Way Too Deep (Love Overboard Book 1)

by Andrea K. Stein

  The others sipped and nodded approval, but Lindsay was done being polite.

  “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but without communications, I’m not leaving Secret Harbour. So you can forget about your ‘night dive’.” She couldn’t stop herself from air quoting the words.

  “Seems like the smart thing to do,” Moj added in a quiet but firm voice.

  “And the safest,” from Fiona.

  Carrothers glanced at each of their faces, smiled, and put the cigar back into this mouth. He lit the smelly thing with a torch lighter Lindsay was sure could also be used to weld.

  “It’s my boat,” he said casually. “I’ll say where we go and when. Moj, Fiona, you both can stay here if you like, since you are my wife’s guests. But Lindsay is the captain I paid to get me there. Right, Captain Fisher?”

  With her stomach in her throat, Lindsay finally nodded assent and picked up the wine. She had no choice. She’d have to take the Bonnie Blue out without communications.

  “Well,” Moj said, “me and Fiona don’t like missing any kind of party. We’re in this until the end, right Fi?”

  Fiona nodded, seeming so pale, so unsure, that Lindsay realized she didn’t want them to go, not if they were sailing into danger.

  But like Moj had said, they were in this until the end. Lindsay figured it might be a good idea to keep the record producer’s muscles around.

  Besides, the more witnesses, the more bodies Carrothers would have to bury.

  * * *

  Friday Night, Somewhere Southwest of Grenada

  Alton clung to the sides of the small fishing boat hours into his journey, forcefully willing his stomach to stay where it was instead of jumping out of his body and swimming for shore.

  The smelly fishing slicker he wore was the perfect accessory to his lurching innards. And now he was hallucinating. Ahead of them glowed a circus of lights on the water. In the midst of darkness stretching endlessly beyond them.

  “What the hell is that?” He pointed at the throbbing mass of floating, brightly colored orbs ahead of them. “Please tell me I’m not the only one seeing this.”

  His companion turned and gave him a look, then veered sharply away from the nightmarish field of lights.

  Alton tightened his grip as the little vessel bobbed viciously in the waves.

  Great. Now he was going to fall overboard in the midst of the psychedelic menace of the deep.

  “Fishing lights and pots,” his companion of few words said in some loud grunts thrown over his shoulder. “Means we’re close to shore. Probably another half hour.”

  True to his word, Fisherman Joe delivered Alton to shore about a half hour later, the longest thirty minutes of his life. The former Kitchen God was not ashamed to admit he was tempted to drop to the beach and hug the docks. He might have if he hadn’t been running.

  A small car sat up on the hill, its lights on and the motor running. When he climbed the incline from the beach and opened the door, the driver just nodded his head toward the passenger seat and took off before Alton had the door fully closed.

  * * *

  Friday Night, Secret Harbour Marina

  Alton found the Secret Harbour Marina manager’s office in a building so luxurious, he thought for a moment he was in the wrong hemisphere.

  He pushed open the door without knocking and filled the room with a flood of angst-filled words. “The Bonnie Blue? Is she in a slip here?”

  A man dressed as if he were the pilot of a Swissair jet turned from a file cabinet. “I say,” he said. “Who are you? I can’t be giving out client information to every crazy person who comes barging in here.”

  “Is that a yes or a no?” Alton demanded, raising his voice.

  “Are you a slip holder here, sir? If not, I’ll need some identification.”

  Alton leaned across the counter and grabbed the man by his officious-looking, epauletted shirt. “This is a matter of life and death. Stop jerking me around and tell me where they are.”

  The man didn’t respond. He reached beneath his desk and retrieved something.

  “Let me guess,” Alton said. “You just triggered some kind of silent alarm to call the island cops, right?”

  “No. Don’t need them.” He leveled a handgun pointed at Alton’s middle section. “We’ve had communications difficulties for hours. Our systems company is flying a tech in from Martinique. Should be here tomorrow. Maybe.”

  He sat down and waved the gun at Alton. “In the meantime, I can deal with just about anything that comes through that door, including you. So sit down, start talking, and no sudden moves. Damned Americans. Always in panic mode.”

  Alton held his palms out in front of him in surrender and asked, “Have you by chance ever watched a TV show called The Kitchen Gods?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Friday Night, Off Glover Island

  Just as Lindsay suspected, Glover Island was deserted. The land, the sea, everything, and everywhere was silence except for the slosh of waves against the hull.

  At least the weather was cooperating. Not a cloud obscured the stars upon stars glittering down. Dark, silent, all a hush.

  Tommy walked up to the helm, sipping something from his mug, probably not coffee.

  “You better not be drinking on duty,” Lindsay warned.

  Tommy though, had trouble heeding warnings. Orders he followed, but not warnings. “Just a little of Carrothers’ Henri Jayer, 1970. Nine thousand dollars a bottle, and I kid you not. He gave me the last of the wine. I’d need another couple gallons to feel anything, but I wanted to see what all the fuss is about.”

  Lindsay sighed. “Slurping expensive wine out of a mug doesn’t help the bouquet, whatever the hell that is. And besides, I don’t trust that bastard Carrothers. I just pretended to sip mine at the restaurant.”

  “Speaking of trust, where is everyone? It’s quiet.”

  Tommy grinned. “Too quiet. Isn’t that what they say in the movies? Neither the boss man nor Raoul the Russian is getting out dive equipment. Which makes me think this is a goose chase, but I don’t hear no honking.” He swayed, blinked his eyes. “Whoa, captain. Hold up.”

  “Tommy, what’s wrong?” Fear stuck like a knife under Lindsay’s ribs.

  “You hitting the throttle, missy?” he asked in a slur.

  “No, and we have an anchor down. I’m waiting to commit to a second anchor until I see what Carrothers has in mind.”

  Tommy’s slur deepened. “Wine is pretty strong then. I coulda swore …”

  Lindsay ran to him, just as his legs failed. He fell against her, and then they both hit the deck.

  Tommy was out cold. The events of the night, especially at dinner, replayed through Lindsay’s head. The wine, of course, and if not the wine, the wine glasses. The steward had brought them all wine. Carrothers had been there before, to grease some palms, to drug them. Tommy hadn’t been at dinner, so Carrothers had emptied the last of the doctored wine into Tommy’s coffee mug.

  He’d never give wine that expensive to her first mate. He was up to something.

  Manning missing, Tommy out, and Moj and Fiona probably also unconscious. Becca’s mysterious illness was easily explained. Carrothers had drugged his wife as well, before dinner.

  Lindsay sure as hell wasn’t going to be the next victim. She darted away from Tommy and charged below decks to retrieve the ditch bag from the galley, but it was gone. The bag held everything they would need to survive if the ship went down, including an EPIRB, which functioned a little like the black boxes airlines put on their planes.

  Raoul must’ve gotten rid of the bag while they were at dinner.

  When she raced over to the saloon passenger lounge, she found Moj and Fiona passed out on the couches. Their pulses were fine, but they were unresponsive.

  In the owner’s cabin, Lindsay found Becca in her underwear, covered by sheets, with a pulse, but totally gone to the world. CeCe was also unconscious in her room. How Carrothers had managed th
at, Lindsay had no idea, but it was clear he was desperate.

  Her situation crashed down on her. She was alone, trapped on the boat with two dangerous men.

  Now everything made sense. She stumbled back to the stern locker where the diving tanks were stored. Carrothers had never planned on diving.

  She smelled foul gas and jumped back up on deck. Acetylene. Raoul had put the acetylene tanks back into the stern locker with the oxygen. The two gasses together could cause an explosion.

  Normally, that combination might not sink the boat, but the tanks were probably just a cover-up. Acid stabbed at her stomach. There were probably other explosives hidden on the boat.

  That was why Carrothers had brought CeCe and Becca together along with Manning. He was going to blow up the boat and kill the people closest to him. He figured Lindsay would be blamed, and he could disappear.

  She paused in the lounge again, her heart pounding. She connected the dots quickly.

  The botched poisoning was the first attempt to kill them. Carrothers would have tried to pin the murders on Alton first, which made sense. The Kitchen God, killing again, like some kind of sociopath who couldn’t stop.

  When that failed, Carrothers went to plan B—the tanks.

  Lindsay ran forward to her temporary cabin in the bow. She swept a hand beneath her pillow. No Glock. Raoul had been busy.

  She was alone without weapons and cut off from the rest of the world. No communications.

  She had to find Manning.

  * * *

  Friday Night, Secret Harbour Marina

  Alton paced back and forth on the marina dock, the lights and party sounds on the boats making him insane with anger. How could they all be laughing and enjoying life when the woman he loved, along with five other innocent people, might be in mortal danger?

  Okay, four innocent people and Becca. Would Carrothers really kill his own wife? Yeah, he would. For kicks. To avoid alimony. For life insurance or boat insurance or being-a-general-rich-asshole insurance. Pick one.

  He’d played the celebrity card and talked the uppity Brit marina manager into letting him check out the Bonnie Blue’s slip. Empty. Now he was desperate.

  He had to figure out a way to find them.

  Never had he felt so powerless. All of his worrying about his career and cooking, all of that seemed insipid now. Only the lives of Lindsay and the Bonnie Blue’s passengers mattered.

  Finally Alton stopped and screamed, as loud as he could, “FUCK!”

  A voice in the darkness chuckled. “It sounds like you are, how do you say, sexually frustrated, to shout ‘fuck’ out into the night, like a mating call. Is that the call of the great American cooking chef? ‘Fuck!’ And more importantly, does it ever work, mon ami?”

  The voice was deep-fried with an arrogant French accent. René.

  Even though he and the Frenchman were not exactly best buds, Alton ran across the planked walkway onto The Other Woman’s main deck. He grabbed his arm and shook him.

  “Lindsay and the Bonnie Blue are in trouble. Manning found C4 explosives on the hull, and I think Carothers and his henchman Raoul put them there. They want everyone dead. Communications are down, the local police only shrug. We need to get to Lindsay. You gotta help me.”

  Even though it was night, the other man wore his expensive Cartier sunglasses. He lowered them and said, “I will for a kiss.”

  Without a second thought, Alton planted one right on the Frenchman’s pouting lips. Stubble and all. Ew.

  René shoved him away. “Not from you, imbecile, from Lindsay. Mon Dieu.”

  “Whatever,” Alton shot back. “Will you help me?”

  “Oui,” he said, “and the good news? I know exactly where they are.”

  Alton couldn’t help hugging René.

  Who shoved him away again. “I’ll help, but no kisses, no hugs. Comprendre?”

  * * *

  Friday Night, Off Glover Island

  A shot echoed above the deck, and Lindsay surged up the companionway.

  A lone figure stood on the bow, the cherry glow at the end of his cigar a piece of hellish flame in the night.

  Carrothers. And his damn stogie.

  Then Lindsay saw the tender and two figures in the distance. They hadn’t turned on the engine, but had paddled away from the main ship. She couldn’t determine who was on the bow or on the tender.

  She didn’t need to wait long.

  The person on the bow of the Bonnie Blue stepped forward, bent, and switched on the steaming light. A thousand watts lit up the launch, revealing Raoul and Carrothers.

  Devin Manning stood forward of the bright arc and called out, “Hello, Jerome.”

  Lindsay dived low, to watch how this played out. Giving away her position would be a bad idea. But finally, she might get some answers.

  “Devin!” Carrothers called from the tender. “So glad you could make it. I suppose you were in scuba gear under the Bonnie Blue this entire time. Dragged through the water, all this way. Am I close?”

  “My secrets are my own,” Devin replied. “As are yours. You have been very quiet of late about our business finances. I imagine that is what precipitated this most diabolical game.”

  Carrothers held up something in his hand. From her hiding spot in the shadows of the deck railing, Lindsay couldn’t tell what it was, but her maniac boss brandished it like a sword.

  “Finances, or romances, drive men to do the things they do. For me, I must say, it was a little of both.” Carrothers lifted his right hand higher. “Do you know what I have here?”

  “A detonator,” Devin said.

  “You always were insightful. Too bad, in the end, you weren’t smart enough.”

  In a dramatic display, Carrothers clicked on the detonator.

  Lindsay winced.

  Nothing happened.

  Carrothers clicked it again, again, again, and still, nothing.

  “Jerome, putting the C4 explosives on so early in the game was a bad idea. You tipped your hand.” Manning took a long pull on his cigar and breathed out the smoke. “I found them rather easily. A great disappointment. Now you will have to come back aboard to blow up the boat. And I will be waiting.”

  “Of course you will,” Carrothers spat, “you delusional prick.”

  Manning tossed the cigar and fell into a judo pose. “I must warn you, I have picked up monkey-style Kung-Fu since we last fought.”

  His Kung-Fu didn’t help. Quick as an eel, Raoul unholstered a pistol and shot Manning off the bow. When his body splashed into the sea, Lindsay stifled a scream.

  “Dammit, Raoul!” Carrothers yelled. “Now we’ll have to retrieve his body and dig out the bullet. This has to look like an accident so I can get the insurance money! Bullets in bodies will not do. And where in hell is that bitch captain I hired?”

  The tender’s motor roared to life, and they drove around the bow while Lindsay’s mind raced.

  She had only a few minutes before they came back aboard, and while she didn’t have much, she did have something.

  She was the bitch captain after all.

  * * *

  Friday Night, En Route to Glover Island

  Alton stood next to René on The Other Woman’s huge shore launch, the diesel engine whining full tilt. A mountainous wake plumed behind them as they raced across the black ocean toward Glover Island.

  “You know, mon ami,” he said, a toothpick on his lip, “this is very sexist of you.”

  Alton sighed and asked, “How’s that?” He missed Fisherman Joe on his little skiff. At least he hadn’t gotten all chatty.

  “You think you are the brave man, coming to rescue the weak woman you love. Maybe she doesn’t need you to rescue her? Lindsay is an amazing woman, probably twice the man you are.”

  Alton ignored the dig but asked, “What makes you think I love Lindsay?”

  “Am I wrong?” René gestured with one hand and guided the wildly careening launch with just a finger on the wheel.

&
nbsp; “No.”

  The Frenchman grinned at him. “I know because she loves you as well, or why else would she not have slept with me? I am everything any woman could want.”

  Alton did an eye roll.

  “Anyway, we will go there, we will save the day. Before there was the American cavalry, there was the French Foreign Legion.”

  “You got your dates wrong, Frenchie,” Alton said. “You all were dicking around with Napoleon while us Yankees were saving the day. Or do you want to talk about World War II?”

  René glowered. “And that is where the history always goes, yes? The French surrender in World War II. We were an old country by then, but no one remembers that. While we were dicking around with Napoleon, we nearly took over the world. And your dates are wrong, Yankee. Napoleon was before the Old West.”

  Alton was done talking. Yes, he missed Fisherman Joe, but The Other Woman’s launch was a whole lot faster.

  Fast enough, he hoped, to stop Carrothers before he hurt Lindsay and the Bonnie Blue.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Friday Night, Off Glover Island

  Lindsay snapped open the emergency flare gun and checked inside. One loaded. A box of six other flares lay next to her. Seven shots in all—enough to do some damage against the men about to blow up her boat.

  Yes, the Bonnie Blue was hers. Carrothers had given up ownership the minute he decided to destroy the beautiful yacht.

  From the nav center below, she inched up the steps with her right index finger pressured against the trigger and the box of flares under her other arm.

  Damn. The tender was tied to the port side, directly across from her line of sight when she exited the companionway. She jerked her head back down. Carrothers and Raoul had returned. Crouching, she watched as they heaved Manning’s body onto the deck.

  Carrothers ripped off his business partner’s shirt and yanked at a black vest beneath. “Leave it to Devin to walk around in Kevlar. Well, good news for us. We won’t have to get the bullet out of him. We’ll just dose him like we did Becca and CeCe.”