by Jayna Vixen
Wince derived a strange comfort from knowing that he still had it. He wasn’t rusty at all. Once he broke the encryption to the witness protection website, he had to narrow down the possibilities, which was challenging because the data was encrypted. Wince hardly noticed the hours going by as he skimmed through hundreds of names and locations. Each case was assigned to an agent, who was designated by a number and a letter. He wasn’t sure what the symbols meant, but he would find out. Wince was like a dog with a bone when it came to cracking codes. And this code could mean everything to Rhee.
Given what the stowaway had disclosed the other night, it didn’t seem likely that the stowaway’s kid sister was dead. No, the whole thing smacked of a cover up. Even their contact back in Darling’s police department had hinted that getting involved might be dangerous. The detective’s attitude had garnered suspicion with both Dax and Wince, but they had planned on letting the stowaway recover a little from her ordeal before launching their own investigation into Mickey’s whereabouts. No one had expected to wake up the next morning to discover that the stowaway had disappeared without a trace.
Wince flexed his fingers. He hadn’t felt this kind of burn in his hands in a long time. The slightly sore feeling was almost addictive because it was connected with the rush of cracking codes. If Slade hadn’t come to get him, he would have missed the boat, quite literally. Wince sighed, wishing he was back in the hotel, plugging away at his latest puzzle. He motioned for the newest club pledge to join him on the dock. Slade was young, but pretty resourceful. He was handling himself well so far. Wince nodded at the yacht.
“Almost show time. Help me load the guns, then stay out of the way.”
Slade nodded. “No problem.”
Wince offered a thin smile. The kid sounded confident and secure. His voice didn’t waver at all. Sure of himself. Kind of reminded Wince of Dax in a way.
“Slade.”
The younger man tilted his shades up to gaze respectfully at Wince. “Yeah, man?”
“Good job the other night.”
The ghost of a smile graced Slade’s features. “Thanks.”
“Where’d you find her?”
Now the kid grinned outright. “I called anonymously and asked the concierge.”
Wince felt his mouth fall open in shock. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Wince smiled. Dax would like hearing about this. Shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare, Wince could see Vidal and his troupe of goons appear on the deck of the yacht. One of the man’s minions stood guard at the small dock, ready to search them as they walked onto the boat. Wince popped a few antacids and recited a silent anti-puking prayer. Then, he and Slade each grabbed a duffle and headed to the gleaming, white vessel. Wince found his mind wandering and he was grateful for the distraction. Once he was back on dry land, he fully planned on getting back to his new, self-initiated mission.
Finding Michaela Blake.
Chapter Nineteen
The afternoon passed with agonizing slowness for Rhee. Tiny had assured her his crew would prep the shed, but it wasn’t fair for them to do everything. So, she and Sirena tackled it themselves. Well, to be accurate, Sirena had fun putting everything Rhee took out of the shed back into it so the task took twice as long as it should have, but Rhee didn’t mind. Quite the opposite, actually. She was grateful to have such a physical distraction, even if she knew she’d be sore the next morning.
“Mama, I want eat!”
Rhee pushed a sweaty palm across her face, and it came back tinged with dirt. A long piece of hair slipped from her clip to tickle her nose. She stood back and regarded the shed with a critical eye. With everything out of it, it was definitely large enough to house some of her print work, but she was concerned about the moisture outside. Actually, now that she was able to take a closer look at the structure, Rhee could see quite a few gaps in the walls. No good. Oh well, at least it would be organized for Manali now. Her art would be safe at Turtle’s large estate until she figured out what to do next.
“Okay, monkey. Let’s shower and have a snack.”
The feel of her daughter’s hand in her own gave Rhee pause. She looked down at the blond hair and stubborn jaw and on impulse, swept Sirena into her arms.
“Ow, mommy! Too tight!” the little girl complained, as Rhee gripped her like a lifeline.
This thing with Dax…it couldn’t wait any longer. Rhee had to know what he felt, what he wanted. Resolutely, Rhee decided that unless he was in it for the long haul, she didn’t want Sirena to know that Dax was her father. It would just be too painful. Rhee knew what it was like to lose her parents, and she refused to put Sirena through that kind of heartache. Hell, it might even be worse, knowing you had a father who chose not to be around.
She needed to track Dax down, and ask him point blank about his intentions with Sirena. And herself. So far, he had communicated anger, attraction, and the desire to—holy hell—spank her. Rhee stifled a gasp.
“Down, mommy!” Reluctantly, she let Sirena go.
“Sorry, baby. Let’s go in.”
A short time later, they were clean, and fed. Instead of the afternoon nap Rhee craved, she found herself meowing in what she hoped was a reasonable approximation of a tomcat as she and Sirena crawled around on the floor.
Never thought I’d be doing this, she thought to herself, a giggle brewing in her soul as she basked in the radiant exuberance of her daughter. Rhee sobered suddenly. She certainly couldn’t imagine Dax doing something like this—playing with a child, crawling on the floor pretending to be an animal, giving baths or making Mickey Mouse pancakes. What was his agenda? It was time to shove her physical attraction to the man aside and apply logical reasoning to the current reality. As soon as possible.
Rhee hated to ask Manali for more help, but once she returned from the farmer’s market, maybe she could watch Sirena while Rhee dealt with Dax. She itched to contact the man, but she didn’t even have his number. But…she knew where he was staying. If he wasn’t at the hotel, Turtle would now how to track him down.
Over the cat game, Sirena was now happily dragging Rhee’s shoes from their small, shared closet and attempting to stick her feet in them. Keeping the place tidy was a never-ending battle—one that Rhee had mostly given up on. They didn’t have much, anyway. Just the necessities. It was better that way. If Turtle got a lead on Mickey, it would be easy to pick up and go.
The thought of leaving, searching, running, any of it though, was feeling more and more aversive. Rhee assumed that once Sirena was older, picking up the search would be easier. With such a perceptive little sea sprite, however, Rhee was wondering how she would possibly explain things to Sirena. Plus, there was always the horrible thought that Mickey was…gone.
Rhee didn’t want to give up on her sister, but if she was alive, why hadn’t she called, emailed…anything? Their last communication had been a frightening dropped phone call that Mickey knew would have terrified Rhee. And it had. Rhee smiled ruefully as she recounted the bizarre set of circumstances set in motion by that late night phone call. Searching for Mickey had ultimately led Rhee to Dax Jamison’s bed. In some ways, Rhee had her sister to thank for Sirena. There was no way she would have crossed paths with the tall, brooding vice president of a motorcycle club otherwise.
It took Rhee almost a year to get Sirena to sleep through the night. She had next to no experience with infants before having her own child, but one thing was blatantly obvious. Children needed structure and routine. Searching without direction would yield massive disruption and possibly heartache on top of it. Someday, she would have to explain to Sirena that she had an aunt somewhere, but first, she was going to have to address the daddy issue.
“Hi!”
Rhee was jolted from her thoughts by her daughter’s greeting. Sirena stood by the window, waving into the yard at some unseen person. For a wild second, she wondered if Dax was here, wanting the same kind of closure that she did. Maybe he had peeped into th
e window to see if she was home. Her heart pounding, she waited for the inevitable knock on the door. None came.
Rhee felt a prickle of apprehension at the back of her neck.
“Sirena!” she whispered.
Her daughter regarded her curiously from the window.
“Come away from the window, sweetheart.”
“No!” Sirena grabbed the curtain, as if she wanted to further the point that she was not going to obey. Of all the times for her stubborn nature to rear itself! Rhee scrambled for a way to achieve compliance.
“Honey, let’s play, -er, the mermaid game. Come on, swim to mommy.”
Rhee peered cautiously out of the small peephole and confirmed that no one was on the porch. Sirena, apparently deciding that the mermaid game was a fun idea, dropped to the floor and began pretending to swim. Rhee crept to the curtain, her heart hammering in her chest. She scanned the yard, wondering if she was acting the fool. There was no one lurking outside. No scary Darren. No long-lost abusive ex-boyfriend, Marco. No Mickey. Rhee slumped against the wall, letting out her breath and some of the tension she was carrying in her gut.
Sirena tugged on her ankle. “Why dat man have a black face?”
“What man, honey?” She attempted to sound nonchalant, but alarm traced her skin like fingers of ice.
Her daughter affected a child-like shrug and pursed her lips. “Hamburgler?”
“Did you see a man dressed like hamburgler? With a black mask?” Rhee questioned softly.
“Want milk, mommy.”
She couldn’t exactly interrogate her two-year old daughter, but the few words Sirena had uttered were enough to jostle Rhee’s nerves. Rhee was frozen against the wall of what used to be her safe haven. Her cozy little beach house no longer seemed cozy, or secure. She wasn’t sure if whoever it was still lurked behind a bush or around the back. Closing the curtains might draw unwanted attention. Silently, Rhee grabbed her phone and texted Turtle. She had no way of contacting Dax, but for some reason, she wanted to. Where was her personal Mighty Mouse, anyway? All she could do now, was stay away from the window. And wait.
Chapter Twenty
Alanna grinned as she stepped off of the plane. Her little plan had worked perfectly! For an older guy, Hawk was in remarkable shape. Screwing him had been totally worth it. After a few days of ingratiating herself to The Phantoms’ top dog, he had left her alone in his office for a few minutes. The man was entirely too trusting. Either that, or he had never entertained the idea that a groupie might have an ulterior motive, other than to rack up notches on her proverbial bedpost. Alanna found what she was looking for in Hawk’s desk after popping the lock on the bottom drawer.
What a stupid place to hide something important. She knew exactly what the digits on that little scrap of paper were for. And the first chance she got, Alanna was turning the dial on Hawk’s personal safe—the one beneath the floorboards of his closet. At first, she had been disappointed to discover some bundles of cash and jewelry. A couple of love letters. Ugh. But beneath the safe’s main compartment was another place to stash papers. Jackpot. Alanna couldn’t believe what she found. Fuck, Hawk was taking a major risk. She didn’t care enough about the man to consider why he would do such a thing. But, he had. And lucky for her, Hawk’s actions gave her the inside pass she needed with Dax.
Alanna had always wanted to go to this particular island and now here she was. Ready to fulfill her destiny. And that destiny was tall, blond, and so fucking hot her knees trembled. While she sat on the plane nursing a dry chardonnay, Alanna reconsidered her game plan. Throwing herself at Dax had obviously not worked. He had practically called her a child before kicking her out and leaving her to the stalker whore gossip mill. She barely survived until she gained some credibility by bedding down with Hawk. Well, now she had some experience under her belt, and she knew she could be an asset. Especially with that document she had found hidden in the back of Hawk’s safe.
Growing up with family in a motorcycle crew had its advantages. Alanna could walk the walk and talk the talk, but she knew she looked a hell of a lot better than the other old ladies. She had class, something they obviously lacked. Dax was clearly over the used up hags that were constantly offering their loose cunts up to him. He wanted a lady. So that’s what he would get. A girl with class who had the wits to be an effective old lady—his perfect woman. The woman who would save him from utter ruin. If nothing else, Dax would owe her. And she knew exactly how to use the man’s outlaw code of honor against him to get under his skin…and into his heart.
Alanna’s cab pulled up to the hotel and she almost laughed aloud as she surveyed the lush surroundings. The place was pretty freaking ritzy for an outlaw biker to be staying at! A little flirtation and some “accidental” flashing of skin had the island boy at the front desk eating out of her hand. She smiled as the bellhop nearly tripped over himself to collect her luggage and escort her to her room. It was on the eleventh floor. Right next to the suite reserved under the name, Winston Walker. Alanna smiled.
Aloha, Wince.
And, aloha, Dax Jamison.
***
Wince forced a smile even though he felt like puking all over Vidal’s garish pink shirt. Even though the yacht ride was a hell of a lot smoother than he had expected, something about watching the land bobbing in the distance infused his entire body with queasiness. He inhaled big, purposeful breaths of the salty sea air, and congratulated himself on a job well done when he managed to retain his breakfast. They took the vessel to a small, privately owned island. The place smelled like coffee, which made perfect sense once the captain identified the coffee beans that grew there.
At first, Wince was surprised to see a legitimate operation, but as they walked to a smallish building that looked like a residence, he noted that the coffee plants formed the outer perimeter of a rather large crop of marijuana. He fervently hoped they would offer him a sample of weed. Being back on dry land was a relief, but Wince’s knees still wobbled and part of his brain still felt like it was on the boat.
“Ready for target practice, gentlemen?”
Vidal’s associate, Marino, indicated a ramshackle little cabin near a bunch of palm trees. Wince brightened, the vestiges of his seasickness fading. It had been a while since he’d taken down a building. He nodded to Slade, seeing his own excitement mirrored on the grunt’s face as they bent to unpack their arsenal. Dax had advised that even though he left a bad taste in their mouths, it would be better if Vidal felt secure and comfortable. That meant guiding the shipping magnate away from any embarrassing incidents, to avoid his temper.
It was a good thing Dax had decided to split the meetings. Vidal seemed edgy until he realized that Dax wasn’t coming. Wince, being the perceptive guy that he was, picked up on the shipping magnate’s irritation with his vice president. He made a few comments to show solidarity with Vidal, disparaging Dax a bit, but it was all to keep with the program.
Keep the guy settled, Wince, Dax had said. He’s a loose cannon with a drug problem. We don’t want him popping off. Wince agreed with Dax’s assessment. Vidal was a slimy pervert who liked attention. Definitely not the kind of guy they normally did business with. Their Russian connection would hate Vance Vidal. In fact, Wince wouldn’t be surprised if Ivan shot him in the balls if he ever crossed paths with the man. Ivan didn’t take kindly to posers. Ivan didn’t take kindly to anyone.
Vidal had pressed Wince about the connection during the champagne-infused voyage. Wince merely shrugged. Dax and Hawk handled that business. Wince was wearing a fresh cut—he had little to offer and he wouldn’t give up the details if he knew them anyway. He mumbled something about Russia and then feigned ignorance. So far, it seemed to have worked. Vidal didn’t need to know who their connection was. He’d meet Ivan soon enough. And he’d wish he hadn’t.
As they loaded the clips, Wince was pleased to see that Vidal’s head security guy knew his way around an assault rifle. The man moved with a familiarity that almost s
eemed out of place given the bumbling actions of the others who framed Vidal’s inner circle. What a Motley crew, Wince mused as he observed the squirrely goons who flanked the young shipping magnate. Almost like the older guy doesn’t belong. What’s his name? Marino, I think. Hmm. There’s something about him.
He watched as Marino hefted the firearm to his shoulder with practiced ease, sighting the target. Then, in a gesture of respect he lowered the weapon, waiting for his employer to ready his own rifle. Wince nodded at the guard, but he gave nothing away, keeping his expression stoic as Vidal reached for one of the guns.
Wince could see right away that Vidal’s wrist was floppy. Fuck! The kickback was either going to punch the man to the ground or the gun was going to jam. Wince wasn’t sure which scenario he liked better. After the stunt they had pulled to get that young island girl away from the slime ball, Wince was kind of looking forward for something bad to befall Vance Vidal. He, like Dax, hoped to get out of the deal. Turned out that Hawk really wanted this particular connection.
Wince wouldn’t ever question Hawk. Neither would Dax. But Wince knew that Dax pushed the deal because Hawk said so, not because he thought it was a good idea. It was an old brotherhood thing, he supposed. Still, if the weapon jammed because this idiot couldn’t hold his wrist firmly enough, he might think the weapons were flawed. Looking at Vidal, Wince could tell that if the backlash slapped the man into the dirt, he might be so pissed off or embarrassed, he’d kill the deal and fuck all the consequences.
Might not be the worst that happens…
Wince made eye contact with the buyer’s head minion, noting that the other man also recognized the problematic grip. But, he only shrugged, as if to communicate that any advice would not be taken well. Vidal hefted the weapon to his shoulder, a gleam in his eye.