What he needed was bait.
They spent the morning inside the magazine, going over their options. Each was more bleak than the last, and Fiona hated every single idea because they all were risky. And she feared Dylan didn’t have enough in reserves after six weeks with an untreated broken femur and malnutrition.
They loaded him up with protein, vitamins, electrolyte water, and painkillers, and by the early afternoon, there was more color in his cheeks than there’d been the day before, but it was clear to her—and Dean agreed, in private—that they couldn’t attempt any of the more proactive plans with Dylan’s questionable health.
He’d powered through for weeks, surviving as best he could, but it appeared that now that he could rest with others to watch his back, his body was begging for the much-needed break.
It was hard to guess what was going on in official channels. The navy was probably scrambling after the camp had been blown up, and she didn’t doubt the fact that she was missing with Dean—who’d been impersonating an ornithologist—was now part of the cover story. The camp explosion had probably been placed firmly on Dean’s shoulders, and they could easily claim he’d abducted her and gone nuclear because he blamed the military for his brother taking off without a word.
The more she thought about it, the more she realized Dean was the perfect scapegoat, a gift Trevor and Sylvia hadn’t counted on. Dean was just famous enough to make it an extra-salacious story.
But if this plan to get Victor’s vehicle worked, there was no way everything could be laid at Dean’s door. One, Dylan would share his story with the world, and he had a broken leg and scar as proof. And two, there was proof of the meteorite. In the site and sent to the lab.
The Unangas would vouch for them. Fiona’s boss could confirm she’d called him. Their bases were covered, as long as they could get a vehicle and cross the island to the village and get off this rock.
After their lunch of MREs, protein bars, and electrolyte powder dissolved in water, Fiona convinced Dylan to rest in the shelter of the magazine while she and Dean explored the historic ruins and looked for anything they could use to defend themselves if Victor showed up before a rescue team arrived.
She tucked Dylan in as she would a younger brother, zipping up the side of his sleeping bag and pressing her lips to his forehead—which wasn’t feverish, thank God.
He caught her wrist before she could crawl away. “Don’t believe Dean,” he whispered. “When he pushes you away. And he will. It’s all he knows how to do after Violet.”
She nodded. “He told me about Violet.”
Dylan smiled. “I’m glad. She was . . . the best. But it’s time for him to move on.”
Maybe that was true, but she didn’t think she was cut out for being Dean’s transitional woman. She had her own issues to deal with and wasn’t eager to be someone’s test relationship. Especially when said person had never indicated he wanted more than a fling.
She brushed her lips on Dylan’s forehead again. “How about you worry about you and not your brother?”
“Can’t do that. We always look out for each other. It’s what brothers do.”
Her heart squeezed. She’d had siblings like that. Until she didn’t.
The image of Regan’s body splayed on the rocks was one of those memories that had the same impact every time it flashed in her mind.
She’d read somewhere that every time a person remembered something, they were really remembering the last time they’d remembered it. So the memory became infused with the emotions triggered at each later instance of it. Memories could be tainted and twisted with each visitation.
But her memory of finding Regan’s body would always be raw and pure. Each time she remembered it, the vivid pain cut across her chest, like a blade across her heart.
Her fault. Even Aidan agreed on that point.
Every instance of remembering hammered home it was her fault.
She’d never trusted the smarmy bastard Regan had worked for. And she was 100 percent certain Regan’s death was no accident, no matter what the investigators had said.
Dean paused while digging a hole for a photography blind and leaned on the handle of the rusted shovel as he watched Fiona cross the site. Her hair glowed with red in the natural light, and he wished he had his camera in his hands. She was a lioness, queen of her domain, sleek and mesmerizing.
Damn. He’d never guessed he could be so infatuated, especially not after such a short time.
But then, watching Fiona go through one wringer after another in the handful of days they’d known each other had taught him more about her than the women he’d enjoyed, for lack of a better word, in the years since he’d lost Violet.
Was it time to open the lock on his heart?
The idea terrified him. He did not want to feel again. At least, not that kind of feeling. He’d loved every minute of being married to Violet, but he never wanted to choose that kind of pain again. And loving like that, hurting like that, it felt like a choice now.
Ahh. But damn. Fiona. Beautiful. Brilliant. Bold.
Mesmerizing.
As long as she knew the rules and as long as he didn’t engage his heart, they could enjoy this spark that had been there from their first conversation on the jet.
“How’s Dylan?” he asked.
“A fighter.”
His heart burned along with his eyes. Yes. Yes he is.
She gave Dean a heartbreaking smile. “But . . .”
He nodded. “You’re worried. I am too.”
“I feel like he was hanging on as long as he could, and now . . .”
“We need to get him to a doctor.”
“Maybe we can salvage a boat from all the junk here. There’s got to be something that will float. Isn’t that what duct tape is for?”
“I’ve considered that. But damn. You know how many miles we’d have to row to get to the village or another island? If the seas get rough . . .” His voice trailed off. A rowboat could be a death trap.
Fiona squinted as she looked across the water. “You said something earlier about needing bait to get Victor out of the vehicle. This gives me an idea . . .”
THIRTY-SIX
They were as ready as they’d ever be. Everything was in place. They just needed Victor and a side-by-side with a full tank of gas.
They’d spent yesterday afternoon and evening and all of the morning setting it up. It was now the afternoon of Dean’s sixth day on this island and less than forty-eight hours since they’d found Dylan. His brother was holding his own, but damn, it was like the minute his body knew he could relax, his energy gave out. Every time he went to sleep, Dean was terrified he wouldn’t wake up.
He was exhausted and strained to the limit of his endurance.
They’d planned to wait for Victor and his crony to show up again, but given Dylan’s condition, he and Fiona had agreed to desperate measures. They would set a bonfire to draw Victor to them.
Everything burnable they could scrounge was in a massive pile, ready to be set off. They had one shot at this. If Victor didn’t see the smoke, didn’t show up, they’d have burned half their resources for nothing.
They made it look like a signal fire, with the goal being as much thick, dark smoke as possible.
Dean held the bottle of whiskey he and Fiona had shared in the volcano. It was half-full. Or half-empty. Both were true.
They’d soaked much of the wood and charcoal they’d gathered in the pit of diesel, in hopes the fuel wasn’t too diluted with runoff water and would accelerate the burn.
“Once the fire is going, we get into position,” Fiona said.
He nodded. “It might take hours for Victor to get here. It’ll be cold, the waiting.”
She turned to Dean and said, “Then give me something warm to think about.”
He smiled. Damn. She was everything.
The move came naturally. Smooth like fine wine. He cupped a hand behind her head and tilted her back, then covered her mou
th with his, his tongue sliding between her lips, taking everything he wanted while giving her what she’d asked for.
Her mouth was silky sweet and smooth, his body rocking with the pleasure of the easy kiss, the feel of her tongue sliding against his. The heat and passion of her. He forgot about everything. Life. Death. Breathing. He simply pulled her body flush to his and took her mouth, utterly possessing her as he’d said he wanted to do when they were alone in the magazine the night before last.
She kissed him back, giving him all he demanded and taking what she needed in return.
He finally raised his head, not wanting to end the moment but knowing it had to be done. He brushed her hair from her face. “When we get out of here, I want one night with you, so I can worship you as you deserve.”
She gave him a small, inscrutable smile; then she whispered in his ear, “That sounds lovely, but . . .” Her voice dropped an octave deeper. “I don’t do flings.” She then bit his earlobe and slipped from his arms. “Now, let’s light this sucker up and end this nightmare.”
Fiona took the cloth coated with Sterno gel and set it in the heart of the bonfire pile, next to wood that had been soaked in diesel and whiskey in hopes the fire would take off in spite of the wood being wet due to the recent storms. She lit the cloth, and the flame caught, burning slowly. It wasn’t dramatic, like an action movie; it was a slow burn that seeped into the damp driftwood and debris that made up the woodpile, each piece catching slowly, in turn, until finally, after several minutes, the fire was raging.
From slow burn to inferno in . . . fifteen minutes or more.
She smiled at the comparison. Relating to it more than she should.
It was the fires that burned slow and hot that did the most damage. Sneaking up and consuming you like a frog on boil.
When the fire was steady, she left to take her position by the water, ready to play her part should Victor show up. Dean would check on Dylan, make sure he was safely tucked away in the magazine; then he’d get into the blind he’d made to hide.
Hours passed as Fiona waited, feeding the bonfire as needed, keeping the smoke level thick and high, letting the fierce Aleutian winds carry it up. Anyone searching for them would see the smoke. No doubt about it.
It was possible their real rescue would arrive before Victor, but she wouldn’t bet on it.
An hour before darkness fell, a fog rolled in, thick and white. There was no point to keeping the bonfire going. She and Dean quickly spread out the burning wood, making a big, blackened patch in the middle of the road right as it ended next to both covered and uncovered storage pits. More toxic waste on the base.
They both returned to their positions. Now there was nothing to do but wait as the fog closed in.
Darkness was descending when the hum of an engine sounded in the distance. Dean made the birdcall that meant he heard and was sliding into his hiding place.
Timing was everything. Fiona’s role was to push the decoy into the water, but if she went too soon, it would be too far out, lost in the darkness and fog, and if she went too late, Victor might spot her.
And shoot her.
She took a deep breath. Better early than late.
She pushed the boat they’d spent the last day repairing with duct tape and sweat. They’d managed to make three human-looking dummies to ride the boat. The fact that it was twilight and foggy worked in their favor.
With a hard shove, the boat was launched into the small, shallow bay, veering toward the entrance to the cove. She said a silent prayer, asking for it to remain on that course; then she tucked herself into her hiding place to wait for Victor.
Dean planted himself beneath the muskeg matting, telling himself this was no different from positioning himself in a blind and waiting for his moment to take the perfect shot. The only difference was, he wasn’t waiting for the perfect photo—he was waiting for the perfect moment to attack, and the animal in question was a predator out to kill the only family he had left.
He sank down into the wet earth with his camera, leaning into the cold pain of the long wait. Later, when all this was over, he’d get warm by a fire with Fiona in his arms.
But first, victory over Victor.
He knew their plan was too simple. Their odds of success minuscule. But hope had guided him through this entire dangerous journey, and he wasn’t about to give up that drug now.
The vehicle stopped in the middle of the road before the smoldering, blackened circle that marked the bonfire. Close to the magazine but two hundred yards from the shoreline.
The bright spotlight mounted to the top of the vehicle lit, creating a white beam in the fog that touched the water, just catching the decoy boat as it went out to sea in a haze of fog.
They didn’t need the decoy to distract Victor for long. Just long enough. Long enough for him and his companion—Dean could see there was another person in the front seat—to step out of the vehicle.
The companion took the bait. Victor did not.
“What the fuck? There are three of them?”
“Obviously Slater and Carver escaped the cave, because you were a dumbass and set the charges too soon. If you’d given me the time I needed, they’d both be dead.”
Dean had a theory about that . . . and wondered if Neff did too.
He was pretty sure the explosion happened much faster than the declared five minutes but had to admit time had all been relative those minutes in the cave, when Neff had shot at them in the dark.
The second man’s goal could have been to get rid of Dean, Fiona, and Victor. Perhaps he wasn’t pleased with the guy’s job performance. Or he wanted his share of the bounty.
The man took several steps toward the water, his gaze on the rowboat with the three human shapes propped up inside.
“Get back here, you idiot! Can’t you see it’s fake? No one is rowing.”
Well, it had been worth a shot.
Dean wished he had a gun so he could shoot the companion in the leg. Let these men know the fear and pain they’d inflicted on Dylan.
Instead, the only weapon in his arsenal was patience. He willed Victor to get complacent and climb from the vehicle.
His companion ignored the demand to return to the vehicle and instead took more steps toward the rocky beach. “I just saw someone move.”
Dean would snicker if it didn’t risk making noise. A wave jostled the boat, asshole.
“That was just a wave, fool.” Victor had even less patience with Tweedledum than Dean did. He wondered what their connection was. Mentor and mentee assassins? Or two unconnected guns for hire?
The man turned, his profile to Dean as he looked inside the side-by-side at Neff. Dean pressed the zoom button on his camera. He was recording the entire scene, and this was his first chance to capture the guy’s face.
“If it’s fake, then maybe Dylan Slater set it up by himself, and his brother and Fiona are dead after all.” The second man shouted the words to be heard over the engine and wind. The camera’s microphone shouldn’t have a problem capturing the conversation.
Victor twisted the key, shutting off the engine while muttering, “Fucking moron. Damn engineers think they know everyone’s job.”
The guy was an engineer? He must be from Pollux, then. But he wasn’t Roy or John.
Victor climbed from the vehicle with his gun drawn. He’d clearly been around the block a few times and knew bait when he saw it. Unlike the Pollux engineer, who was in way over his head.
“And how would Dylan Slater know to place three people in the boat, not just one?” Victor shouted.
The other man cursed. “Fiona Carver cannot leave this island or we’re all fucked.”
Victor pointed his gun at the man’s chest. “You should have thought of that before you planted the explosives and tried to kill me.”
“What? I didn’t! I wasn’t trying to kill you.”
“Bullshit.”
“I radioed you! I told you I’d set the charges. Why would I do that if
I wanted to trap you in the cave?”
“You needed to know if I’d found them and how deep I was in the cave. When you realized how close we were to the entrance, you reset the timer, giving me less than three minutes.” Victor took a menacing step toward the man. “The thing you need to understand is, I don’t work for you. Once you brought my team on board to fix your problem, you bought yourself a new boss. Bratva doesn’t take well to stupid Americans who think they can cut a deal, then back out at the first opportunity.”
“Bratva? Jesus. Sylvia hired the Russian mafia?”
Victor let out a sharp laugh. “You are slow, my friend, but eventually you catch on.”
“You were hired to kill Dylan Slater and stop anyone else on the team from finding him first.” The increasingly agitated engineer waved toward the boat that rocked in the water, heading out to open sea. “And you were supposed to do it without crippling the project. You haven’t found Slater, my camp is in ruins, my archaeologist is missing, and I can’t hold off a search team much longer. You’ve ruined everything.”
Who was this guy? Dean hadn’t met anyone from Pollux face-to-face—at least, not until he’d boarded the flight on Whidbey. Everything had been done online or by phone. But he’d interviewed with the top brass on the project, yet he had no clue who this man was.
Fiona might know, but she was hidden on the other side of the rotted-out Quonset hut.
Of the two men, Dean had no doubt Victor was the most dangerous, even though the other man was clearly desperate. It must be just dawning on him that Victor didn’t need him now that he had a line on Dylan’s location.
Once Victor had Dylan, Fiona, and Dean contained, he wouldn’t need the engineer anymore. No reason to keep him alive, not when his Bratva cronies would swoop in and take what they wanted anyway.
Had Victor already located the impact crater and mother lode? Rare earth metals would be enough to make this venture profitable, but if what Dylan suspected about hafnium’s nuclear isotope was correct, a cheap source of pure hafnium to experiment with gamma ray weapons would make the Russian Bratva—and their government—very happy.
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