Hank discouraged her from trying to talk to him. At this point, Robert Prancer was a problem for the authorities.
But first, she thought, they all had to deal with Hurricane Hope.
Babs Winslow’s cottage had endured countless storms, but there were no guarantees it would survive this one. Antonia and Hank collected towels to tuck under the doors and windows in case water started seeping in, and they filled every jug, pitcher and bowl available with fresh water. She tried not to envision the roof blowing off, the cottage splintering with them inside.
“You betrayed me.” Robert’s voice was calm, almost matter of fact. “You’re a traitor to your profession. Bitch doctor. That’s what everyone’s going to call you. I’ll say it loud and clear at my trial. I won’t be convicted. You know that, don’t you?”
Hank picked up the roll of duct tape. “One more word, and you’re getting gagged.”
“Fuck you. Fuck the bitch doctor.”
That was all Hank needed. He ripped off a six-inch length of duct tape, but Prancer promised to keep quiet. Hank winked at Antonia. “He’ll be convicted.” But he went still, then grinned suddenly. “I hear a helicopter.”
“What? I don’t hear anything.” But she stopped, because now she heard it, a steady whir that she’d thought was the wind or the surf. “Do you think—I should get my flares.”
But she didn’t need them. When they ran out onto the front porch, the helicopter was already low over the island. Hank grinned. “Feels weird to be on this end of a rescue.”
“Carine. She must have sounded the alarm.”
“Tyler, too. He’d raise hell.”
“He’s in Florida—”
“Not if he found a way up here.” Hank opened the front door and shouted back to Prancer. “I’m looking forward to introducing you to my friend Master Sergeant Tyler North.”
Antonia felt a tightness in her chest. Her arm ached, but she didn’t mind that so much. “Hank, I’ve put you in a terrible position.”
“I put myself here. You didn’t. I did what I had to do. No regrets. No second-guessing.” He slung an arm over her shoulder, careful to avoid her injury. “Well, Doc, looks as if you’re going to have to ride in a helicopter after all.”
She managed a laugh. “For once, I don’t mind. It beats staying out here in a hurricane.” But that was bravado—she didn’t like helicopters. “The police aren’t going to like it that a senate candidate was knifed.”
“Hell, I don’t like it. They won’t like having an E.R. doctor shot, either.”
The helicopter landed on a relatively dry spot near the cottage, and within minutes, Hank was proved right. Compact, green-eyed, tawny-haired Tyler North, a lion of a man, jumped out. He had somehow wormed his way onto the rescue flight. Now he was their link between disaster and the helicopter.
Hank swore under his breath. “Damn. I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”
Tyler grinned at him. “Never. Dr. Winter? You need a litter?”
“I can walk.”
But, actually, she couldn’t. He saw that before she did. So did Hank. They strapped her into a litter and got her on board the helicopter, another crewman waiting with Robert Prancer. Then they got him on board.
Mercifully, Antonia, who didn’t like helicopters, passed out for the short ride back to the mainland.
Tyler disappeared before Hope hit.
“Marry Antonia, will you?” he told Hank. “It’ll take Gus’s mind off killing me.”
“Carine—”
“She’ll be fine. She won’t want to get in the way of her sister’s happiness. Trust her.”
“Is she here?”
“She’s here. Gus, too.”
Hank had known his friend wouldn’t stick around. He knew, too, that Ty hadn’t found his way to Cape Cod to earn Hank’s undying gratitude—he’d done it because that was what he did, because it was Antonia, and it was Carine. Ty was gone before she made her way to Antonia. Gus was at her side, fifty years old, rangy, totally pissed off.
Antonia ignored all of them and got access to a proper medical bag so she could sew up her own arm, informing everyone who tried to dissuade her that she did this sort of thing for a living.
Stubborn. Hard-bitten. Independent. Hank grinned. For all his faults, Tyler North did know the Winter family of Cold Ridge, New Hampshire.
There were police to talk to. Antonia muttered something about pulling another faint to get out of it, but she handled all the questions with a calm and directness Hank had come to expect of her, and knew he would always admire.
Carine, it turned out, had let herself into her sister’s apartment in Boston and found shredded lingerie hanging out of Antonia’s dresser drawer, and that was it. She called the police. The evidence led them to Robert Prancer. They got a warrant to search his apartment and found it wallpapered with pictures of Antonia. There were some of Hank, too. Most were smeared with red paint.
A missing E.R. doctor. A missing senate candidate.
“That’s when the shit really hit the fan,” Carine said with a faltering smile as they finally gathered in a local tavern to ride out the storm. It was too late to make it over the bridge to Boston, or farther inland to higher ground.
“Gus was already on his way?” Antonia asked.
“He was already there. Ty called him. The bastard.”
Hank suspected no one had told her that Ty had participated in the rescue—the media hadn’t got hold of that one.
Gus shifted in his chair. He was drinking hot chocolate—no alcohol, he said, until the storm was over. No one else paid any attention. He glowered at the older of his two nieces. “You should have come to the mountains. What do you know about the ocean? We could have pitched this Prancer asshole right off a cliff.”
She smiled. “I love you, Gus. And Hank and I handled him.”
“Yeah. You and Hank.”
Carine raised her pink drink—a cosmopolitan. “I think you and Hank make a great couple. An E.R. doctor and a U.S. senator. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” She sipped some of her drink, of which she’d already had too much. “To an autumn wedding for a Winter!”
“Carine!” Antonia blanched, sinking low in her chair. She’d popped a pill—pain medication, Hank suspected—and was avoiding alcohol. “We’ve all had too much excitement, I think.”
The wind howled and whistled outside, but the inn they’d picked had been around since the late eighteenth century. It was filled with various rescue and work crews ready to go out after the storm had passed, and they all were making no pretenses about listening in.
Carine was unapologetic. “Oh, come on, Antonia. No time to be repressed. Hank’s so in love with you. What’s the word I’m looking for, Gus? Besotted?”
“Sloshed,” her uncle said. “Time to keep your mouth shut, Carine.”
Hank, sitting next to Antonia, leaned in close to her. “Your sister’s right. I am in love with you. Besotted.”
“I’m feeling light-headed.” Antonia sipped her water. “I think it must be the medication. I forget what I took—”
“You didn’t forget,” Hank said.
She smiled. “No, I didn’t.” She couldn’t seem to stop herself from giggling, something Hank doubted Antonia Winter, M.D., did often enough. “Oh, God. I love you so much. I have from the second I laid eyes on you. You remember? You were standing in front of the woodstove in Carine’s cabin.”
“I remember. I knew you were stricken.” He grinned at her. “I could tell.”
Carine sniffled. “I love happy endings.”
The two auburn-haired, blue-eyed sisters started giggling, and Gus rolled his eyes and motioned to the bartender. “No more of those pink drinks.” He looked darkly over at Hank. “You set the date, you’re sticking to it. You got that? I’m not mending another broken heart.”
Hank nodded but said nothing. Antonia touched his thigh under the table. “We’ll make it a simple wedding.”
“Not ac
count of me, you won’t,” Carine said, shaking her head adamantly. “Hank, if you want Tyler to be in your wedding—”
“Carine!” Antonia sat up straight, more alert now. “We wouldn’t do that to you! You’re going to be my maid of honor.”
“Do what to me?” She set her jaw in that stubborn Winter way that Hank had come to know. “I’ve known Ty since we were tots. I have the scars to prove it. It’s no big deal. He can be in your wedding.”
“He’ll be out of the country,” Hank said quietly.
Carine scoffed. “What, on a secret mission?”
“Maybe.”
But someone at the bar pointed to the television, and a meteorologist was saying what they could all feel—hurricane force winds were hitting Cape Cod.
Hope weakened rapidly and didn’t do its worst to Cape Cod. Damage would be limited mostly to flooding, torn shingles, trees down, flying debris, lost boats. Everyone in the tavern agreed they were lucky. They’d dodged disaster.
A Coast Guard helicopter flew over Shelter Island after Hope had moved on out to sea, and the pilot reported that Babs Winslow’s cottage had survived with just a few shingles torn off and a window blown out.
Antonia felt a pain in her gut, remembering that Robert Prancer had shot out the window. The damage wasn’t from Hope.
Her quiet refuge was now a crime scene.
The rescue and work crews had dispersed, but she and her sister and uncle—and Hank—remained in the tavern. The bartender passed out free sandwiches and reported media swarming in the lobby.
Gus grinned. “Must be because of me.”
Carine, who’d fallen asleep on their uncle’s shoulder as if she were a little girl again, elbowed him in the stomach. “Gus, you’re not that funny.”
Antonia realized they were just trying to distract her. They’d rehashed the events on the island all through the storm, tried to make sense of Robert Prancer and his motives, his reasoning, but he clearly operated according to his own logic, reacting to events according to whatever he was feeling at the time. He’d never had a clear, specific, calculated plan, which, in a way, made him even more frightening. There was no way to predict what he’d do. Taunt her. Scare her. Hurt her. Kill her.
But she and Gus and Carine, and Nate, were a family who’d seen their share of crises, and they knew how to deal with them.
Hank tucked stray locks of her hair behind her ear. “Looks like I need to conduct an impromptu press conference.”
She nodded. “They’ll want to know everything.”
“I plan to tell them everything. I’m a man who was worried about the woman I love, and I went to her.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Do you want to be there?”
“At your side?” She smiled, kissing him softly. “Always.”
CAPSIZED
Sharon Sala
For my auntie, Lorraine Stone,
who shares my love of writing, and who waves the flag of my success as fervently as my mother does. Thank you, Auntie, for talking my talk.
1
Even though there was a gentle breeze teasing the palm fronds hanging over the second floor balcony of Dominic Ortega’s Mexican mansion, for DEA agent Kelly Sloan, the pseudo-Eden was in fact a true hell. At twenty-seven, she was one of the best undercover agents the Drug Enforcement Agency had, which was why she was so far away from her home state of Maryland. It was her dark hair and eyes, as well as her fluency in Spanish, that helped her blend easily into assignments such as this, as did her Masters in chemistry. As an undercover agent, she was used to dangerous situations, but something about this case was different.
Tomorrow would be the fourteenth day since Ortega had invited her into his home. Before, she’d been staying in the sleeping quarters near the lab where the other chemists worked, but since her move into the mansion, she had used every tactic she knew to keep Ortega pacified without having to sleep with him.
Only now time was running out. She had enough information to put him away for life, but she had a problem. For the past two days, she had been unable to reach her contact in Tijuana. She didn’t want to think about what that meant.
But tomorrow, Dominic was going to Mexico City, and she’d talked him into taking her with him. She’d made plans to ditch him there and get back to the States. She’d already accumulated the evidence to qualify him for the death penalty. Right before she’d moved into the mansion, she’d mailed everything she had back to herself in the States. Everything would still work out. She would get back to D.C. with time to spare before testifying at Ponce Gruber’s trial, then wait for Ortega to be arrested, then extradited.
Coming here had been chancy, but necessary. Three months ago, Ortega’s brother-in-law, Ponce Gruber, had been arrested for arson and murder. They had enough on him to warrant the death penalty, and Gruber knew it, but he’d offered to deal. Giving up his brother-in-law would have been a death sentence of another sort, so the deal had to be something different. That was when the DEA had offered him the option of giving them enough information to get someone inside Ortega’s organization. Tell them what to look for and where, then they would do the rest. Gruber had been more than willing to trade information for a life sentence. There would be no way Ortega could link the mole to him, so he would stay alive.
It had taken Kelly a month to make the first connection Gruber gave them, then another month to work her way into Dominic Ortega’s immediate surroundings. Using her knowledge and skills in the manufacturing of designer drugs, and posing as a chemist named Paloma Santiago, she quickly became invaluable at the research laboratory on Ortega’s estate.
After that, it was only a matter of time before Ortega noticed her. Assuming she would be impressed by his power and good looks, Ortega had invited her to stay in the mansion. She’d accepted his invitation, but with reservations. She had announced no mixing business with pleasure. Ortega had been interested enough to let her get by with it, but Kelly knew his patience was running thin.
Today, she had lingered in the house, reluctant to go to the lab. She would wonder later how her life might have been different if she had done what she was supposed to do.
Instead, she turned to face the breeze, enjoying the momentary break in the heat while holding a Tropical Suicide in one hand and a pair of sunglasses in the other. It was a bit early in the day to be drinking, but she felt a restlessness—almost a wariness—that she couldn’t explain. Thinking the alcohol punch in the fruit-flavored drink might be just what she needed, she’d readily accepted it. But now an hour had passed, and except for a couple of sips, she’d barely tasted it.
“Señorita…do you wish another drink?”
Kelly shook her head, then smiled down at the houseboy who had called up to her from the patio below. One Tropical Suicide was dangerous. Two could make her lose her edge, and that she couldn’t afford. Not when she was this close to bringing Dominic Ortega down.
She looked up, then turned her gaze to the north. Home was somewhere beyond the horizon, and she wished she was there. The Mexican side of the border could be beautiful, but she was not here on vacation.
She took a small, careful sip of her drink, wincing at the potency of the rum and tequila mix, then went back into her room to get ready to go to the lab. In doing so, she missed seeing the arrival of Dominic’s latest guest.
Jose Garza was a third-rate pusher working in the stateside faction of Ortega’s organization. He’d seen the woman up on the balcony as he’d driven up, but she’d turned away before he’d gotten a good look at her face. Dominic was a man who liked beautiful women, and Jose thought nothing more of her as Ortega himself came out to greet him.
“Jose! It is good to see you again!” Dominic enfolded Garza in a manly hug.
Jose smiled as he returned the affectionate greeting. It was good to be back where he belonged.
“It is good to be home,” Jose said, then stepped back, eyeing Dominic’s elegant white shirt and pants, as well as the diamonds he was wearing.
Dominic’s thank you was a smile as he slid a hand across Jose’s shoulder and guided him into the house. As he did, sunlight caught and fired through the ring he wore on his right hand. It was an emerald-cut diamond set in a chunk of pure silver, and yet another diamond glittered as it dangled from a silver chain around his neck.
Ortega coveted the precious gems as a greedy woman might have done, and while he was movie star handsome, his looks were not enough to hide his ruthlessness and greed. Jose Garza wished, on a daily basis, that he could be this man.
Dominic turned, calling out to a passing servant to bring them some food and drink, then led the way into a large, open room with doors flung wide onto an adjoining, flower-lined, terrace.
“Sit. Eat,” he said, as a servant brought a large tray of food; then he stepped out into the foyer and called up the staircase. “Paloma…I need you.”
Moments later, Kelly appeared at the head of the stairs, wearing a backless red and white ankle-length dress. Dominic smiled wolfishly at the dark-haired beauty, then waved her down. Although he had plenty of other willing women to fulfill his sexual needs, he had yet to bed this one.
As soon as Kelly stepped off the last step, she shifted mental gears. Dominic Ortega knew her as Paloma Santiago, and Paloma not only worked for Ortega, she was supposed to be attracted to him, despite her insistence on keeping her distance. She hid her revulsion as he threaded his fingers through her hair.
“I was just on my way to the lab,” she said.
He fingered the front of her dress just above her breasts.
“In this dress?”
“I like to look nice for you,” she said softly.
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