by Unknown
The Dutchman chuckled. “You owe me nothing. After all these years, we’re finally even.”
“Still,” Ian said. “I know I’m asking too much. You don’t know my operation. I thought we’d have more time for me to show you how it works. And I’m sorry about—”
“I’ll see what I can do,” the Dutchman jumped in, exactly as Ian had expected him to.
He could tell from the man’s voice that he’d swallowed the bait.
“Thank you,” Ian said, and actually meant it.
“I’ll be in touch,” and with that the call was ended.
Ian looked up to see Francine standing in the doorway with Rory.
“So that was a thing of beauty,” Francie said as she bounced the little boy on her hip.
Ian nodded. “He’ll call back, within the hour. He’ll offer three point six, with apologies. He’ll sweeten the deal by telling me that his finder’s fee will come from the buyer.”
“Putty in your capable hands,” she said. “You want pancakes?”
“No, thanks,” Ian said. “I’m good.”
“Hmm,” she said as she walked away, and maybe she didn’t mean anything, but he took it to mean Then why are you down here when Phoebe’s upstairs, and what’s up with that anyway?
Or maybe she meant, Why don’t you predict an accurate future for Phoebe as long as you’re being clairvoyant? You know you can do it.…
Francine was right. Ian could do it.
Over the next few days, Phoebe would help him with this job, save those kids, feel great. And then, she’d try to save him. Try, and fail, and probably cry, get angry, rail, grieve, and finally accept. And eventually, as he sank back into the bowels of the state prison system, as days, then weeks, then months slipped past, she’d go about living her life. She’d remember Ian fondly as a moment of madness, a crazy encounter, a temporary boyfriend—as she herself had called him. Eventually though, she’d find a man who recognized how special she was, and he’d wake up beside her every morning, well aware of how infinitely lucky he was.
And Ian could sit here pretending that he would be glad for her when that happened—that what he truly wanted more than anything was her happiness.
But all he could think was: shit.
* * *
Aaron woke up to find Sheldon, with his clothes and his shoes in his arms, heading for the door, on the verge of sneaking out of their room as what looked like midmorning light leaked in around the window shades.
“Hey,” Aaron said.
Shel turned to face him, guilt flashing briefly in his eyes. “Crap! I’m sorry I woke you. I wanted to let you sleep.”
Aaron sat up, reaching for his phone to see … It was well after nine. “I should’ve been up by now.”
“It’s okay. Most of us are on hold. Ian’s still waiting for Vanderzee to call him back,” Shel reported. “They spoke earlier, and Ian dropped the bait. Nothing for us to do until the mark bites.”
This was the time, during a job like this, where you prepped on sheer faith that the mark would go all in. And while Yashi and Deb were probably scrambling to procure everything that was on Ian’s wish list, the rest of the team had already memorized the various maps and floor plans of both the warehouse and the consulate, and they were now mostly holding.
“For what it’s worth,” Shel continued, “Ian’s confident he’s gonna call. He’s certain that Vanderzee’s low on funds, due to being unable to move those children. The kind of security needed for that, both active and passive, can’t be cheap.”
Active security included payroll for guards, who knew damn well what they were guarding. Passive was paying people to look the other way or to stick their fingers in their ears and go la la la. Ian was right about that—hiding two kids for this many days was a hardcore cash suck.
Aaron agreed with his brother in that it was just a matter of time before the Dutchman called them back.
He stretched. He’d slept better than he had in days—thanks to Shel’s demand for forgiveness. “What time did Roar get up?”
“The usual.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t hear him.”
“I was already awake,” Shel said. “I got to him pretty quickly.”
“Thanks.”
“He’s in the kitchen with Francie,” Shel told him. “Martell’s making pancakes. With blueberries and real maple syrup.”
“Ugh,” Aaron made a sound of despair as he suddenly remembered. “I should’ve reminded Eee about the babysitter.”
“Already done,” Shelly said. “Due to arrive in a few hours. Alex Murray.”
Aaron laughed. “Seriously? Johnny Murray’s kid.” Murray’d served in the SEALs with Ian, and had worked with them all on a number of jobs.
“Johnny’s coming, too,” Shel said. “He could do this for Eee without risking jail time, so it’s all working out.”
“Well, we now know Rory’s going to be super-safe. That’s good.” As Aaron pushed back the covers and got out of bed, Sheldon slightly shifted his armload of clothing, as if to hide what he was carrying, which was kind of weird, since it wasn’t Aaron’s birthday.
He was holding a yellow legal pad right on the top of his shoes and clothes, and Aaron could see that the front page was completely covered with Shel’s messy handwriting. Except, as he got closer, he saw that—whatever it was on that pad—it wasn’t messy. Shel had taken extra time to be legible. Damn, he’d actually printed in careful block letters.
“What’s that?” Aaron asked, pointing as he shuffled past, on his way into the bathroom.
“Oh. Just notes,” Shel said, following him to the door. “I couldn’t sleep, so I outlined the changes that need to be made to the computer program for the ship’s compass. You know, in case Vanderzee goes onto the bridge and we want him to believe we’re heading south. Or north. Depending. I didn’t have my laptop, and I didn’t want to wake you, so I just wrote it out longhand and, um …”
“And here I’d thought you’d started writing me poetry,” Aaron teased as he flushed and went to the sink to wash his hands and then brush his teeth.
Shelly smiled at that. “Yeah, you definitely don’t want that.”
“I might.” Aaron turned on the shower, to let the water warm up. He spat and rinsed and put his toothbrush back, then took Shel’s armload of stuff from him on his way past, carrying it over to the bed. Now that Aaron was up, there was no longer any need for him to leave the room to shower. “I’ll join you in there, in a sec. I just want to stretch out my leg.” An old injury, a twisted knee, acted up in the rain. It helped if he kept limber and … Whoa, wait. “This is notes?”
The legal pad was covered in clearly written, clearly worded instructions that bore little to no resemblance to Shel’s usual scribbled notes. Aaron flipped through the pages—and there were pages. And pages. No way was this notes. It was, instead, a carefully penned recipe.
So that someone besides Sheldon could program the yacht’s computer, as well as the GPS on whatever phones Ian brought on board.
Aaron turned back to see Shel still standing in the bathroom door, that guilty look back in his eyes.
And in a dizzying rush, Aaron understood what this was. What all of it was. Why it had been so important to Shel that Aaron forgive him, that they make up, make love. His words, from earlier yesterday: I love you. And Rory. I would do anything for you. Please always remember that. He’d repeated the sentiment, in a similar message, last night.
Sheldon was saying good-bye.
“If you aren’t going to be here, to program the computer and the phones,” Aaron asked, even though he already knew the answer, “where are you going to be?”
Shel didn’t try to bullshit him. He told the truth. “I thought I’d … try to talk to him.”
“Davio.” Aaron laughed even though he could feel his head imploding.
Shel nodded. “Ian said he’d be at that meeting tonight, at the hospital. In Sarasota. I thought maybe, since Manny’d be there
—”
“No.” Aaron crossed the room to him in several large strides. “Nuh-uh. Nope. You are not doing this.” He put his arms around Shelly, as if that would somehow keep him from leaving. Jesus, he’d tie him up if necessary, but he’d start here.
“It’s been ten years,” Shel said as he clung to Aaron, too—as if he likewise didn’t want to let him go. “I just keep thinking, maybe if I go and try to talk to him—”
“Talk?” Aaron repeated. “To the crazy man?”
“I have to try,” Shel whispered. “All this bullshit—it’s all my fault. Right from the start. God, you deserve more. You deserve better.”
So said the man who’d spent four years searching for him. Aaron had had other boyfriends in that rough and rocky time after high school, while they were apart, but Sheldon hadn’t. Shel had loved him, and he’d stayed true.
“What I deserve,” Aaron said now, working it hard to keep his voice from shaking, “is a chance to argue more about what you should or shouldn’t have told me when you found out that Ian was in Northport. What I deserve is a chance to watch our son grow up with you beside me. God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.” Aaron pulled back to look into Shelly’s eyes. “Baby, you know that your father is one of those things that will never, ever change.”
Shel was silent.
“I love you,” Aaron continued. “You—with your miserable family and bullshit emotional luggage that doesn’t quite match mine, but comes pretty damn close. I even love you when I’m hurt and angry and when I stomp around and pretend that I might leave.”
“That was pretend?” Shel asked. “Because it felt kind of … not.”
“I promise you, I swear to you, that I won’t ever leave,” Aaron told him, “if you promise and swear that you won’t either. Although I think we already agreed to this, years ago, in Canada.”
Shel smiled at that. It was shaky, but it was definitely a smile. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
“I forgive you,” Aaron said, and this time, he honestly meant it.
He was leaning in to kiss Shelly, and then move this conversation into the steam-creating shower, when someone with fists of stone hammered on the bedroom door.
Boom boom boom!
It had to be Francine. She could pack one hell of a punch. “Shel! Aaron!” It was. “Get your asses out here! Vanderzee just called Ian. We’re go. I repeat, this mission is go!”
* * *
Phoebe held the world’s most adorable baby while the team leapt into action around her. She wasn’t particularly good with children, but this one was a living advertisement for procreation, with his long eyelashes, cherub’s cheeks, bright eyes, and joyful if drool-soggy smile.
As she and Rory watched, Martell and Yashi tried on their security guard uniforms—Martell fiercely fashion-walked in his—while Francine pretended not to be amused. Phoebe hung close, fascinated, as the blonde instructed Yashi as to how the fake-blood pack worked.
Across the room, Berto had drawn a floor plan of his warehouse, and he and Ian were discussing exactly where, inside, the coming meeting with the Dutchman should take place, where the tied up and head-bagged guards—AKA Martell and Yashi—should be positioned, and where Francine could be hidden with a sniper rifle, watching and ready, in case something went wrong.
Ian made Phoebe look at the drawing, too. In case of that dreaded something-goes-wrong scenario, she was supposed to stay close to him, but if something—again with the impending doom of that dire-sounding something—happened to him, she was to head for the office in the back. And if she couldn’t get there, she should take cover behind a hill of crates.
Phoebe discovered that she really didn’t like thinking about what she would do if something happened to Ian.
God help her, she was in trouble, because something was going to happen to him. After this was over, he was going back to prison, where, if Manny or Davio or even Berto found out that he was really there trying to bring them down, he would immediately be killed. She couldn’t stop thinking that. Surely there had to be a better way.…
But there was no time to talk to Ian about any of it. In fact, they hadn’t had a real conversation since last night. Between then and now, the talking they’d done hadn’t gone much beyond Oh, God, and Yes, please, more, yes!
Phoebe’d woken up to find Ian watching her, and they’d made love again—exquisitely, beautifully, tenderly—in the pale morning light.
Afterward, he got up almost immediately, and she let him leave the room, even though she wanted to sit up and say, Wait. Let me help you negotiate a new agreement with Manny and Berto—one that doesn’t involve prison time.
But she didn’t dare.
And by the time she’d showered and followed him downstairs, Ian had already spoken to Vanderzee—twice—and was hard at work, prepping for this dangerous game of make-believe. It was a game that Ian seemed confident they’d win.
In fact, his confidence was contagious. His charisma was irresistible. And as leader of this insane mission, he knew exactly where each of his team members would be, and exactly what they would be doing, at any given moment, over the course of what he called the “sting.” He was, without a doubt, the king of all details.
And when Ian asked her to, Phoebe dutifully studied a map of the area—filled with warehouses and other industrial buildings, and a labyrinth of roads and driveways and canals—so she would be familiar with the lay of the land.
“Here’s where Aaron’ll pull up the truck, to load the computers,” Ian said, enlarging the map on the computer screen so that Berto’s warehouse and its loading area was enormous. He hovered the cursor on a point next to the big building.
“Aaron knows how to drive an eighteen-wheeler?” Phoebe asked as Shel took a now-squirming and fragrant Rory from her arms. She immediately answered her own question. “Of course he does.” That was not something Ian would’ve overlooked.
Next to them, on the table, was one of Berto’s desktop computer towers, out of its factory packing and open to reveal a huge amount of empty space inside the metal frame. The hardware used in this type of computer didn’t take up much room, so the outer shell was a perfect vessel for contraband. Nearby was an extra-large plastic bag with a zipper closure, filled with the actual illegal drugs, procured from some FBI evidence locker. They didn’t need enough to fill all of the computers—just one. That would be enough to fool the Dutchman.
Although, “What if we lose that?” Phoebe asked Ian, pointing to the bag. “What if it falls overboard, or the boat sinks, or—”
“I try to take life one goatfuck at a time,” he said, tapping on the computer screen to return her attention to the map. “Here’s where we’ll park when we arrive”—he hovered the arrow over a spot near where the truck was to go—“and here’s where the surveillance van’ll be hidden.”
Sheldon would be inside of the van, monitoring the situation, and keeping an eye on the feed from a series of video cameras placed around the perimeter to make sure that there were, as Ian put it, “no uninvited guests to the party.”
But that was unlikely, given the geography.
Berto owned a number of warehouses in Miami, but the one he and Ian had chosen was the last building on a dead-end street, which meant they wouldn’t have to deal with a stream of traffic driving past. It had a long driveway and the delivery bay was around the back of the structure, facing the windowless wall of a neighboring warehouse—providing them with even more isolation.
Francine was going over to the site early, and with Martell’s and Yashi’s help, she would set up the cameras—as well as help Berto prep. He needed to look as if he’d been shot, and it not only had to appear real, but as if he’d already given himself first aid. They didn’t want the Dutchman playing the medic-hero and ripping open Berto’s bloody shirt to find no bullet wound beneath.
Deb, meanwhile, was already over at the dock, awaiting the arrival of the luxury speedboat that would take them—and their
“illegal” cargo—to Fake-Cuba and back. She had not done a fashion-walk in the clothing she was going to wear, but she had grimaced when looking into the shopping bag that held her sideboob-baring outfit.
If the yacht arrived promptly, Deb would come to the warehouse and join Shelly in the surveillance van.
“We’ll be meeting Vanderzee at sixteen hundred—four o’clock.” Ian translated the time into nonmilitary-speak for Phoebe. “With a goal of departing from the dock by seventeen thirty.”
Phoebe did the math: If they left at 5:30 P.M., they would arrive in Pretend-Cuba just before ten o’clock, long after the sun set. That would give them plenty of hours of darkness to unload the cargo and make the four-hour journey back. And it would have to be dark when they left in order for the charade to succeed, since Florida was decidedly more built up than the part of Cuba to which they were allegedly going. And of course, there was the matter of the sun, rising in the east, and hanging there in the sky, making it very clear as to whether they were traveling north or south …
“I’m going to try to talk him into going to Berto’s warehouse in our car,” Ian continued, him being the Dutchman, “but I’m not sure that’ll happen. He might want to take his own vehicle. He’ll also be accompanied by some of his men. I’m going to try to pare that down to the smallest possible number. I doubt we’ll get him to come alone, in fact we probably don’t want that, because we’re going to go straight from the warehouse to the dock, and I know he’s not going on a four-hour boat ride without at least one bodyguard.”
“A four-hour tour,” Sheldon sang to the tune of the Gilligan’s Island theme song, as he danced past them with Rory. “A four-hour tour!”
The baby’s laughter made Ian smile, and there it was again, that terrible earth-shifting feeling inside of her, but this time it was accompanied by a powerful layer of warmth.
“You should probably talk to Francine and Martell and Yashi before they leave for the warehouse,” she told Ian, as he said, “I really need to touch base with Berto.”