by Unknown
“I’m … still double-checking,” Shel said, sounding vague and distracted. “But it’s sometime around … four seventeen A.M.”
“Then let’s hope,” Ian said, “that the weather clears well before oh-four-seventeen.”
* * *
The rain had just started when the Lady Mysterious pulled up to the dock.
Martell went on board, where there was a flurry of greetings and introductions, even as the cargo began to be off-loaded into the beat-up and ancient truck.
“I feel bad we can’t help,” Shel said.
“I don’t,” Aaron said. He and Shelly were stuck in the surveillance van, watching and listening as the rain drummed on the roof and soaked both Yashi and Francine, who were out in it, in Faux-Cuba.
After the yacht had left the first dock, Aaron had helped Shelly clean his massive collection of cuts and scrapes—the worst being a gash above his eyebrow that probably should’ve had stitches. Instead, in lieu of surgical thread, he’d done the best he could with a butterfly bandage, all the while fervently thankful that Shel had been struck only by pieces of rock and brick and glass, instead of actual bullets.
Still, going out into the rain would’ve stung like hell, bringing a new level to the grim misery that Francine and Yashi were enduring with the help of the yacht’s “crew.”
Martell, meanwhile, was being his usual charming self as he shook off the wet and greeted the Dutchman, box of cigars in hand.
The surveillance van had both video and audio up and running, so Aaron and Shel could watch as well as listen as Martell expounded on the magnificence of his invisible personal army, lurking out in the dark jungle. They would, he said, “protect the cargo ferociously on the next phase of its journey.”
Vanderzee was interested in learning more. Aaron could see the man’s curiosity on his face.
Shel saw it, too. “Come on, baby, bite …,” he murmured.
Vanderzee did, asking, “And where, exactly, will it go from here?”
“Exactly is a trade secret,” Martell told him with a warm smile. “More generally, it will travel via one of my trucks to one of my airfields, where a jet is currently waiting. It flies from here to … let’s say, North Africa, where the buyer will collect it, and pay the remainder of his bill. Half up front, half on receipt.”
“And do you ever move cargo out of the U.S.,” Vanderzee asked, “from an interested party who will send their own jet to your airfield, and pay upon receipt at that point?”
Martell’s smile broadened. “Making it easier for us? That would be a hell-yeah, with a big high five.” He turned to Ian at that point, and Aaron winced because now he sounded as if he were delivering lines. “I assume your crew has told you about the bad weather moving in? It’s going to hover offshore and force you to delay your departure by a few hours. I am sorry about that.”
Ian’s smile was expansive and hid his horror at the fact that Martell suddenly sounded like an actor in really terrible porn. Of course, he was also hiding the trepidation Aaron knew he felt about Deb whoring herself out for the sake of the mission. “The day you can control the weather,” Ian said easily, “is the day we no longer have to work for a living.”
“Since we have this extra time, I would love to see your airfield,” the Dutchman told Martell. “And perhaps your home.”
And Martell froze.
“Come on, come on,” Aaron muttered. “Lotta reasons why that’s a no-go. This shouldn’t be that hard.”
It was Phoebe who saved him, stepping forward from where she was standing behind Ian. “Oh, please, no,” she said. “Martell lives up near his field. It’s lovely but …” She turned to Martell. “You know I love you madly, darling, but making that drive—four hours,” she turned back to tell Vanderzee, “in good weather. It’ll take us six in the rain. All the way up into the hills, on treacherous roads, no thank you. Ian and I are staying here.”
“Jesus, she’s good,” Shel murmured.
“Yup,” Aaron said, as Ian jumped in.
“The weather’ll clear long before we could get there and back,” he told the Dutchman with just the right amount of apology in his voice. “Maybe some other time.”
“I’d like that,” Vanderzee said, even as he turned and obviously tracked Deb, who entered, carrying a tray with coffee mugs and glasses of whiskey.
“That’s not at all creepy,” Sheldon said.
“Imagine being Deb,” Aaron countered, and when Shel met his eyes, he felt a rush of gratitude. “I’m very glad you’re not dead, by the way.”
Shelly smiled back at him, before returning his attention to the computer monitor and the video feed. “I’m feeling pretty glad, too.”
Phoebe was playing the hostess, herding them into the yacht’s living room, encouraging them to “Sit down, please, sit down.”
Ian did sit, pulling her onto his lap, where she pushed his hair back from his face before she sweetly kissed him.
“Eee’s in love with her,” Aaron told Shel, who nodded his agreement. “And just watch. Ten to one, he’s gonna fuck it up.”
* * *
As Deb served coffee, Martell tried to catch her eye. He was sitting in the living room of the luxury yacht with Ian, Phoebe, and the pedophile serial killer that Deb was maybe going to sleep with, for the sake of the mission.
His disapproval and disbelief must’ve been coming off of him in waves—how could she even think about bumping the extrauglies with that nasty turdnozzle—because she refused to meet Martell’s gaze as she held the tray in front of him, even when he took his sweet time, deliberately shoveling spoonful after spoonful of sugar into his mug. In fact, she finally just picked up and moved on with that spoon still in his hand—she simply jammed a clean one into the sugar bowl.
Apparently the not-looking-at-him thing was intentional.
And when Francine came into the room, dripping wet and carrying that briefcase filled with money, Ian signaled for Deb to leave, so she did. Again, looking past Martell, her eyes aimed at a distant point on the wall.
Ian, meanwhile, was looking pointedly over at Dutchie as if expecting him to adios his man Gollum, too. The message being, Shit’s about to get real, Georg. Or secret. Or private. Or whatever.
And sure enough, Golly shuffled on out of the room, as did Francine, who went back outside to help finish humping the boxes off the boat in the rain.
Unlike Deb, Francine did meet Martell’s gaze with her spooky, pale-colored eyes, nodding very slightly as she went past him, and closing the door tightly behind her. And he had the very non-Christian thought that if anyone could survive close-your-eyes-and-think-of-England-style sex with a psychopath, she could. In fact, Dutch himself might not live through the punishment Francine could surely deliver.
But hey, now everyone was looking at him expectantly since he was in possession of the briefcase. So Martell cleared his throat and forced a tight smile before presenting the damn thing—ta da!—to Ian.
Ian met him halfway, shifting Phoebe off of his lap. He took the briefcase—motherfucker was heavy, and it showed—over to a table where he clicked open the two latches, and yes, there it all was. Rows and rows of neatly stacked bills, filling the case. Ian made sure to give Dutch an enticing flash as he pulled out the packet that contained the 20K he’d requested separately. None of the bills in that bundle were newspaper. Martell had double-checked and even smelled it to be extra sure.
“I appreciate the work you did, the effort you went to,” Ian told the D-man as he handed him that 20K with a flourish. “I know we didn’t use your contact, but really it was just luck that Martell’s guy came through.”
“It was unexpected,” Martell agreed as D-bag tried not to make it obvious that he wanted to rub the cash all over his body as he counted it. “I thought we were screwed. It’s good to know we had access to an alternative solution. And it’s always good to make new friends.” He turned and lifted his eyebrows at Ian. “You gonna get those crazies back in line, up in Mi
ami? End the drama for once and for all?”
“Yes, I am,” Ian said, adding, “and I apologize again for that … drama.”
“It was handled swiftly and courageously,” Vanderzee said with what he probably believed was a gracious nod, even as he pocketed his packet of cash.
There was silence for a moment then, and Martell looked over at Ian. It was highly unlikely that the Dutchman was going to approach them here and now about his need to move those kidnapped kids out of Miami, so when Ian nodded, he stood up. “Well, I’d better get on the road,” he said. “Six hours home.”
“Maybe the rain’ll let up, and you’ll make it in four,” Phoebe said, rising to her feet so she could kiss him good-bye, her lips cool against his cheek.
Martell didn’t envy her—having to spend another unknown amount of time with Mr. Creepy and his boy.
“Before you go,” the Dutchman said, and they all turned to look at him.
Phoebe, who had a mad sense of how to do this kind of playacting turned her pivot toward Vanderzee into intention and movement. She glided across the floor toward Ian, and took the briefcase gently from him, murmuring, “I’ll put this in our room, in the safe,” before adding, “I’ll give you gentlemen privacy to talk business.”
And with that she swept out the door, closing it tightly behind her.
Dutch cleared his evil throat and said, “I have a friend who has a very important package that he needs to move from Miami. However, the cargo is special, with very special needs.”
A friend. Dude had a friend. Was that really how they were gonna do this? Martell couldn’t speak for fear of laughing or maybe throwing up as a picture of this creature with Deb again flashed through his head—but then he didn’t have to speak, because Ian played it like the total pro that he was.
“You’ve seen the yacht,” Ian told him. “Do you feel we could handle the cargo’s needs?”
“I do,” he said.
“May I ask the value?” Ian said. “Because it may not be worthwhile for … your friend. With the payments we need to make for the authorities to look the other way … We’d have to receive at least a million. More if the cargo … shall we say breathes? That makes it more dangerous to transport.”
The Dutchman didn’t blink, so Martell tried not to either. “The cargo will be crated appropriately. Labeled as antique furniture.”
“Label or not, if there are extensive delays—and there sometimes are—it could get complicated,” Ian pointed out.
“The condition in which this package arrives at its destination is allowed to vary,” the man told them, and weren’t those words to make their blood run cold. Dude was essentially telling them that his client—the children’s father—didn’t particularly care either way if the kids were dead or alive when they showed up on his palace doorstep. In other words, what he really wanted was to take them away from his ex. He’d kidnapped them to deliver punishment to their mother, not for reasons—misguided ones—of fatherly love. “Of course, the condition affects my friend’s payment, but only by a million dollars. Perhaps if you agree to split that, in order to guarantee the cargo’s safe arrival …?”
“So a million five,” Ian clarified, looking to Martell as if for his agreement. “Assuming, of course, the cargo arrives alive. A flat million if it doesn’t.”
Martell chose his Buddha face as his response, which Ian, of course, took as a yes.
“I think we could agree to that,” Ian said, ending the conversation by standing up. “Check with your friend, and let us know. Take your time—no rush. I’m not going anywhere.” He reached out and shook Martell’s hand. “You, my friend, better get our current cargo safely home.”
D-bag stood up.
Don’t make him shake his hand, don’t make him shake his hand … ugh.
Vanderzee shook Martell’s hand.
But then, unlike Ian and Pheobe and Deb, Martell was free to leave. In fact, he had to leave. He lingered as long as he could, looking for Deb, but she was nowhere to be found. Francine, however, was waiting for him, and there was nothing left to do but follow her out into the rain, and dash down the dock toward the truck. He let her take the wheel, climbing into the passenger side as he shook the water off his shirt and tried to wipe his hand clean on his shorts.
“There is not enough Purell in all the world,” he told her.
She shot him an amused look. “Trust me, I know the feeling.”
And now the ugly picture that flashed through his head was of Francine. Younger. Vulnerable. First with Davio. Then, assaulted a second time as she faced the police detective’s flat disbelief.
As she pulled away from the dock, heading down the dirt drive toward the surveillance van—which would remain on site until the yacht departed—she said, “I hope the weather clears.”
Martell nodded. “I do, too.”
* * *
The weather cleared.
Well, it didn’t so much clear as it shifted—far enough to the west so that they were able to leave the dock at a little before four A.M.
Phoebe was still awake when Ian came into the cabin to give her the news. He’d been up on the bridge, obviously trying to mind-control the weather, but now he could finally get some desperately needed sleep.
He yanked off his clothes and crawled into bed, pulling her close and exhaling the awful worry she knew he’d been carrying.
Phoebe hadn’t helped him at all. After Martell left the yacht, Vanderzee had vanished into his cabin to try to get some sleep. Ian had gone to their cabin to tell Phoebe that she should do the same.
She hadn’t been able to keep herself from pulling him inside to offer potential solutions. “If he’s in his cabin, sleeping, then he won’t know exactly when we started for home. We can tell him we’ve been traveling for hours.”
Ian had sighed as he’d sat down on the bed. “Hamori will know. Unless you think he’ll believe we set the engine on the stealth glide setting.”
Okay, so that wouldn’t work. Still …
“Hamori can’t see out a window,” Phoebe had pointed out. “So why don’t we shove off, and just motor back and forth across this cove?”
“And if Vanderzee wakes up and looks out the porthole …?” Ian flopped onto his back on the bed, feet still on the floor. “And if he does, we won’t know it. He’ll just vanish with our twenty thousand dollars—and those kids. He’ll cut his losses and kill them. Easier to ship them that way. He only loses a million bucks.”
That was an awful thought, but still, Phoebe had to say, “I don’t want Deb to … do that.”
He turned to look at her. “Bad enough so you’d sacrifice the lives of those children?”
“That’s not fair.”
Ian sighed again. “I know. It’s not.”
“Would you let me do it?” Phoebe asked.
His answer was immediate. “No.”
“Then—”
“She’s a trained operative,” he said, sitting back up. “You’re not. She’s willing, for the sake of the mission—”
“But you’re in charge,” Phoebe countered.
“Yes, I am,” Ian agreed. “And I wouldn’t make her do it, if she didn’t want to.”
“She doesn’t want to,” she countered.
“Yes, Phoebe,” Ian said as he stood up. “She does. She wants to, more than she wants to tell Dr. Vaszko, sorry, we lost her kids. Jesus Christ! You think I don’t fucking hate this?”
He’d stood there, with his heart and soul in his eyes, before making her promise to lock the door behind him, while he went up to the bridge to watch the radar.
“You were right,” Phoebe whispered to him now. “About letting Deb make her own choices, about what’s more important. I just found it impossible not to think maybe there was a solution that we’d overlooked.”
“I know,” Ian said, kissing the side of her head.
“I was lying here thinking I’m guilty of being sexist,” she whispered. “That it’s somehow okay when
James Bond does it—sleeps with someone in order to learn the secret code, but then I realized that I kind of hate James Bond. Probably because he sleeps with people to learn the secret code.”
Ian sighed, and his breath moved her hair and was warm against her face in the darkness of the cabin. “Just ask me.”
She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Had he ever …? Would he ever …? Was he currently making the best of a bad situation; was he using sex to handle or control her?
But in the space of her hesitation, his breathing had steadied and slowed—he was already asleep.
So Phoebe closed her eyes, too, well aware that with every passing hour, her time left with this man was ticking down to zero.
* * *
After the yacht finally left Faux-Cuba, the surveillance van headed back to the other dock.
They had four hours to kill.
Francine had already staked out the space beneath the console in the back. She’d curled up under there and had been asleep for a while.
Martell was in the front seat beside Yashi, who was driving. Shel was still working on the computer, and Aaron was in the back passenger seat.
Martell could tell that Yashi was exhausted. He was working it, hard, to stay awake.
So Martell said, “Thank God, right?” To keep Yashi awake through conversation.
“I’m glad to be moving on to the next phase,” Yashi said.
“No,” Martell said. “I mean, Deb. Does she really do that shit?”
Yashi glanced at him. “She’s dedicated.”
“That’s not dedicated,” Martell said. “That’s fucked up.”
Yashi was silent.
“I thought you and Deb were. You know.”
Yashi did know and he answered succinctly. “Nope.”
“And you never wanted to …?”
Yashi’s eyebrow went up as he waited for Martell to end his question with a verb.
Hit that. He didn’t say it, instinctively knowing that that kind of disrespect would get him hit. Damn, if someone else said that to him about Deb, he’d hit them.
Instead, he tried: “Wrap her in a cuddly fleece blankie and keep her safe? Make sure she never had to do stupid shit like have sex with psycho turdnozzles?”