The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

by Karen Leabo

  On the other hand, the fear had gone out of her eyes too. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her, and that could make her more dangerous. He’d better keep an eye on her.

  He brought her two of the pills and a glass of water. She eyed them suspiciously, then looked back up at him. “I’m supposed to take these?”

  “I got them from your brother’s case,” he said. “Do you want to see the package they came from?”

  She shook her head, grimaced, and downed the medicine. That’s when Clint noticed that her shivering was worse. He got a blanket from the V-berth and tucked it around her, taking longer with the task than was necessary. He liked touching her, and an unexpected wave of protectiveness washed over him as she lay down on the banquette and snuggled under the blanket, far too trusting of him. Her bare feet poked out, and he covered them up. Those pearly-pink toenails were killers.

  Clint went back on deck. The waves were so bad now, they were actually breaking over the side of the boat. Where was Rusty? Surely he hadn’t wimped out because of the weather. Rusty liked to race motorcycles and play chicken with freight trains. A little rain and wind wouldn’t deter him.

  Maybe the lousy weather had merely delayed him. It was slow going through these waves, even for an experienced sailor.

  Clint kept one eye on his hostage, who was sleeping peacefully, and one eye out the hatch. If Rusty didn’t show in another few minutes, Clint would be forced to move to plan B, which meant he would have to beach Fortune’s Smile someplace out of the way and proceed on foot with his hostile companion to some safe haven where he could carry out the rest of his scheme. The circumstances wouldn’t be ideal, but he couldn’t stay where he was indefinitely. Jimmy Gabriole could even now be reporting his missing boat and sister to the police and the Coast Guard.

  He worked out the logistics in his head, using every minute of FBI training and experience under his belt to weight the pros and cons of his contingency plan, figuring the odds of his finding someplace to hole up without arousing suspicion. They weren’t very high.

  Just when he was about to decide he had to act on plan B, he heard a muffled honking noise, sort of a cross between a car horn and a lovesick walrus. Was it Rusty, or some intrepid shrimp boat warning him to get out of the way?

  He climbed through the hatch to the deck. The rain had let up again, but the wind was incredible, and cold. Sure enough, coming down the channel was a decrepit-looking fishing boat, small by shrimping standards and apparently not very seaworthy. Clint could barely make out the boat’s name, hand-painted in shaky letters: Phen-Hu.

  When someone on the other boat shined a searchlight in his direction, he waived a friendly greeting so they wouldn’t think he was in distress and report him to the Coast Guard.

  Instead of chugging on past him, though, the boat slowed, reversed, then angled toward him.

  Oh, no. Rusty wouldn’t have … couldn’t have. Clint had told him exactly where to go to rent a boat, whom to talk to, what type of boat to get, what story to tell. He’d provided cash for the transaction. And Rusty shows up with this—this atrocity?

  “Haloo!” a voice called on the wind. Rusty’s voice.

  Clint shuddered. The Phen-Hu looked like one good wave would sink it. What had Rusty been thinking? Well, hell, they were stuck with the decision now. Clint couldn’t afford to spend any more time aboard Gabriole’s boat.

  With the swells at six feet, it took forever to get the two boats close enough so that Rusty could throw out a catchable line. Clint snagged the rope on their third attempt.

  Even then, pulling the boats together wasn’t easy. Every gust of wind, every wave, conspired to keep the crafts apart. And when they did meet, they hit with alarming force.

  Clint couldn’t afford to waste any time. He had to get Marissa on board the Phen-Hu, then untether the two boats before they bashed each other to bits. He doubted his hostage would cooperate—especially when she saw the appearance of her destination boat. More rust than paint, the Phen-Hu was downright alarming.

  Rusty had climbed down from his perch in the cockpit. “You got the package?” he called to Clint.

  “Sure do.” And she was sound asleep. He hated the thought of dragging Marissa out in the wind and rain, but it had to be done. “Get ready to help me cross over.” Even in calm waters, jumping from one boat to another with a woman over his shoulder would be a trick.

  He went back down into the main cabin. Marissa was curled into a ball beneath the blanket, her head pillowed against her folded hands, her hair draped across her face. The dark lashes were stark against her pale cheeks. He felt an unwelcome stab of responsibility for her, something he hadn’t anticipated. He’d thought he would feel nothing for her but revulsion.

  Revulsion was the farthest thing from his mind.

  With a sigh he scooped her into his arms. She was a petite woman, thank goodness, but still an awkward package when it came to climbing the stairs through the tiny hatch. He put her over his shoulder, fireman-style. Everything was going well until she woke up … in a panic.

  “What? What are you doing?” she screamed, beating his back with her fists. She packed a pretty good wallop. With more hysteria than she’d shown all evening, she asked, “You’re throwing me overboard?”

  “Pipe down,” Clint said irritably. “If I were bent on drowning you, I could have done that earlier. I’m just moving you to another boat.”

  His reassurances didn’t stop her struggling. “Put me down!”

  “It’ll be easier this way, trust me.”

  “Trust you? Right. I don’t even know your name.”

  And she wouldn’t, if he had anything to say about it.

  “Oh, my God. Is that the boat I’m going on?”

  “Yup.”

  “It’s sinking!”

  “It’s not sinking.” Although it was listing decidedly to starboard. He hoped that was an optical illusion, due to the boats being tied together.

  “No, I don’t want to go on that boat. I refuse! You’re going to drown both of us!” Now Marissa was kicking in addition to the arm flailing and fist pounding.

  “You keep that up, and I’m liable to drop you between the boats.”

  “Why not? Why don’t you put some cement boots on me and get it over with? Isn’t that what you gangsters do?” She finally did stop struggling.

  Gangsters. Clint longed to tell her that he wasn’t the gangster in this scenario. Her brother had started this. If Jimmy had left Rachelle alone, Clint wouldn’t have resorted to such reprehensible behavior. But he couldn’t tell Marissa that. If by some miracle he came through this thing with his identity unknown, he didn’t want Marissa turning around and blabbing to the police or the media any clues about him. He might still preserve his job.

  Although, sometimes, he wasn’t sure he wanted it anymore.

  Hanging on to lines and awnings and anything that appeared as if it might give support, Clint staggered to the railing. There was a good five-foot gap between the boats when they pulled apart. “Can’t you pull them closer together?” Clint called to Rusty.

  “Just jump.”

  “With a hundred and ten pounds across my shoulder?”

  “Hand her over here, then.” Rusty held out his arms.

  Clint resisted that idea, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe he simply didn’t trust Rusty to keep Marissa under control. Or maybe he didn’t want the other man putting his hands on her. Rusty might not have the same degree of respect for their hostage as Clint did.

  Visions of dropping Marissa into the inky blackness of the water filled his mind, increasing his uneasiness. But he had to do this—and he could, if he timed it right. The two boats were habitually bumping together and pulling apart. There was a rhythm to it. He waited, counting, then made a leap just as the two railings came together. He landed in a stinking pile of ropes on the other boat.

  He’d taken most of the blow himself, shielding Marissa as they’d hit the deck. Now he had a sore shoulder and a sore
nose. But was she grateful? Of course not.

  “Pee-yuuu, this place stinks to high heaven,” she complained. “You take someone who’s seasick and toss her onto a pile of rope that smells like dead fish?”

  Clint stood and pulled Marissa to her feet in a hurry. He didn’t want her hurling again. But now that he thought about it, she didn’t sound sick anymore. Those pills must’ve done their job.

  As she fought with the blanket that was still wrapped around her, Clint scooped her into his arms. She was one feisty lady. He would have to tie her up again.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” she asked.

  “Taking you somewhere dry.”

  “Why isn’t she tied up?” Rusty wanted to know.

  “It’s a long story. And where did you get this pile of excrement you call a boat?”

  “I got such a deal,” Rusty said enthusiastically as he followed Clint through a doorway into a dark, dank interior that smelled even more strongly of fish. Clint guessed this was where the fishermen stored their catch. “The Phen-Hu’s crew didn’t want to take her out in this weather,” Rusty continued. “I gave them less than half what we would have paid for one of them fancy yachts like you wanted me to rent. And if we don’t return it—hey, who’s gonna believe a bunch of fishermen who can’t speak English?”

  Clint found his new partner’s logic almost as nauseating as the fish smell. Money wasn’t the issue here, didn’t he get that? Neither was stealing some family’s means of support. “We’ll be lucky if this tank lasts through the night,” he lashed out. “Next time I tell you to go to a certain place and rent a certain boat, just do it, okay?”

  “Hey, who says I gotta follow your orders? I’m not one of your fibbie lackeys. We’re in this together, equal partners.”

  Then why had Clint provided the plan, the provisions, and the money? He decided arguing with Rusty was futile at this point. Many a criminal operation had fallen apart because of infighting among the perpetrators.

  “Yeah, yeah, equal partners,” he said wearily. “Did you bring all the stuff I asked for?”

  “Of course I did. I’m not an idiot, Clint.”

  Clint cringed at the use of his name but made no comment. “Why don’t you cut us loose, and let’s see what this bucket of bolts can do?” he suggested. As soon as they were a safe distance away, he would make his first call to Jimmy. Rusty better have brought the special, untraceable cellular phone Clint had “borrowed” from the office.

  Marissa, who had stood stock still since Clint set her down in the hold, spoke up. “I’d rather sit out on deck than stay in this disgusting place,” she groused. “And what did your friend mean by ‘fibbie’? That’s jargon for FBI, isn’t it?”

  Terrific, just terrific. Clint was beginning to believe he’d made a terrible mistake by putting his trust, however limited, in his ex-brother-in-law.

  THREE

  Marissa’s stomach had calmed down. But she was cold and wet, she’d left everything familiar behind, her kidnapper had met up with a partner who really frightened her, and, perhaps worst of all, when the police finally found her, dead or alive, she would be wearing paisley boxer shorts and a clashing red T-shirt.

  She should have changed her clothes, but at the time she had the opportunity, she’d been feeling too sick to worry about fashion sense. If she’d only known how vulnerable and uncomfortable she would feel running around in her underwear! At least she had the blanket, soggy though it was.

  Her kidnapper had tied her up again, but at least he’d taken her out of the fishy hold and up to the cockpit. She had both wrists loosely tied to a strut that supported the canopy, but she still had enough freedom of movement so she could keep her balance when the waves hit. She was actually starting to get the hang of anticipating the boat’s bucks and swoops, and her seasickness was completely gone.

  Now she could devote herself to figuring out who her captors were and what they were trying to accomplish. She’d already learned some valuable information. The first guy, her kidnapper, was an FBI agent or former agent, and his name was Clint. His partner had referred to him by that name once, much to Clint’s displeasure.

  She didn’t know the other guy’s name, but for some reason he frightened her much more than Clint did. He was younger—in his twenties, Marissa guessed—and seemed more reckless, less focused. He looked on her as an object, a means to an end, rather than as a human being. As roughly as Clint had treated her, she got the feeling that he didn’t really want to hurt her, that he’d rather be home in bed asleep than perpetrating a crime.

  His partner, on the other hand, was enjoying himself.

  As for their motive for kidnapping her, she didn’t believe this fairy tale Clint had spun about a missing woman. It made no sense. Maybe he was covering up a cruder reason for this ridiculous production—greed. He was holding her for ransom.

  Jimmy didn’t have as much money as he led people to think. Actually, because of careful investing over the years, Marissa’s share of their parents’ legacy was a lot healthier than Jimmy’s. Why didn’t her captors ask her for ransom money? She’d give it to them.

  But why would some FBI agent be kidnapping for ransom? For Clint, at least, this operation felt distinctly personal. That thought made her frown with distaste. Was she part of some vendetta?

  The idea made her shiver more than the cool, misty wind. Revenge was a powerful motivator; she knew firsthand. She’d always feared, perhaps irrationally, that whoever had killed her parents would someday come back for her.

  “Where are we going?” she asked Clint as he passed by. Rusty was at the helm, whooping with glee every time the Phen-Hu plowed through a huge wave, sending rooster tails of water through the air and sometimes onto the three people on board.

  “You don’t need to know,” he said gruffly as he stared at a cellular phone. “How come your brother isn’t answering his page?”

  So he was calling Jimmy. If Jimmy wasn’t returning the page, Clint probably didn’t have his private pager number. He carried two—one for public use, and one for a select few people. Did she dare give it to Clint?

  She decided she might as well. The sooner he got hold of Jimmy, the faster this plan would proceed. Clint had said a few hours, by morning at the latest. She hoped that was true.

  “I’ll give you another number to try,” she said, shouting above the roar of the Phen-Hu’s sick-sounding engine.

  Clint raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

  “Yes.” She realized that since he’d washed the black off his face, he was kind of handsome, in a devilish way. Dark hair, dark eyes, eyebrows that slashed straight across his face—unless something piqued his interest. Then those eyebrows quirked and wavered all over the place—first one raised, then the other, then both pointed downward in a scowl, or elevated in feigned innocence.

  Well, his looks were irrelevant, she decided. Kidnappers came in all shapes and sizes. A good-looking one wasn’t necessarily any less lethal.

  He handed her the phone.

  “Can’t they trace the call?” she asked.

  “It’s difficult to trace a cellular phone. Anyway, this one’s untraceable.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “An FBI toy?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She punched in Jimmy’s private number, then handed it back. Clint listened, punched in another number, then hung up. “We’ll see. What time did you expect him back on the boat?”

  “Before now.” It was after one-thirty.

  “Damn. I sure as hell wanted to catch him before he called the cops.”

  Marissa didn’t say anything, but the chances of Jimmy calling the cops were slim to none, unless he was positive the theft of his boat and the kidnapping of his sister weren’t related to the organization. The people Jimmy hung around with didn’t like police involvement for any reason. Men had been known to die for bringing authorities in at inconvenient times.

  If only Jimmy would steer clear of those bad-apple friends of his. But to
Jimmy, friendship—belonging, being an accepted part of the gang—was more important than just about anything else.

  Clint’s phone rang. He flipped it open nervously. “Yeah?”

  “Is it him?” Marissa asked.

  “Shh!” The younger man, the one driving the boat, held up a hand to silence Marissa. He was tense, his knuckles white around the steering wheel. “What’s he say?”

  “Mr. Gabriole,” Clint said in acknowledgment, “I have someone here you should talk to.” He held the phone up to Marissa’s ear.

  “Jimmy? Where are you?”

  “Never mind me. What’s wrong, sissy?”

  She tried her best to curb the sudden wave of hysteria that threatened. She had to communicate as much information as possible while she had the chance. “A guy broke into your boat. He stole it and took me with him.”

  “My boat?”

  “Jimmy, I’ve been kidnapped! Listen to what they have to say.”

  “Have they hurt you?” he bellowed.

  “No, not yet. I’m on the Phen—” Clint had jerked the phone away before she could tell Jimmy the name of the boat. Fast reflexes, she thought.

  “Did you hear that? I’ve got your precious Marissa, and if you want her back in one piece, you’ll pay close attention.”

  Marissa shuddered. Clint’s voice sounded different when he talked to Jimmy, harsher, meaner. He didn’t sound like the same man who had held her while she was sick, murmuring words of comfort.

  “I’m looking for a woman,” Clint said. “Rachelle Pierce. You know who she is, and you know where she is.” There was a pause. Then Clint said, “I’m going to give your memory a chance to improve. Unless you’d like for me to forget your sister’s name and what I did with her, your memory will improve. Meanwhile, don’t even think about calling the cops, or you’ll never see Marissa alive again. Oh, and by the way, your sister’s a nice-looking woman. The longer I have her, the more tempting she gets, understand?” He hung up with a curse.