Say You Will (Trust & Tequila Book 3)

1. Henry

one

I don’t give a shit that a yacht is on fire behind me. People, mostly men, but some women, scream pointlessly in desperation, begging us to bring our smaller crafts closer. To do something to save them.

There are no lifeboats or life jackets for the guests onboard Felicity’s Folly. I know because I’m the one who made certain of it.

My brother Gabriel, dressed in black, approaches with a teenage girl wrapped in a thin blanket. “Tell him what you told me,” he says, voice altered by his obsidian helmet to a mechanical tone.

The girl, maybe fourteen years old, thin, with dark brown skin ashen from stress, swallows hard. “You missed one of us. She was really little and climbed inside a duffel bag because she thought no one would look there. I didn’t know you were saving us.” The longer she speaks, the higher her voice gets.

My gut tightens, but my voice, disguised by my own helmet, is matter-of-fact. “Same place I found you?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I was afraid.”

“Not your fault. It’s going to be okay.” Gabriel soothes as he motions for Brooke, one of the women on our team, to come over and take the girl back to the others.

Punching something would be a waste of time. Instead, I radio our pilot. We have three boats on the water and a helicopter above. “I”ve got a kid left behind. Can you drop me back on deck?”

“Roger that. But if the fire spreads or approaches the fuselage, you’ll need to find another way home.”

“Let me do it,” Gabriel insists.

“No, you coordinate with Dante to get me clear of the scene once I find her. We may need someone in the water to retrieve us.”

“Don’t get yourself killed, Henry,” Gabriel grinds out.

“Not planning on it.”

A mid-October bluster cuts through the sturdy fabric of my clothing. If possible, I’ll avoid the frigid water. The tactical gear weighs me down, but leaving it behind isn’t an option. An audience watches my every move, so reboarding with stealth is out. The ocean isn’t rough, but the waves lift and fall, and my stomach drops with them.

We’d expected our quarry to head for the tropics, but at nearly the last hour, they’d changed their plans, I assume in an attempt to avoid detection. Above us, the helicopter moves into position, churning the steely gray sea under overcast skies. My chief of security, Dante, in full gear, as all of us are, drops a ladder and crouches in the opening, hanging onto the chopper with one hand.

Launching onto the ladder, I secure myself with SPIE rigging. I fucking hate heights. It took me nearly as long to learn how to force myself to ignore my fear as it did to stop gagging at the sight of blood. I overcame those visceral reactions long before I left my teens. Now, I spare them a thought and move forward with what I need to do.

When I’m in position, the chopper flies me above the soon-to-be-sinking ship. Cockroaches swarm as I approach. Anyone who sells or buys children doesn’t qualify as human in my mind.

Grasping, desperate hands claw toward me. A famous movie producer, Caucasian, balding, and probably in his fifties, lifts his Glock. I don’t give him time to make a demand or shoot me off the ladder. Opening fire on him and everyone else standing beneath me, I neutralize those obstacles before I reach my destination.

I drop to teak decking that’s turned slippery with blood, my knees bending deep, before I straighten and step over the bodies.

By my estimation, fewer than a dozen people remain alive on this cesspit of depravity. An eighty-million-dollar yacht has become nothing more than a funeral pyre in progress. Our team has already removed everyone even possibly innocent. All but one little girl who, apparently, hid in a damn duffel. How small do you have to be to hide in a bag? Mistake. Mistake. Mistake. If the kid dies, it’s my fault. Don’t think about it.Don’t feel anything. That way lies madness.

Flames gnaw their way across the ship, though I can’t see the fire as I descend below deck. Black smoke filters through the corridor, hazy, not as thick as it will be. When heat meets fuel, this floating tomb will become an inferno. I have to be out of here before that happens.

The breather on this helmet is state-of-the-art and straight out of my family’s research and development lab, the only part of our business empire my father has any interest in, whatsoever.

Dad has left my grandfather’s businesses in my hands, too obsessed with his quest to rid New York of organized crime to waste time on boring things like finances, but vigilante shit costs money. Lots and lots of money.

Besides, my great-grandfather built those companies. He passed them to his son, Arden McRae II. Over time, the business expanded from real estate, property development, and railways, to include shipping and tech industries.

Now, most of those businesses have skipped a generation and fallen to me. As long as they exist, some part of my grandfather’s legacy remains.

The helmet cam projects a 360-degree view inside the visor. No one gets in my way as I follow a direct path to the berth where the traffickers kept their victims, but any moment, a new threat could emerge.

“If I don’t make it out of here, you better be at my office first thing Monday morning, ready to step in.” My mic sends my words directly to my brother’s earpiece. It’s not the first time I’ve delivered that line.

Gabriel’s laugh cracks as he delivers his own, right on cue. “You’re the golden boy. I’m the fuck up. Remember your place, and I’ll remember mine. Stay alive, asshole.”

“Roger that.” The berth I’m seeking comes into view. If the kid isn’t here, chances of survival are much lower. I don’t have time to search for her.

Through the open doorway, I can see most of the small cabin, but as I enter, I do a sweep anyway. The duffel bag sits on the mattress, lumpy and lifting and falling with the kid’s ragged breathing. The fact that I missed it the first time is inexcusable.

“I’m here to help you. Don’t be scared.”

When I draw the zipper down, a vicious, growling screech sounds. I wrest the wooden hanger out of her hand, just as a little, red-haired demon swings at me, attacking like a feral animal.

“Good job, but we don’t have time for this right now. The boat is on fire. Did you learn about firemen in school?”

She trembles and frowns. “You’re not a fireman,” she whispers.

“I don’t look like any of those bad people, right? That’s because I’m here to help you get home, but I need you to cooperate.”

The kid coughs and struggles, staring at my black headgear in horror when I lift her into my arms. “No! Monster!” Her words cut off with a hacking cough.

The visor raises when I click the button, so she can see my normal, human, blue eyes. “Not a monster. Look.”

The girl, I’d estimate her age somewhere between three and four, shakes her head. If she doesn’t cooperate in the next fifteen seconds, I’ll have to terrify her into submission. Fighting her and any obstacles in our path at the same time will be a challenge.

I take off my helmet. “Look. I have freckles like you do. My sister says my hair is goofy. Is it sticking up all crazy?” I’m due for a haircut. When I let it get like this, the cowlicks in my brown hair are out of control.

She blinks. “Yes.”

“Did you just take your fucking helmet off?” Dante barks in my earpiece.

The kid coughs again.

“Put this on. It’s going to make it easier for you to breathe. No bad people can hurt you when you have this on your head. It’s special.”

“Like Iron Man?”

Not even close.“Yes. Just like that.”

When I fit the helmet over her head, it wobbles, far too large, but the air is cleaner for her than it is for me.

“Shit for brains, Henry. I have no idea why people think you’re a genius. Get the fuck out of there.” I don’t need to see my chief of security to know he’s clutching his own headgear in agitation as he hovers nearby in the waiting chopper.

I’ll be gone before my breathing becomes a problem, and I already killed everyone on this part of the ship. The greater concern is an explosion, and no breather will save me from that.

“I’m going to run with you really fast. It will be loud. Hold on as tightly as you can and don’t let go of me until I say so. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Small arms squeeze around my neck, her child’s voice distorted through the helmet.

“Close your eyes. Don’t look.”

She nods, then crams her helmet-covered head against my shoulder. I wrap a makeshift harness around the two of us. She’s too small. Too easy to slip out of it. Something to consider for the future. My mind hadn’t let me go to a place where I imagined needing a baby carrier.

Emerging on the upper deck brings the relief of moderately fresher air, but only because the smoke is blowing in the other direction.

“You’re getting me off this boat or I shoot.” The voice comes from my left, and I stop, turning toward the US senator who was lying in wait.

His eyes flare wide in recognition, despite the contacts I wear, rather than my usual glasses. “Hen—”

My roundhouse kick knocks the gun from his hand, followed immediately by a slice across his throat with my bowie knife.

The girl screams, and I waste precious moments preventing her from clawing at my face and escaping my hold. The distraction is dangerous, so I clamp down, trapping her arms against her body. My shoulder and thigh take a beating from her head butts and kicking feet, but at least I can see now.

“Be still,” I grate out.

Sheathing my bloody blade, I run and jump for the ladder as the chopper lowers toward us. Her added weight is negligible, but considering I can only use one hand to grab the ladder and blood makes my grip slippery, I nearly drop us both into the ocean.

“I’m letting you use your arms. You have to hold onto me. If you let go, you’re going to fall all the way down and die.” A harsh yell. A monstrous thing to say to a child. But true.

Her squeal barely cuts through the chop chop chop of the machine above us. I loosen my hold. When she grabs onto my neck, I release her for two heart-stopping seconds to get a better grip on the ladder and secure the rigging. She clings to me, then I anchor her against me once more, holding her tightly in case she panics or tries to squirm away. We fly out over open water, wind and sea spray thrashing us as the team pulls us up.

When I reach the top, Dante tries to take the girl from me, but she refuses to let go, so I climb in and settle onto a seat with her on my lap.

As soon as the door closes, I remove the harness, and the girl scrambles away to shiver on the floor, turning her head from me to the pilot and the other men around her, then back to me. I reach for her, prepared to check for injuries, but draw back when she screams. “No! You’re bad too. You’re bad.”

Crimson splatters mar her pink T-shirt. I’ve left a bloody handprint on her side. She’ll be in the care of medical and mental health professionals soon.

Will my face fill her nightmares? Will she ever understand what she saw? Pointless to wish she’d closed her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She rocks in place. She may not even hear me over the sound of the propeller.

“You’re safe now. No one else is going to hurt you,” I say.

Two little arms wrap over her head.

Blood coats the black fabric of my sleeve, and my glove-covered fingers glisten. Revolting. Fishing a wet wipe from a go-bag Dante passes my way, I clean my gloves and the worst of my sleeve.

When Dante passes me a brown teddy bear and one of the soft blankets we keep for situations like this, I set them both down near the girl without touching her or getting closer. “What’s your name?” I try to be loud enough for her to hear me.

The kid wraps herself in fabric, ignores the stuffed animal, and doesn’t answer. I don’t press her. She’s terrified, and I don’t know how to make her not feel that way. The blood from someone I killed in front of her is all over her shirt.

Dante gives me a new helmet. When I fit the thing on my head, the noise of the blades becomes tolerable. From my wrist unit, I power off the voice amplifier on the new helmet, so when I speak it doesn’t transmit to anyone who isn’t locked into our shared channel. Little Miss won’t hear our conversation from where she sits near my feet, but I can still hear her.

In the distance, Felicity’s Folly explodes. I check my watch. “I’m certain this detour cost us valuable time. No way I’m making it to that wedding tomorrow. Better luck next time, I guess.”

My brother snorts in my earpiece. “Nice try. We’ve got more than enough time to return to New York.”

“You can handle this alone. Do you really need me?”

“Dude. Suck it up. Live a little. I thought that was your new mantra.” Gabriel’s voice sounds in my earpiece. He’s on board our own yacht below, heading away from the scene of the crime before the authorities manage to clock us.

“I don’t have a mantra. I have a grandmother with control issues,” I snipe.

According to her, I have an unhealthy obsession with work. When I requested she sell me her McRae Property Development shares, she came back with what she called “incentive,” and I call “an unreasonable ultimatum.” I’ve been trying to find my way around it ever since.

With my grandfather’s death, Dad’s rejection of his own father’s companies took on new and deeper significance. I’m the only McRae left with both the willingness and the ability to take on the mantle of the empire my family built. MPD is only one of a long line of family businesses I’ve needed to swoop in and rescue from mismanagement.

“It’s only a company. When you understand that, I’ll know you can handle it.” What a nonsensical thing for Grandmother Rose to say. Obviously, it’s a company. What else would it be?

“I’m not saying I agree with her, but she’s doing it because she wants you to be happy,” Gabriel says.

“MPD will make me happy.” I deliver the word “happy” like a pat of butter melting on a stack of pancakes. Happiness is an absurd goal. Does Grandmother Rose expect me to float around with a ridiculous grin on my face?

My siblings and I were raised into this world. When we were kids, Dad was the lead prosecutor in a case against a mob boss. They made the mistake of threatening his family. Dad built a private army and annihilated the threat, but as long as organized crime keeps trying to gain a foothold, it will never be over. Our methods are unconventional at best. Barbaric, at worst, but we do what’s necessary. Sometimes we have months, even years, of peace, but it never lasts. My life doesn’t have room for happiness.

Dante cracks open a plastic food storage container and passes it over to me.

I flip up my visor and place the container on the floor within the child’s reach. She doesn’t trust me, but the others indicated they hadn’t eaten in hours. The physical need for food may be enough to overcome fear, at least in the short term. “Hungry?”

After a brief hesitation, little fingers reach out and curl around a treat, then she slides her entire hand up under the mask.

She can keep the helmet. I’ll have to scrub my DNA and wipe the systems first, until it’s nothing more than something to cover her head, but I’m not taking it back permanently. She appears to have developed an attachment.

She reaches for a second puff.

“The cooking class? Best idea, yet,” Dante says.

Gabriel groans. “Are you guys eating without me? You suck. What did you make this time?”

“Cranberry brie puffs.” I tap my pointer finger on my thigh, a subtle form of stimming that, to most other people, looks like an impatient man ready to get on with things.

“They’re delicious, aren’t they? You’re rubbing pastry deliciousness that I can’t have in my face,” Gabriel says.

“Mmm. So good.” I’m not eating, but I enjoy harassing him. Who says I don’t know how to have fun?

Cracking open a water bottle, I waggle it in front of the kid until she snatches it away, only lifting the helmet far enough to expose her mouth to gulp at the water. I’d like to hold her and comfort her, but she doesn’t know any of us. I’d only make things worse if I try.

“The wine-making wasn’t bad, and I eat my cereal from the bowl you made me in ceramics class every day, but cooking wins. Hands down,” Dante says.

“The bowl you stole.” I press the button to close my visor once more.

“Semantics,” Dante argues.

In the past eleven months, in an attempt to provide my grandmother proof of my rich and meaningful life, I’ve participated in no less than seven new and varied hobbies. They range from fly fishing, which I enjoy, to knitting, which, shockingly, I also enjoy.

“Maybe you’ll find your future wife at the wedding. You’re running out of time. What have you got left? Two months?” Dante asks.

My eye twitches. “One.” If I don’t meet Grandmother’s deadline, she’s planning to give her shares to her sister’s grandson, Lawrence. She chose him for the simple fact that she knows I will go to extreme lengths to prevent him from getting his hands on that company. She knows if she gives them to Gabriel, he’ll hand the reins over to me as soon as the ink is dry on the contract.

“Close your eyes and think of England,” Gabriel says.

I’ve closed my eyes and thought of who was in England one too many times for a joke like that to amuse me. She’s in California now. Franki said she’d come back when she finished school. “There has to be another way.”

I can’t marry someone else. That’s not an option I can even consider. I flinch internally at the idea of chasing Franki down before she’s ready. She’s working toward her PhD and has years left before she comes home, but the clock is ticking.

“I’ve decided to approach the situation as a business merger.” One thing all this time that I’ve spent fishing and knitting and thinking has done is give me the grudging realization that my grandmother is partially right. I’m numb as hell, but what she doesn’t understand is that I like it that way.

Grandmother’s mistake is assuming that’s something I need, or want, to change. Anyone who’s seen and felt the things I have would be a masochist to volunteer for that kind of pain again. “My situation is too complicated for anything else right now.”

There isn’t time. I’ve let it go too long.

“Find some temporary company, then. Go out once in a while. Find a woman to take home and let the word spread. Maybe it’ll be enough if Grandmother thinks you’re looking.” Gabriel’s voice sounds in my ear.

“That won’t solve my problem.” If it were only the issue of navigating the security risks that sleeping with random women carried, I might consider his suggestion, but touching another woman would be a betrayal. Gabriel would call me insane if I told him that. In order for there to be “another” woman, I’d need to have a woman in the first place, and I don’t. She was never mine.

I once saw the definition of a Welsh word: hiraeth. It’s homesickness for someplace or someone you can never return to. Sometimes, it’s a yearning to return to something that never even existed at all. Understanding resonated inside me immediately upon learning the word. I’ve never found a better way to explain the hole inside me that’s only grown deeper over the last five years.

“Your grandmother isn’t going to accept some fake marriage,” Dante argues.

“It won’t be fake. It will be practical,” I say.

“Unless you ease up on your requirements, you’re not finding anyone at all. You’ll need someone financially motivated, which immediately calls her trustworthiness into question,” Gabriel says.

“I’m someone financially motivated, and I’m trustworthy,” I say sourly. “I’m not changing my requirements. I’ll explain to Grandmother that I’m searching but haven’t found the right person and request an extension.”

“She’ll ask what you’re looking for in a wife and realize you’ve made an impossible list as an excuse,” my brother disagrees.

“It’s not impossible,” I scoff.

Gabriel snorts. “She has to be fluent in German and French, even though you don’t speak those languages; you speak Italian and Russian. You won’t accept anyone who isn’t within an inch either way of five-foot-seven, for no reason whatsoever, except that you held your hand out to a certain height one day, and said, ‘Spencer, find a tape measure, that’s how tall she is.’ And she should be a dog person, even though you don’t have a dog.”

“I like dogs, and it makes perfect sense that I would want my wife to be fluent in languages that I’m not. It’s a practical consideration that reduces the need to hire a translator in any number of circumstances.”

“Yeah, okay,” Gabriel says in patent disbelief.

Dante speaks. “Why does she have to be interested in astronomy and world history? Those interests are too different from each other. If you find someone into astronomy, she’s not going to be into history. We’re not stupid. You did it on purpose.”

I say nothing in response.

“At least the one about being loyal and trustworthy makes sense. You can’t have a wife you’re worried will stab you in your sleep. That’s the real impossibility. No one could live with Henry and not want to kill him.” I can hear the grin in Gabriel’s voice.

I roll my eyes.

Dante snorts. “Don’t forget she has to appreciate when he has time for her, but keep herself busy when he doesn’t. And if he did manage to find someone who meets every one of his other criteria, he won’t accept her if she doesn’t have brown eyes. To be honest, the last three on the list sound like a golden retriever, not a wife.”

They haven’t listed half of my criteria.

“What is your wife supposed to get out of this?” Gabriel asks.

“The obvious answer is money. I’ll consider making adjustments to my requirements on an as-needed basis. I’m not budging on the height, eye color, languages, or education. Trustworthiness has to stay. As does her liking dogs.”

Gabriel’s shock is clear in his voice. “You’re actually going to do it.”

Dante shifts back, sprawling in his seat. “You’re not going to be satisfied if you acquire your wife as a business merger.”

“I won’t care how I acquired her once I have her.” I keep my voice deliberately bland. If I say it enough, I’ll convince myself it’s true. The only way I can have Franki Lennox as my wife is by offering her a practical arrangement, so that’s what I’ll do.

From her place near my bloody feet, the kid rocks in place. “Monster. Monster. Monster.”