Crenshaw in particular seemed obsessed with it. Even after they had become friends of a sort, the aristocratic Brit continued to grill Vik on it, as if there was something he just needed to remember or realize. It was wasted effort as far as Vik was concerned. All he knew was that he was raised by Nirwasha, who spoke to him in Tamil and Mandarin Chinese, depending on her mood, and sometimes English. He knew she was not his real mother—for one thing, she was of Indian origin and he did not seem to be—but she loved him and she protected him, and she had always told him that when her husband was taken from her, he sent Vik to comfort her, a little boy, barely walking, who did not know where he came from. Then when Nirwasha died, he was left with nothing, with no one, until Crenshaw took an interest in a petty thief who had divested him of his wallet and pushed a purpose on him.
It was really gratitude to Crenshaw that made Vik submit to the DNA test when the older man urged it on him. He didn’t see what good it would really do, but Crenshaw intimated that Interpol had access to DNA records of a wide swath of people—something they probably weren’t entitled to maintain—and they might tell him who he was.
He knew who he was. Vikram Pillay, foster son of Nirwasha Pillay. What more did he need to know? Certainly not that it turned out he was the biological son of somebody named Victor Haverford, sixth earl of something or other. When Crenshaw relayed this to him, Vik actually laughed. “I don’t believe it.”
“Yes, yes, that’s it!” The old man was as excited as he had ever seen him. “That’s why you seemed so familiar to me when I first saw you on the street. I was at school with Victor’s father. You’re the spitting image of him!”
Vik took the old man’s word for it. He wanted nothing to do with any supposed grandmother still alive or long-dead father. The explanation Crenshaw had pieced together didn’t interest him either. Something about a diplomatic mission to Singapore gone wrong when this Victor was killed and his tiny son disappeared. The only thing he was interested in was making sure Nirwasha’s memory wasn’t tarnished. “She had nothing to do with anything like that. She couldn’t have.”
“I’m not suggesting anything of the sort, my boy. She undoubtedly did find you, just as she said. But why she didn’t take you to the British Embassy—”
“Enough. I’ve taken your damn test. I’m done with it.”
“But your grandmother—”
“Not another word, Crenshaw. I mean it.”
Vik jerked awake and this time it wasn’t because Samantha was draped all over him. In fact, she was curled up into a little ball, facing away from him and sleeping peacefully. He concentrated, trying to discern what he’d heard. And there it was again. A slight footfall in the passageway outside the room. If that was Santiago or one of the others, they were being too quiet about it to signal any good intentions. He sat up quietly and padded to the door as lightly as he could. When he put his ear to it, he couldn’t hear a thing. Maybe he had imagined it. Samantha stirred a bit, drawing his attention back to her, and it was then that he heard it. Just a few whispered words, but in Czechoslovakian, a language none of the crew spoke. He doubted any SEALs come to rescue Samantha did either, at least with no accent.
“In there,” was all whoever it was had said, but Vik didn’t exactly feel like making their acquaintance under the circumstances. The door was locked, but wouldn’t hold against an automatic weapon. Making as little noise as he could manage, he went to Samantha’s side, cupping his hand over her mouth and picking her up out of bed. She came awake just as they got to the bathroom, struggling at first, ’til he pulled her close, slipping her legs to the floor and whispering in her ear as he closed the bathroom door quietly, “There’s someone out there, coming in to kill us. You have to hide down here.” He opened the cabinet beneath the sink, which was just big enough for her to squeeze into, and tried to urge her down. Just as she was resisting, the first round of bullets flew through the door connecting the suite to the hallway. He shoved her down and in, closing the cabinet swiftly, and then turned the shower on, all the way to the hot end, leaving the shower door open. He could just see the steam rising as they kicked in the bathroom door and he dove out of the way.
Samantha was absolutely terrified. More terrified than she’d ever been in her entire life—which was really saying something given what she’d been through in the last forty-eight hours. Burying her head in her hands, she heard a mixture of noises that blended together to let her hear everything and yet give her absolutely no clue as to what was going on. Thuds and kicks and volleys of shots played out against the background of the pounding of the shower as she crouched in her hiding place. This was sickeningly reminiscent of being shoved into the locker by her father. Was she forever just hidden away while others tried to spare her from whatever fate awaited her?
She wished she could shape her fate for once and not hide like a coward where some man had pushed her.
And yet she found she could not move. Literally could not move. It could have been an hour or a minute. It felt the same to her. Then the noise of the shower disappeared and a guttural staccato of what sounded like commands replaced it.
Oh my God.
A separate voice in what sounded like the same language responded. The shot that came next felt like the end of her own life. Oh my God. Vik was dead and she was left to whoever had burst into the room, soon to be dead herself.
Unless they were her rescuers…but the language…
The cabinet door opened and gentle hands urged her arms to loosen from where they had been protecting her head in a futile gesture.
“You can come out. They’re dead.” His whispered words were in English and she opened her eyes to see the deep-green eyes she’d come to know.
“Vik!” She surged out from her hiding place and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder to avoid the sight of the two black-clad bodies on the floor of the bathroom, that telltale red-purple pool beginning to form around their heads.
Vik let her hug him for a second and then disengaged himself. “Come on. We have to get out of here. They weren’t alone.”
He was still whispering and so she did the same. “Who were they? They weren’t…here for me, were they?”
“Yeah. But not to rescue you.” He took her hand. “Now come on.”
Vik hadn’t gotten much from the one left alive for a minute. Just that their orders were to kill everybody, but especially him and the girl.
Christ, what the hell had happened?
They crept along the passageway as stealthily as possible, which was to say not so much with Samantha dogging his heels and bumping into him every two seconds. After what she’d been through, though, he didn’t have the heart to mention it.
The sounds of Czechoslovakian drifted down from the upper deck. They weren’t bothering to be quiet, whoever they were, the shots from below evidently signaling to them that the last of their targets were dead. That must mean Santiago and all the rest of them had already been knocked off.
It was to his surprise, then, that he heard Santiago’s voice. “Shit. Don’t any of the rest of you speak English? Spanish? Anything other than this gobbledygook? Where’s the one of you that spoke English when you came on board?”
“I speak English,” one of them said.
“Good. ’Cause what I want to know is when do I get my money? It ain’t my fault that asshole was a cop. So what I want to know is do I get everybody’s share now they’re all dead?”
The rapid fire of a machine gun was his answer. Then the thud of Santiago’s body hitting the deck could clearly be heard.
“No,” one of the Czechs said and there was a sound of laughter all around. Vik tried to tell from the volume how many there were, but all he knew was there were too many. He spared a glance at Samantha who was practically glued to him now. He looked beyond her to the porthole on one wall. A motorboat was moored alongside.
“You swim, right?” he whispered.
* * * * *
Sama
ntha shivered in the black water next to him, both of them keeping as little of their heads above water as they could and still breathe. He actually couldn’t believe they had managed to get off the yacht, creeping to the end of the salon and slipping up the stairway that led into the kitchen. When they lowered themselves into the water, no one was around, but if someone had been, Vik would have killed them. He had killed the two who’d ambushed them in their room, and he would do everything humanly possible to get them to safety. In the water, he towed Samantha, their hands joined, along the side of the yacht, so close that someone would have to be looking over the railing to notice them. When suddenly a motorboat was in sight, he stopped, turning around to whisper, “We have to get on that. Both of us. But if there’s someone on it, I have to take care of them. So you’ll need to drive.”
“Drive where?”
“Anywhere. Just away. If it’s empty, I’ll handle it, but if it’s not, you’re the driver. Understand?”
She nodded.
Christ, it would be a fucking miracle if they didn’t get splattered back into the sea as soon as they tried this, either by someone left guarding the motorboat or by someone on the deck of the yacht. But they had to take the chance. There was no other choice.
It was a good sign as they edged toward the motorboat that nobody came to lean over the side. But when they were right upon it, Vik saw there was a black-clad figure in the driver’s seat. When behind him Samantha’s slight stroke in the water made a sound, he tensed, sure the guy would whip around, gun in hand. But he didn’t.
Some watchdog.
Well, there was no point in putting this off. The motorboat was loosely tied to a hook on the side of the yacht. “Go untie that,” he indicated to her. “Then jump in the boat right away, and drive.”
She nodded, not questioning him. She had seen the man in the boat as well.
Without further hesitation, Vik swam the last few yards to the boat, quickly, with strong fierce strokes, not bothering to be quiet since it only took a few seconds to reach the boat. By the time he’d pulled himself on board, the guard was reaching for the gun he’d put down and Vik launched at him, kicking it out of reach. With half his brain, he heard the thud of Samantha pulling herself on board and as he grappled with his opponent, the motor came alive. Unfortunately, so did the rest of them on the deck of the yacht. Just as Samantha was pulling the motorboat away, and just as Vik was snapping the guard’s neck, he heard shouts above him.
The bullets sprayed them, and Vik lunged forward through the violent rocking of the motorboat coming to full speed, to push Samantha to the floor and take the wheel himself.
Shit. He hoped to hell there was a full tank of gas.
* * * * *
The assassins were out of range now and there was no way the yacht could keep up with the speed of the motorboat. Vik only wondered how the hell he had slept through its approach. They must have cut the motor and swam to the yacht and then Santiago, the fucking idiot, had welcomed them on board. Either he’d received word they were coming or he swiftly ingratiated himself once they had, at least enough to live a little longer than the rest of the crew.
Oh shit. A bug. Exterminators. That was what Samantha had been trying to tell him. He looked at her sitting in one of the back seats, clinging to the railing as she had ever since he had paused to fling the dead guard over the side. He sure as hell owed her an apology. If he hadn’t been so dismissive of her, he might have figured out what the message meant and been forewarned. Instead he had concentrated on belittling her. Oh, and fucking her brains out. He was surprised either of them could even walk after the bout of sex they’d had only hours earlier. He smiled. They made a pretty good team.
Vik headed west. He didn’t dare head toward The Victory. Whatever the hell Damien Reynolds had done to try to rescue his daughter, it had blown Vik’s cover and before any rescue mission could show up, the Czech assassins did. He had no way of knowing whether the traitor was on The Victory at this very moment. He had to somehow get Samantha safe first, and then contact Crenshaw to be brought in.
* * * * *
J.D. Kates, in the standard operating black wet suit of a navy SEAL, removed his night goggles.
“Clear,” one of the men called from the can. “Just two stiffs in here.”
J.D. flicked the lights on and went to check out the bodies, crouching next to the one who appeared to have been half in and half out of the shower when he was shot. He pulled the man’s sleeve up and saw the tattoo on his forearm that confirmed he was an assassin.
He stood. At least Vik didn’t seem to be on board.
Unfortunately, neither was Samantha Reynolds. Her father and brother had moved heaven and earth to get this task force here in record time. But it looked as if they were too late. Just these two bodies and the bodies of what looked to be the original pirate crew.
To be absolutely certain, though, before he returned to The Victory to deliver the bad news, he barked, “Search every foot of this bloated toy and make sure they’re not here.”
Michael Reynolds disembarked from the helicopter onto the deck of the Interpol ship. Ushered into a salon as luxurious as that on The Samantha, but not as big, he thought for a minute his father wasn’t there. Just an old man and what appeared to be the captain of the vessel. When he realized that the old man was Damien Reynolds, he almost rushed forward to hug him. God, he looked as though he had aged twenty years. But Michael didn’t hug him. Damien would not appreciate the gesture.
“Michael. Good. You’re here. Maybe you can make some sense out of this damn fucking fiasco.”
“What happened? Couldn’t the SEALs get on board? Was Samantha…was she hurt?”
“No, they got on board all right. But Samantha wasn’t there.”
“They took her off the yacht?”
“I’m Ryan Chaps, the captain.” The other man in the salon held out his hand and Michael shook it.
“Where is my sister?”
“I’m afraid we don’t know, Mr. Reynolds. She and our agent weren’t on board when the rescue force took the yacht.”
“Well, what happened to them? Did you question the others?”
“They were all dead,” his father barked. “Dead.”
Michael looked to the captain.
“It appears, Mr. Reynolds, that assassins may have boarded the yacht before we could and murdered the crew, all but our agent and your sister.”
“And they took them?”
“Maybe. Two of the assassins were killed, though, in what appears to have been Miss Reynolds’ room. So it’s possible…”
“What?”
Chaps seemed to be weighing whether to continue. But then he said, “Our agent is highly trained. It’s possible—and I don’t want to get your hopes up—but it is just possible our agent may have gotten Miss Reynolds away and that’s why they weren’t there with the rest of the bodies.”
“Or they could have been taken.”
“The dead assassins came from a Czechoslovakian sect that’s very elite, very ruthless. I’d be extremely surprised if they were hired for anything other than to kill. Kidnapping is not their forte.”
“Yes, it’s just Interpol’s,” his father cracked.
“If your man had somehow gotten away with my sister, wouldn’t he have brought her here? He knew this ship was in the vicinity, didn’t he?”
“Yes. That’s a part of the puzzle I admit doesn’t make much sense.”
“None of this makes any sense.”
“Why Czechoslovakian? What was your agent investigating? Piracy?”
A pause. Then the captain said, “Only as a means to an end.”
“And the end?”
“Human trafficking. Vik was trying to infiltrate a human trafficking ring run by a very powerful Russian oligarch. Young girls sold into sexual slavery.”
His father gasped. “Oh, my God. Is that what happened to my Samantha?”
Another man entered the salon. “Not if Vik has a
breath left in his body. I can assure you that.”
“Oh, Kates,” the captain said. “Come in. This is J.D. Kates, the SEAL who led the rescue team.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t turn out to be much of a rescue,” the man said, shaking hands with him. His father declined.
“I’m sure you did everything you could,” Michael said. No point in blaming this man for the fact they were too late.
“Well, I just want to say I’m sure Vik did.”
“Our agent,” Captain Chaps clarified.
“I’ve worked with him on more than one mission and I got to tell you, he’s the best chance your sister could have, Mr. Reynolds. He’s a mean, smart son of a bitch and if there was a way to save her, he’d have found it.”
Michael hoped to God the man was right.
“I’d recommend doing aerial surveillance,” Kates suggested. “Maybe they got away in a raft like the pirates set your father and the rest of them adrift in.”
“Do you think that’s possible?”
The SEAL shrugged. “It’s worth a try.”
“Tell the pilot to take off immediately then.” Damien instructed the captain quickly.
“I’m afraid that may not be possible, Mr. Reynolds.” A man Michael had forgotten was right behind him spoke up. “He tells me there’s some weather in our path and that he’d have trouble flying out of it at this point. He’s advising we sit tight and wait it out.”
Damien glared at the man who looked as if he had stepped off the set of West Wing. Blond, clean cut, too handsome to be a real politician, Avery Windom, the undersecretary of something or other at the State Department, was obviously a sycophant of the first order. When Michael made the call that produced this rescue mission in short order, Avery, far, far underneath the level of the man who’d arranged it, was ordered to go along and Michael didn’t care one way or the other. But now the man dared to interfere?
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