance to sail. But then she’d fallen for the wrong man and got suckered into running cons for him by her desperation for love and money and survival. Yada yada yada.

  Pressure thumped into her chest, and something yanked them upwards. Oh, God. What had gone wrong? She opened her eyes. A red parachute stretched above them. The rush of the wind had silenced, leaving her panting the only sound. They’d stopped dead, as if suspended.

  “Holy crap,” she said. People did that for fun?

  “How was that?” He sounded as if he was grinning.