The Beach Alibi

by Alison Kent

  Then the subtle implication of his suggestion set in. "Why would I need to pace when you've assured me I have nothing to worry about?"

  His shrug was more a flex of muscle then a lift of his shoulders. "I was thinking of you expending nervous en­ergy. Surely you found pacing effective during your previ­ous eight-month confinement."

  Her heart skittered in her chest. "You know about my going to jail?"

  "I do," he admitted with a nod. "And I know the experi­ence will make this one seem like nothing."

  He said it almost as if delivering a compliment. "Trust me. This isn't going to seem like nothing. That will never happen."

  He dropped his hands from behind his head to cross his arms over his chest as he considered her. "You sound so cer­tain."

  "I am." Why would he think otherwise? Two heartbeats counted off two seconds, and she pushed her chair back, the feet sliding cleanly, almost silently, over the floor's gleaming white tiles.

  Then again, he'd been the one so sure that she needed to pace, and here she was—the thing of it being that her wor­ries were more about what this man and the group he worked for had planned for Kelly John.

  God, three hours ago she'd been on her way home to make him waffles. And now her stomach was heaving with the possibilities of what was happening to him. If worrying about her was going to be his downfall.

  No. That wasn't going to happen. She refused to believe it. She'd proven to him that she was capable and compe­tent; surely she had.

  "I missed lunch, you know," she said, standing behind her captor now, staring at the back of his head, at his dread­locks hanging between his shoulders.

  Thinking she might be able to wrap his hair around his neck and choke him, gain her freedom . . . through the door that had no handle on the inside. "I don't suppose food's a possibility, though, is it?"

  "If you were truly hungry, I could arrange it."

  She stuck out her tongue at the back of his head, won­dering too late if he had eyeballs there. Wondering, as well, if she should be more panicked than she actually was.

  She didn't know why she wasn't more worried except that she trusted Kelly John, Hank, and the others implicitly. Trusted them to know the right thing to do. Trusted them to get her out of here.

  Trusted them with her life.

  Her chin came up as that reality settled around her, com­forting her, cocooning her. Knowing no more than she did, she didn't doubt for a moment that she'd be out of here long before it was time for dinner.

  Or before this man received orders to dispose of any loose ends left alive.

  She gulped once and returned to her chair, pushed her purse to the side, and laced her fingers together on the table. Leaning forward, she met his curious gaze. "I'm not sure why or how you know so much about me, but knowing nothing about you, I feel at a disadvantage."

  He looked at her for a long minute, then simply laughed. "And what would you like to know?"

  As if he'd really tell her. As if he cared that she didn't like his holding the upper hand. "This organization you work for? What exactly is it that you do for them?"

  "Are you sure that's what you want to know?"

  No, she wasn't. She wasn't at all. "Sure. Why not?"

  "Because I don't know how it could help your state of mind to learn that I am a hired killer."

  Thirteen

  The jungle smelled of things dank and oozing and rotten in ways Kelly John hated to contemplate.

  It wasn't the sort of ripe that was about a nice sweet peach, but about half-empty beer cans left for three weeks in the sealed cooler of a pickup truck parked in the sun.

  And it was especially unappetizing considering he had his nose buried in the mud, his eyes and mouth closed, his stomach churning as he waited for the Nicaraguan guerillas ahead to disappear into the thick canopy of foliage.

  Yeah, the waiting sucked and the ground smelled like shit. But it would be really bad form to get caught taking out the underground lab operated by the cartel from whom he bought his blow—blow he used to pay off informants and bribe cokeheads willing to sell out their countrymen for a line.

  Such was the way of the drug trade. One often took a fat step back for every two tiptoed forward. The trick was to keep the endgame in sight. A trick that didn't always make it easy to rise above the scum, but it helped.

  Especially on the days when the green stuff seeped from the eyes he saw in the mirror as thickly as from those beaded in the faces of the dealers topping his hit list.

  Then there was this particular mission, which was about more than the destruction of Ruben Bolano's distribution center. It was life or death to Kelly John's squad and their successful record of slamming the brakes on the Nicaraguan drug traffic.

  And at least he wasn't alone. Jeremy lay on one side, Bill on the other, Eric and Sasha a meter to the east, Randy a meter to the west. The Six Shooters, as the de­tail had come to be known.

  A detail that was going to be down to five as a result of this op and one big fat mouth. It had been discussed and decided. This was the only way out. And he would act as trigger man.

  Lifting his head enough to open his eyes, he held his breath and peered through the moss draped from his helmet like off the branch of a tree. The coast was clear.

  He raised one hand and signaled. The detail scram­bled up to their knees, moved forward in absolute si­lence. Birds continued to chirp overhead, insects to swarm and buzz.

  The nearest trap door into the lab was on the jungle floor ten meters north, the second ten meters farther. He waved Bill, Sasha, and Eric on ahead, slowing as Randy made his way closer, flanking Kelly John's other side.

  He glanced briefly at Jeremy, who set his jaw and nodded. The time had come. Bellies to the ground, the trio slithered forward, Kelly John dropping back slowly, sweat pooling at the base of his spine.

  His mind raced, whipping through a list of other so­lutions. Not a one of them stuck. He couldn't believe things had come to this, but what the fuck was he sup­posed to do?

  His methods of taking care of business fell outside the law. Of course they did. That was how things here were done. And he sure as hell wasn't going to risk the lives and futures of four of the best men he'd ever known because of one with a god complex.

  Randy had to be eliminated before he did more damage than he'd already done, talking out of turn when the code demanded silence, demanded loyalty. Demanded trust. They couldn't be six men acting as one when one wanted all the glory.

  That one had slipped past Kelly John, crawling for­ward on his belly, using only his elbows and knees. Kelly John closed his eyes, curled his fingers around the garrote he'd taken off one of Bolano's men. If he went down for this, so be it. He'd be saving more lives than the one he was taking.

  And, at that, he dashed off the quickest prayer for forgiveness that he could . . .

  Kelly John stood staring out the window of Hank's of­fice, smelling his own fear instead of the sweetness of Emma, watching the movement of traffic on the street below, yet seeing only her face as she'd so carefully pulled closed the bedroom door this morning.

  He should've gotten up, dressed, and come with her into the office instead of lying in her bed all day like a lazy sex slug, thinking he'd just stay there until she got home and got naked again. Or so had been the plan until the phone call four hours later.

  Since then, he'd been pacing the ops center, working his contacts, queuing the last few hours of the building's secu­rity tapes, canvassing the neighborhood, certain Emma was being held close. He'd seen her enter just before eight-thirty this morning, but found no evidence of her exit, her abduc­tor, or even Oliver Shore.

  He should've been with her. He should've kept her in his sights. He should've known the night had been too good to be real. Having Emma snatched away was a cruel punish­ment being wrongly meted out.

  She shouldn't have to pay for her belief in him. She shouldn't be the one atoning for his sins. He'd screwed up, and gone on to make
it worse by bringing her into a dan­gerous situation. Apparently, he was beyond learning his lesson, and the cost this time was astronomical.

  The woman he loved was out there waiting for a garrote he wasn't sure he'd be able to slip from her neck in time. He slammed his fist into the top of Hank's credenza. He'd left the lights off, and it was dark here.

  He'd told himself he needed the blackness to think, to process what was happening, to sort out and coordinate what steps to take next. The reality was that he needed a minute to hide while his eyes dried and the thick ball of grief in his throat subsided.

  God, he loved her. He loved her. What the flying fuck was he going to do if he'd lost her already? He cracked his knuckles against the wall this time, welcoming the pain be­cause it made him remember that he was alive, that she was alive, and tears were not doing anyone any good.

  He flinched then, feeling Hank's hand come down on his shoulder. The older man squeezed the tight muscles. "We'll get her back, son. We'll get her back."

  All Kelly John could do was nod. And, at that, he dashed off the quickest prayer for forgiveness that he could . . .

  Kelly John stood on the empty fifth floor of the parking garage adjacent to the building housing Smithson Engineering, shifting his weight restlessly from foot to foot, his hands in his pockets, his head up, his ears pricked.

  Except for the camouflage and grease paint, he looked much as he had that day in Nicaragua, wearing boots, fa­tigues, and a desperate sense of despair.

  Hank stood nearby, the two of them waiting near the pil­lar closest to the elevator, as instructed by Oliver Shore, alone and unarmed and in possession of the USB flash drive Kelly John had taken from Marian Diamonds less than forty-eight hours before.

  Tripp was the one with the weapon. The one Kelly John wanted handling a weapon. The only one whose detailed history before the Smithson Group he was privy to. Though even knowing the extent of Tripp's sniper skills didn't do much to ease the tension of being at the mercy of Spectra IT.

  He didn't even realize he'd started pacing until Hank stepped into his path, took hold of his shoulders and stopped him. "Wearing a groove in the floor isn't going to get her here any faster, son."

  He knew that. He knew that. What worried him was whether she was going to get here at all. He didn't put a lot of trust in the words of the crime syndicate who'd caged Christian Bane in the jungles of Thailand and left him to die.

  "We shouldn't have asked her to do this." He shook his head. "Not something involving Spectra. It wasn't smart. It was too risky. Too dangerous—"

  Hank cut him off with a thick finger stabbed into the center of his chest. "Your ass was on the line. It was all we could come up with having no more notice than we did."

  Kelly John shoved his hands to his hips, stared off into the dark corner behind the garage's elevator, breathed in the musty scents of exhaust and dirty concrete. "And the tapes didn't even work. We didn't prove anything. What a fuck­ing waste of time."

  "Rein it in, son. Rein it in." Hank leaned back against the support pillar. "We didn't get the chance to use them. You know that."

  That was what was killing him. That he'd put Emma in harm's way for nothing. A burst of sick laughter tore through his chest. He scratched there, working at the ache. "Hell, it was a joke to think we could pull it off. A fucking goddamn joke."

  "Oh, I don't know, Mr. Beach."

  At the sound of Oliver Shore's voice, Hank looked up. Kelly John whirled around. Both men watched the other's soundless approach.

  "It was quite an inventive exercise at throwing us off your track." Shore continued forward, his steps silent. "Had I not had experience with Mr. Shaughnessey, I might have been unaware of your interest in our diamond trade."

  Kelly John didn't give a shit about diamonds. "Where's Emma?"

  "Soon, Mr. Beach. Soon." Shore stopped a good two me­ters back. "First, however, please have your man put down his weapon."

  Hank raised his hand to signal Tripp. Kelly John cursed under his breath. "It's done. Where's Emma?"

  Adjusting the fit of his glasses on his ears, Shore shook his head. "I'm not sure if your impatience is admirable or annoying, Mr. Beach. But rest assured that we can complete our transaction as soon as you produce what I've come for."

  "Let me see her first," Kelly John said stalling for time.

  "Quite simply, no." Shore held out one hand, gestured with his fingers, the smile on his face as false as the aura of SG-5's compliant cooperation. "I have no intention of los­ing what advantage I might have."

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Kelly John dug the flash drive from his fatigue's pocket and slapped it into the other man's hand. Shore turned the storage device over in his palm, studying both sides.

  Kelly John ground his jaw and hoped he got a chance to plead his case. How the hell could he have known he'd need to trade the drive for Emma?

  Gesturing with the gadget, Shore met Kelly John's gaze from over the rims of his glasses. "Of course the fact that you've viewed the data stored on the drive means our deal is off."

  "Viewed once." Good evening, Mr. Beach. This drive will self-destruct the first time you plug it in and open the files, rendering it pretty fucking useless as a bargaining tool. "Not copied. Not transferred. Not stored. Not memorized."

  Shore chuckled cruelly. "And I'm to trust that you're telling me the truth?"

  Hank stepped up. "You can trust both of us. We're telling you the goddamned truth."

  "Perhaps." Shore's fist closed around the device. "But I prefer to trust my instincts telling me you're not."

  "What the hell does that mean?" Kelly John fairly growled.

  "It means that you can keep the flash drive"—he offered to return it—"and I'll keep Miss Webster."

  Kelly John grabbed the storage device and skipped it across the garage floor like a stone. It hit the ramp's barrier and splintered. "Let her go. Take me instead. Do what you want to with me. Just let Emma go."

  The tension in the garage raged around them unchecked. He was burning from the inside out, flames of hatred, flames of fear. He wanted to crush this man's skull only slightly less than he wanted to fall to his knees and beg for Emma's release.

  "No, I don't think I will," Shore said, having clearly never considered the option.

  "Wait, Shore," Hank ordered.

  But the other man had already began walking away. "I don't deal only in diamonds, you know. I know of a market hungry for pretty white girls. Especially those with the legs and tits of this one."

  Two seconds later, he stopped. His body jerked once, convulsed, then hit the ground. A pool of red blossomed from the bullet hole centered between his eyes.

  Kelly John's heart exploded. "Tripp! No!"

  "It wasn't me, man! I swear. It wasn't me," Tripp yelled. A Weatherby Tactical TRR slung over his shoulder, he dropped from the overhead cross beam to a crouch on the floor, pushed up and jogged over to where Hank stood star­ing down at the dead Spectra agent. "K.J., I swear. That's not my bullet."

  Kelly John fell to his knees, sat back on his heels, dragged his hands down his face, and howled as his guts turned in­side out. "Emma!"

  What the ever-lovin' hell had just happened? If Tripp wasn't the shooter . . . oh God, Emma. Emma!

  No, this wasn't real. How could this be real? How could his only connection to Emma be dead at his feet? Breathe, breathe. Breathe! He pitched forward, dropped his fore­head to the ground, heard Hank and Tripp move closer.

  He didn't want them closer. He needed room. He had to get up, find her. Find her. She had to be close. He hadn't yet talked to the Smithson staff or the rest of the building's ten­ants. Yeah, that was the plan.

  A plan that sucked ass since his body was now made of lead.

  At least he was breathing. His chest might not know it, might ache as if still needing oxygen, but he could hear the air wheeze in and out of his lungs. And then, moments later, another sound permeated his brain. The sound of footsteps.

  "
Holy hell," Hank gasped.

  "Awesome," Tripp shouted.

  Kelly John looked up. Managed to croak out, "Emma?"

  And then he was on his feet, staggering forward, and she was in his arms, and nothing in the world had ever felt this good, this right, this perfect.

  He touched every part of her he could find, assuring him­self that she was real and alive and unharmed. "Oh, baby. I can't believe you're here. What happened? Where did you come from? Where have you been?"

  She shook her head, her cheeks damp on his chest. "I don't know. He just let me go."

  "Who let you go?" he demanded. He was going to get the fucker. "Who was it?"

  "The taxi driver. From last night. He told me to give you this." She pulled away. And when he held out his hand, she dropped an earring into his palm.

  A single diamond stud.

  Sonofabitch! Julian's Spectra assassin. "He's the one who took you? When? Where?"

  "In the elevator. When I left for lunch, he was there." She shuddered, drew in a deep breath, cuddled back up into his body. "He took me into the basement, through a sub­way maintenance tunnel, and up a flight of stairs into an­other building."

  He wrapped his arms around her, held her tighter than he'd known he could hold a woman. "Did he hurt you? Did he touch you?"

  She shook her head. "No. In fact, he said he would feed me if I was hungry. But he knew that I wasn't. That I wouldn't be able to eat."

  He cupped the back of her head with one hand, cradled her close to his chest with the other, swore he would never let her out of his sight, would never let her go. "God, Emma. I thought I was going mad. The thought of losing you . . ."

  "Me, too." She sighed. "I knew you'd find me, though."

  "Yeah? How's that?"

  "I trusted you to."

  "Crazy woman."

  "No. A woman in love."

  He rolled his eyes because he was so mad for her. So wild with having her here in his arms. "Here we go with that war thing again."

  "Hmm. You're not running this time."