Rania caught up and gave him a none-too-playful punch to his shoulder. “What the hell did you think you were doing? If someone had been waiting to jump us, you’d have been a sitting duck.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I always wanted to be the lead when I played ‘commando’ with my buddies back in Tampa growing up. And I gotta tell you, that was a helluva rush.”
“At least you were so hunched over, you wouldn’t have had far to fall when they took you out,” she said, a trace of anger lingering in her tone.
“Aw c’mon. Give me a break,” Moj pleaded. “That was my big moment.” He reached over and stole a quick kiss, then looked around the tiny space until his gaze locked on the refrigerator. “Bingo. Bet there’s some real food in there,” he said, and closed the short distance in two long strides. He pulled open the door and sucked in a deep breath.
“Oh, my. What have we here?” He reached into the compact generator-operated fridge and came out with an armload of goodies: cans of caviar, foie gras, a sweating bottle of Chateau d’Yquem sauterne and assorted plastic-sealed meats made from Italy’s best porkers.
As he dumped his prizes on the tiny fold-down table against the wall, Rania sank to her knees in front of the open refrigerator door and let down her long hair, exposing her scalp to the cool air tumbling out.
Behind her, Moj’s breath hitched. He paused in his food foraging and stood with his mouth open. He couldn’t get enough of this woman. What would he do when their ocean adventure ended? Who would he be after Rania?
In a sudden gut-punch, he realized he could never let her go. But she didn’t need him for anything. That thought left him feeling like a man flailing through space, grasping for something to anchor him to Earth.
As if reading his thoughts, she rose and turned, coming into his arms. Since he was still gob-smacked, she placed his arms around her and then rose on tiptoes to give him a long hug.
“Let’s stay here forever,” she whispered into his ear, and then pulled him back to the floor with her in front of the cool air streaming from the fridge. The generator came on with a loud hum and softened their moans.
* * *
Rania marveled at how such a sleek, ripped man could pack away so much food. She’d found boxes of gourmet crackers and breads in a corner pantry, along with knives, forks, and a high-tech bottle opener.
Moj sat on a barstool in the tiny kitchen and methodically put away an impressive amount of expensive cured Italian meats: prosciutto, cotto, capocollo, and soppressata. He’d crunch down an occasional cracker like an afterthought. Every now and then he’d slather a bit of soft goat cheese inside a roll of meat.
He enjoyed fine food with the same gusto he brought to, um, other things. She smiled at the memory of the sweet love they’d shared in front of the open refrigerator door and swallowed the last of her sandwich.
She studied the compact hideaway. Rania had checked for communications equipment when they’d first arrived, but there was nothing, which made sense if you considered communication could be a two-way street. If you could connect with the outside world, then you were vulnerable to being found.
She meant what she’d said about staying there forever. Living on a tiny, luxurious scale had a lot to offer. The remoteness of the island guaranteed all the greed, discrimination and general ugliness of the world couldn’t touch them.
Someone had cleverly put all the vital systems, like plumbing and power, into a central island shared by all of the living areas — bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living area. She longed to try the inviting swinging bed surrounded by gauzy mosquito netting.
Time to return to reality, she admitted reluctantly, and reached for the pilot’s log Moj had retrieved from the plane hidden above the hut. After leafing through the first few pages of entries, she saw why staying there even twenty-four hours longer could be fatal. She went to the back of the book to confirm her suspicions.
She caught Moj mid-chew when she announced, “We have to get out of here at first light.”
“We knew we had to wait till morning for the takeoff,” he said.
“Yes, but now the takeoff is even more critical,” Rania said, and handed him the log. “See the entries? Multiple smugglers and multiple planes. The second plane is bigger, with a longer range. They have an elaborate ferrying schedule from India, Afghanistan, and China on to points east and west.”
Moj pored over the pilot’s notes and looked up suddenly.
“They never go beyond seventy-two to ninety-six-hour turnarounds here.”
“Exactly,” she said. “We have another twenty-four hours max. Maybe.”
“Then we better study this and cram for the final exam to end all exams,” Moj said, and tapped his finger on the tiny plane’s manual.
A couple hours later, Rania felt as though even she might be able to handle the takeoff. She gave Moj a questioning look.
He nodded and said, “We can do this. Takeoff’s a piece of cake. Done it a number of times, just never soloed. We’re going to have to use visuals to find Malé’s little landing strip on the island next to the city, but as long as we’re aloft, don’t think that will be a problem. The tower should be able to talk us through the landing.”
“There are charts on the walls of the bedroom,” Rania said. “We can figure out distances and fuel requirements from those.”
“How far do we need to take off on water?” Moj asked. “Never done that. Will that little eggbeater stay afloat long enough for us to power up and take off?”
“That’s what they’re designed for. We’ll need the full distance of this sheltered lagoon for sure,” she said.
“But what about the reef?” Moj asked, uncertainty in his voice.
“Let me worry about the reef,” Rania said. “According to the chart, there is a narrow channel opening, but we have to be right on, considering the speed we’ll need for takeoff.”
“How much fuel do we have to have?” he asked. “The less the better, considering how far we have to carry those jerry jugs from back at the well in the jungle.”
“Takeoff on water requires about the length of a soccer field, plus another third of that. Then you have to add in the distance to Malé,” Rania finished, then seemed to be running some calculations in her head.
“That little guy holds twenty-two gallons. Let’s top off the tank and hope for the best. As close as we are to the equator, there can’t be more than seventy miles tops between here and Malé.”
“How can you be so sure?” Moj asked.
“Because, on a nautical chart,” she said, “there’s only one degree east and west from the center of the Maldives out to edges of the atolls.”
* * *
Moj was back at the hidden light plane, giving one of the wings a tentative push. Heavy, but doable on an incline. Once they hit the sand on the beach, might be dicey, but with the two of them pushing, they could probably slide the little craft into the water.
Rania had disappeared into the brush surrounding the plane, searching for fuel tanks with a headlamp perched on her head. Thank God her gun case floated. It was packed with survival stuff as well as the lethal-looking weapons she had names for — her BUG, back-up gun, and something she just called her long gun.
She’d guessed the smugglers stashed extra fuel nearer the plane’s hiding place. Their larger reserves near the well would be a pain to carry to the beach to re-fuel.
He heard a loud “yes” from the jungle. All right. They were in business.
Rania burst into the clearing toting two six-gallon cans and nearly blinded him with her headlamp before motioning for him to follow her back to the stash. They brought two more cans out into the clearing and then topped off the gas tank. There must have been less than 10 gallons remaining in the tank.
“Now what?” he asked.
“We go back to the hot tub and then we’re going to try out that hanging bed in the hut. We might as well make the most of this last night before we face whatever hap
pens tomorrow.” Then she turned and ran toward the beach pool, stripping out of her clothes as she went.
Moj followed at a trot, even though he’d thought he was too tired for more sex. After this vacation, he’d need another one to recuperate. Lots of time to sleep after he was dead. Right?
Later, after they’d tried out the solar-heated freshwater shower on the deck, they pulled down the mosquito netting and fell onto the cool linen sheets covering the hut bed. Once the waves of swinging stopped, he crawled over to Rania’s side. And forgot all about being tired.
* * *
Rania knew tonight would be their last night alone to lose themselves in loving. Once they were back aboard the Bonnie Blue, she would return to business as usual. Loving a man as famous as Moj could only end in heartache. Worse, her life of anonymity would be over.
Those thoughts came to an abrupt halt when Moj plucked a grape from the bowl next to the bed and rolled the dark blue fruit into her belly button.
“Ow,” she said, and then giggled when he covered the grape with his mouth and sucked.
Of course, she wanted to return the favor, but she had to out-do him and chose instead an open jar of fig jam that she spread all over his belly with her fingers. His cock immediately came to attention, bobbing its way between her breasts. When she positioned herself over Moj’s chest for better access to licking his belly, he pulled her sex to his warm mouth, and the games began again.
She’d been sore earlier from non-stop loving since they’d been on the island. But now, even her endorphins conspired against her. She didn’t want much, she just wanted more.
Finally, after several more hours, they sat up, swinging back and forth, and stared at each other.
“We have to stop, but I can’t sleep,” Moj said. “How about you?”
“Me either,” she admitted. “I saw a wooden backgammon box in the living area earlier. Are you up for a game? Do you even know how to play?” Rania asked.
“If I had a middle name, it would be ‘Backgammon,’” he said with a wink. “Might as well play since we’re not going to get any sleep.”
“You’re on,” she said, and rubbed her hands together.
As the dawn painted bright rose tendrils along the horizon and the early light peeked through the hut windows, they joined hands and walked down to the beach toward their amphibian ticket out of paradise and back to civilization.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Uninhabited Eastern Maldivian Island
April 18
Moj walked around the small red plane and went through the checklist he remembered from his flying lessons.
He’d written down all the steps the night before. Couldn’t hurt. He was going to solo and get his damned license the minute his life got back to normal, whatever the hell that meant anymore.
Never knew when he might get lost again on a desert island with a hot woman and be chased by pirates and smugglers. He had to laugh out loud at that thought. Just where was his old life, and what would it look like now?
His own Egyptian warrior-goddess moved swiftly around the little two-seater, stowing her gun case and getting ready for takeoff. Suddenly, she went to the very edge of the water and knelt down. She stared for a long time out toward the reef with her sunglasses on, and then took them off and stood, squinting into the morning light.
Not only were they about to live on the edge by flying a plane they weren’t familiar with, they were going to have to head northeast toward Malé into the searing, rising sun.
He refused to sweat the details. He’d trust his own instincts, and Rania’s, to get them safely to Malé. He could do this. Hell, he’d done the impossible most of his life. Time to go.
They worked together with minimal conversation. The night before, they’d practically memorized the flight manual. The boat had been stored with its toy-like landing gear down, so Rania pushed from the rear while he pulled the nose of the craft out into the sea. She held onto the line they’d attached to a tree after sliding the plane down the short incline to the beach. She flaked the line and tossed it into the rear storage area.
Rania’s initial inspection had revealed the system of pulleys and lines as well as the slide area the smugglers had used through the jungle.
She returned to his side after at least fifteen minutes of studying the wave breaks along the reef surrounding the island.
She locked eyes with him and said, “We’re ready.”
“You speaking for yourself?” Moj asked.
“No. We’re ready,” Rania said, flashing him a broad smile. She climbed into the cockpit, fastened her seatbelt and harness, put on her earphones, and gave him a thumbs-up.
“Guess ‘we’re’ ready,” he muttered to himself and joined her.
Once inside, he began the engine checklist for takeoff. He’d checked the coolant and oil levels earlier.
Master switch on, fuel pump on, carburetor activated, throttle cracked open a bit, and he turned the key. A comforting VROOOOM erupted when the engine shot to 2,000 RPM almost immediately, running smoothly and quietly. Thank God for smugglers. They would have kept up with maintenance to save their own skins.
He adjusted the throttle to about 2,500 RPM. Oil pressure, okay. Choke deactivated. After each maneuver, he checked off another tick mark in his head. So far, so good. He focused on the temperature and pressure gauges on the plane’s visual touch screen and then did a short full throttle test.
Moj didn’t think he’d actually breathed since they’d climbed into the cockpit. He took a deep breath in and out and relaxed a little. All the systems looked good. Once they’d lumbered along the sandy bottom to deeper water, he’d retracted the wheels to the up position, and they’d drifted out into deeper water. The floats beneath the wings kept them at a gentle bob.
When he stole a glance at his copilot, her eyes were glued to the reef. She didn’t turn her head, but spoke into the Bluetooth audio system. “Head straight out for about a hundred yards, and then watch for my hand signals. Once we’re up to speed, no questions. Just look at my hands.”
“Roger that,” Moj said, and increased his taxi speed toward the downwind outer edge of the lagoon. Perfect runway choice, he recalled from his Cessna lessons, since they were on the lee side of the island.
He eyed the reef, did full nose-up trim and twenty degrees of flaps. Time to roll. He couldn’t help reaching over and squeezing Rania’s knee before he accelerated toward the unknown.
* * *
Lindsay paced back and forth across the deck until Tommy and Alton begged her to stop.
“I can’t lose a passenger and a crew member without doing something. I can’t just sit around and wait to ‘see what develops.’”
She hadn’t had any luck with the authorities in Malé. Their wisdom had consisted of “wait and see.” A wealthy man and a beautiful woman? They would show up eventually. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.
Manning looked up from the deckchair where he sat sunning next to Cloude, sucking on a bright orange Popsicle she’d handed him.
“How many days have they been gone?” he asked.
“They left on an afternoon picnic — three days ago,” Lindsay said. “Moj and Rania are not the type to wander off for days without a word to me.” She pushed away a plate of potato chip cookies Alton had whipped up to distract her.
“Nothing adds up here. It’s not unheard of for folks to disappear in this part of the world and end up being held for ransom, or even fish chum.”
Manning gave the frozen treat back to Cloude and stood. He whipped out his satellite phone, giving Lindsay a long, knowing look. “Three days. Interesting.”
“What are you doing?” she demanded, an annoyed tone creeping into her voice.
“Yes, Manny. Come back here and chill with me.” Cloude patted the deck chair next to her he’d just vacated.
Lindsay tilted her face to the sky, her palms open in front of her. “Please, God. Save me from the couple from hell.”
“I assure
you, Captain Fisher, I have everything under control.” His fingers moved across the face of his phone.
“What?” Lindsay snapped.
“It took some time, but I finally found a contact I trust within Global Security. They can track Rania’s chip.” Manning smiled as if that explained everything.
“What in the hell are you talking about?” Tommy interjected.
“Her chip. They embed one in all their operatives.”
Lindsay felt as if she could cut the silence with a knife after that bombshell.
“What kind of monster does that to his employees?” The baffled look she got from Manning made Lindsay shake her head and wave her hand in disgust.
“All right,” she conceded. “That’s a good thing. Now we can at least find out what happened to her.” She stared at Manning. He had what could only be described as a satisfied monkey expression on his face.
The spy wannabe keyed in a phone number and then waited a while before someone picked up at the other end.
“We have a situation here with one of your operatives,” he began, and Lindsay ripped the phone from his hands.
“I don’t know who you are, but my engineer and one of my passengers have disappeared, and you have the only key to finding them, thanks to your disgusting practice of burying chips in people’s bodies.” Lindsay had a hard time trying to keep from adding an “ewww” at the end.
A calm voice on the line finally said, “Give me Manning back, please,” after a long pause.
Lindsay shoved the phone toward him, jaw clenched.
“Fine,” he said into the phone. “And how are the kids and Marian?”
Both Tommy and Alton rushed toward Lindsay and grabbed her by the shoulders before she could snatch the phone again.
After a few minutes of conversation, the security boss agreed to download his satellite feed to Manning’s phone so they could see the path of Rania’s chip. The feed included the days she’d been missing as well as the current day’s real-time path.
Lindsay convinced Manning to let her connect his phone to the large monitor at the Bonnie Blue’s nav center. Then they could all see the track of Rania’s chip.
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