Jewel of Solana

by Susan Sheehey

  “I didn’t know they still made those,” Portia called as she sat up.

  Before Stacia could reply, Alanna lunged for the bag. Courtesy to the client be damned. That’s my family legacy she’s hanging over my head.

  But the scorpion was a good foot taller, and merely dangled it out of her reach. “Oh, look. She does tricks, too!”

  She dangled the bag over Alanna’s head. Fire burning her cheeks, Alanna swallowed a nasty retort.

  “Knock it off, Stacia,” Kinsley repeated. “This is so old.”

  “Give it back to her. Now!”

  Everyone stopped. Alanna turned toward the loud, dark voice. Flynn stood on the deck, just outside the door, his glare all for Stacia.

  She only laughed harder. “Are you kidding? This is the most fun I’ve had all trip. Let’s see what’s in here.”

  Fear engulfed Alanna’s nerves as Stacia grasped the zipper.

  Grabbing one of the wet towels within reach, Alanna snapped her wrist, and the end of the towel wrapped around Stacia’s arm. The stunned look on Stacia’s face only lasted a second. They wrestled with the bag, but Stacia ripped it out of Alanna’s hands and shoved her backward. A vicious snarl had replaced her evil grin.

  “Go fish for it, bitch!” Stacia tossed the bag over the side.

  Gasps echoed around the deck. Alanna watched in horror as the black bag disappeared beneath the surface.

  Her heart clenched. Like losing her family all over again—Luna de Azul spiraled into the graveyard of the Sulu Sea

  Laughter cackled behind her.

  I will not lose my family again.

  Alanna dropped the wet towel, and plunged in.

  “MAN OVERBOARD!” MARCUS CALLED TO the bow of the yacht like a siren. Flynn had already moved the half dozen steps to the still-dripping scuba gear, and methodically strapped on the largest BCD vest. By the time he’d fitted a mask to his face, the other deckhands scurried down the side decks to assist.

  “What happened?” Captain Chen demanded, scanning the water.

  Four people started talking at once as Flynn shoved his feet into a too-small pair of flippers. He didn’t bother to respond. None of their policies or procedures mattered. Only Alanna mattered. She would drown trying to save those jewels.

  Marcus held out a weight belt, with at least twenty pounds on it. “Go,” he ordered.

  Flynn grabbed it and flung himself over the side. The water was warm, but still much cooler than the humid air.

  Alanna was already at least twenty feet further down, frantically swimming to reach the bag.

  Flynn kicked hard against the flippers, letting the weight belt drag him down faster. As he cleared his ears by pinching his nose and blowing out every ten feet per his training, panic swirled in his head. He had no idea how much experience Alanna had, if any, with scuba, let alone free diving without oxygen. She was a desperate woman under considerable stress, completely unpredictable.

  Though given the circumstances, Flynn would’ve done the same thing.

  The small reef started around thirty feet down, with bright-colored fish schooling among coral, but continued further to beyond 100 feet. Flynn prayed the bag caught on coral or a rock.

  His calves started to ache with how hard he kicked, but he gained on her, now only a few feet away. She had almost caught up with the bag, but her movements were frantic and jerky. She was almost out of air. Panicking.

  Flynn kicked hard once more and reached her side. He rapped on the tanks at his back to get her attention, but she dived deeper without acknowledging him. Her pale hand reached for the bag, and her fingers skimmed the strap. It spiraled down past a large, pink fan-coral.

  Flynn butterfly-kicked past her. With one long stretch, he lunged out. The strap danced against his fingers. He closed his hand, the nylon gripped between his knuckle and pinkie.

  Alanna’s wide eyes were full of panic. She’d gone pale, nearly blue at that point. Flynn thrust his regulator toward her, which she desperately accepted. The bubbles came out too rapidly with her erratic breaths. With a wave of his hand, he motioned for her to slow down before she blacked out. He grabbed the octopus regulator—the spare—and they breathed together out of the same tank.

  With a swiftt tap of a button, a small burst of air went into the BCD vest, keeping them from sinking farther. He handed her the bag, which she clung to her chest. While she calmed her breathing and her cheeks regained some color, Flynn strapped the weight belt to his waist. Dropping it was his first instinct, but it wasn’t his gear. They’d want it returned if he could salvage it. Either way, their return to the surface had to be slow, especially with how quickly they descended. When he glanced up, they were a lot deeper than he expected. The water was so clear, he wouldn’t have believed they were sixty-five feet down per the depth gauge.

  When Alanna’s breathing slowed, she gave him the OK sign with shaky fingers. He gently held her shoulder and motioned up. They rose ten feet, letting their ears pop twice, and then stopped. Giving their lungs a chance to adjust without too much strain would keep them from being in agony when they reached the surface. They floated for a few minutes before they rose another ten feet and stopped.

  Alanna blinked repeatedly, no doubt trying to acclimate her vision to the salt and pressure. But she looked right into his eyes, holding his gaze.

  Flynn squeezed her shaky hand. He pulled out his regulator and kissed her knuckles. They were cold on his lips. The only sound was her deep intake of oxygen, the bubbles dallying up to the top. And his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

  Without warning, she removed her regulator and closed the remaining distance between them. Her mouth locked against his in a salty kiss, light and brief. A strand of her dark hair danced in front of her face. He tucked it behind her ear, then caressed her chin.

  They rose slowly, ten feet at a time taking the necessary pauses for safety. His ears popped half a dozen more times, never once breaking eye contact. Making the surface took longer than he anticipated, but the sun’s warmth was welcome. Yet, the lapping waves against the yacht, and the calls of the other deckhands sent his heart rate up again.

  With a long press on the button, he inflated the BCD vest so he could float. Alanna clutched the bag to her chest with one hand, and held herself against his side with the other. A life ring landed in front of them with a soft splash. Flynn grabbed it. The deckhands pulled them to the stern. Much of her energy gone, Alanna rested limply against him.

  “Is she okay?” and “Haul them up,” echoed off the boat in a muffled chorus.

  Three deckhands hauled her out of the water. Though she had hardly any strength left, her grip on both him and the bag were hard to dislodge. They immediately covered her in towels while Marcus and Jaime, another deckhand, heaved up Flynn.

  “Have Marie check them out with the med kit,” Captain Chen ordered from the lower deck. The brim of his captain’s hat shadowed his eyes, but they were full of disapproval. Flynn had seen that look many times, from one person or another. “Let’s clean this up and get underway.”

  Alanna collapsed onto a bench, huddled under at least three towels. When she started coughing, Flynn moved to her side and tucked her against him.

  She was so tiny, and so damned stubborn.

  Kinsley kneeled into view, handing Alanna a glass of water.

  “Alfred said this would help.” Her voice was small, quiet. Alanna didn’t look up. Flynn glanced around the deck and was relieved the other girls weren’t around. He’d have to strangle that Stacia-bitch when she dared to show herself.

  Kinsley hung around like she had more to say, but sighed instead. “I’m glad you’re okay.” With that, she wrapped her towel tighter.

  “Thank you,” Alanna mumbled.

  Another round of shakes rippled through her body, so Flynn rubbed her arms. Shock looked a lot like cold chills, but took longer to overcome. With trembling fingers, Alanna discreetly unzipped the bag within her towel and pulled aside the cloth. Luna de
Azul was still inside, albeit soaked in salt water. She relaxed against him, and zipped it up.

  A faint giggle brought his attention up to the balcony overhead. Stacia leaned against the white railing, watching the dramatics behind her sunglasses. She’d changed into a red tank top and the same ripped jean shorts from last night.

  Alanna either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care. Marie had arrived to check her vitals with the emergency kit. But Flynn’s attention was on the She-Bitch.

  With an evil grin, Stacia blew him a kiss on her long, nail-polished claws.

  WATER DRIPPED FROM ALANNA’S SHORTS and pooled under her damp shoes. Flynn stood beside her on the bridge. Tension saturated the room. She re-clasped the pack to her waist, now safely out of danger. Unlike her job.

  Captain Chen reviewed the logbook in front of him. “I should fire you both. Kick you off at the next port for that disastrous interaction.”

  Liang Wen manned the helm on the bridge during the ass-chewing the captain doled out to both over the last ten minutes. She’d never been berated by anyone before, outside of her family. Deserved or not, the scolding was hard to swallow.

  The sun glared off the sea surface like a sheet of textured glass. Flynn scanned the sea instead of looking at Captain Chen. He was always so direct with her, his gaze consistently secure to her own. Now, it was as if an almost different person stood beside her.

  Chen’s cold glare landed on Alanna. “You never strike a client.”

  “I didn’t strike her. I—”

  “The towel, Miss Alanna,” Chen cut her off. “You used the towel against her. Then proceeded to fight with her over a damned bag.”

  Alanna lifted her chin. That part was true. But she wouldn’t apologize for it. If anyone else knew what was in the bag, they would’ve done the same thing. Then jumped over the side of the yacht to beat her to it. Especially Stacia.

  “She was provoked, sir,” Flynn started, his gaze still on the sea over the captain’s shoulder. “Marcus will verify the events, as will—”

  Chen raised his hand. “Miss Stacia’s actions are irrelevant.” He eyed the bag around her waist. “Any personal valuables should never have been brought on the ship.” The captain walked around the navigation board, crossing his arms as he leaned against the counter. “This is highly unprofessional, and a distraction from the pleasantness our clients expect.”

  There’s nothing pleasant about these guests. I won’t apologize for defending myself.

  “For the remainder of the trip, place your valuables in the yacht safe.” Captain Chen kept his stare fixed on hers.

  “No, thank you.”

  Chen’s jaw flinched. “That wasn’t a request.”

  Obviously, he wasn’t used to being denied.

  Neither was she. “You have my answer.”

  Liang Wen glared at her. Flynn fidgeted.

  Chen took a deep breath. “If your concern is safety, everything will be well secured. I’m the only one with the combination.”

  “I appreciate the offer, sir, but my answer is still no.” Actually, no way in hell, but with a sweeter tongue. Diplomacy, as direct as it gets.

  “You’d risk being fired over this?” The captain cocked his head.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Three days,” Flynn murmured beside her. She cast a confused glance at him, but he kept staring out the window. Chen’s scowl deepened.

  He turned to the logbook and wrote something down. “Then you’ve just forfeited your tip. Go clean up and finish your shift. We arrive in Kota Kinabalu in the morning. Your first task will be to scrub the water line.”

  Alanna cocked her head. “We’re not fired, sir?”

  “You should be,” he replied without looking at them. “But our fuel efficiency has improved by fifteen percent overnight, as has our speed. There can only be one explanation for it.” He turned around, still wearing his distinctive hard stare. “And it’s clear the two of you are a package deal.”

  Blood seeped through the man’s gray, sleeveless shirt as he sat in the parlor, but his black eyes met Lozano’s without revealing a single shred of pain. That was the plus side to professional assassins: they never focused on collateral damage—even to themselves—so long as the job was done.

  For this task, Lozano needed the best.

  Not that he’d boost Vasco’s ego by admitting it.

  “Your reputation implies an equal tenacity to your brutality.” Lozano swirled a glass of whiskey as he settled in the armchair, casually crossing his legs in the well-lit room of his hill-estate.

  The vein in Vasco’s neck pulsed along the tattoos that covered his trunk and shoulders. Thick, thorny vines exquisitely etched into his skin now marred by a weeping bullet wound under his collarbone. “Minor flesh wounds won’t stop me.”

  It had taken the entire day for Lozano’s less-than-luxurious yacht to sail from Manila to Cebu, but at least here the meeting with the notorious Vasco would be secure. The tiny peninsula in the southern Philippines was less convenient for authorities or rival cartels to intervene.

  “A contract on the pompous prince led to that?” Lozano nodded at the assassin’s wound. “Perhaps I should use someone else for this more challenging target.”

  Vasco snorted and reached into his black boot, pulling a long, serrated dagger from its sheath. Unease crept up his spine, though he schooled his reaction.

  Two of his bodyguards moved to intercept, but the cartel leader lazily raised his hand. “Stand down.”

  “I’m competent enough to get this through your impeccable security.” Vasco trailed a finger down the serrated blade. “That pompous prince can’t tie his shoes without a nanny. Only one of his watchdogs has decent aim…”

  “Did Bendetto stiff you on that minor jaunt to the States?”

  Vasco glared at the mob boss. “It’ll be done soon. I’m letting them soak in a false sense of security while I pursue…other targets.”

  “You mean while you lick your wounds and try to score some quick cash.”

  Vasco shrugged and cleaned his nails with the blade’s tip.

  Tiburón strolled into the parlor, his stride confident and relaxed. “The package has been delivered,” he murmured.

  Lozano nodded. “Prep it for me.”

  Tiburón exited through the same door he entered. Lozano set his whiskey glass aside, and picked up a letter opener and whetstone from the table. He leaned forward, dragging the silver blade across the stone.

  “This next job won’t supply you with quick cash, I assure you. The target is unexpectedly…elusive. It will require more time. And restraint.”

  “Elusive isn’t a problem for me.”

  “Restraint is.” He bore down on the blade, intensifying the scrape of metal on stone. “I need this target alive. And mostly unharmed.”

  Vasco re-sheathed the dagger. “That is a challenge, isn’t it?”

  “Will that wound be a hindrance? It looks less than a day old. I need the best on this already-overdue problem.”

  Vasco reclined in the deep, silk cushions of the wingback chair. “Who’s the target?”

  Lozano’s lip twitched. Those who ignored questions had something to hide. Or a profoundly large ego. He didn’t appreciate either.

  But the cartel needed the princess found. Before the authorities. Time was against him, as well as the world stage. Since Bendetto’s takeover of Solana was sloppier and bloodier than anticipated, it had attracted much more attention than Lozano wanted. For now, he was letting his youngest son, Rico, keep tabs on the anarchistic general, until all the Peraltas were accounted for. Then he’d deal with Bendetto and all other loose ends.

  “Find the target and bring her to me in forty-eight hours. You’ll receive twice the contract price Bendetto offered for Prince André.”

  Vasco tilted his head. “How do you know the price he offered?”

  Lozano ran his thumb against the side of the letter opener. Not too sharp, but enough for his needs. “Don’t waste m
y time. Do you accept?”

  “Who’s the target?” Vasco asked again.

  “Do. You. Accept?”

  Vasco’s eyes narrowed. “Be careful. Those who’ve tried to control me have serious bite marks.”

  Lozano twirled the letter opener in his fingers. “I know how to handle dogs who bite. I expected you to have aimed higher than a mere canine.”

  The assassin jeered. “For the princess, the price is triple my previous contract.”

  Lozano smiled. He’d been willing to pay much more. “Done.”

  “All up front.”

  He swallowed a laugh. “Half. Forty-eight hours. Here, unharmed. If you manage to drag in her companion as well, I’ll throw an extra bone in your bowl.”

  “I have plenty of bones,” Vasco replied. “Where do you suggest I start my vacation?”

  Lozano swallowed the bitter taste of resentment. Reliable intel was so hard to come by these days. But every lead had to be chased down. “The word is her passport hit Singapore this morning.”

  The world-class assassin laughed. Outright, belly roll laughed.

  The cartel boss narrowed his eyes, and tightened his grasp on the letter opener.

  “You need new gophers.” Vasco cracked his knuckles. “Ones who don’t follow decoy passports from government databases.”

  “Decoy? How would you know this?”

  “Would I be any good at my occupation if I didn’t? Don’t expect me to waste my time on a glaringly obvious ploy. Waste your own.”

  Lozano’s fingers twitched with the urge to slice the assassin’s throat. Laughing was one of the worst insults. He’d killed many for lesser offenses. But he’d reached this level of wealth and power through viciousness and follow-through, enough to employ others to carry out those atrocities for him. He partook in carnality only when he felt the urge to remind himself of his true animalistic capabilities.

  To enjoy in the torture, and remind his employees who held the real control. He stood and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows while still balancing the letter opener in his hand.