Chapter 2 #3
“No, no, I . . . I was a few steps behind—I was caught up tangling with another two members of the cartel and . . .”
“You got there in time to save his life, from what I understand,” Wes said.
“Maybe. I don’t know. There was a SWAT team right behind me,” she said with a shrug.
“You know,” he reminded her, “that with what we do, we know what can happen to us,” he said softly.
“Of course.”
“Hey, I’m glad you’re the one who has my back on this,” he assured her.
“Yeah, maybe? Well, I hope,” she murmured. “Okay! So, anyway, I’m off to sleep so that we can get to know all our charming
computer people tomorrow!”
“Right. Oh! I’m going to get friendly with our cruise director, Billy. Because that way, we’ll know what excursions our suspects
have opted to be on. Because . . .”
“Diving might give someone a chance to kill someone else?”
“Possibly. And one of the offerings in Jamaica is a trip to the Dunn’s River Falls—lots of places to push someone off of the
rocks there,” Wes reminded her.
She groaned.
“Good point! All right, good night!”
She disappeared into the bedroom area of their little suite.
Wes decided that he’d shower in the morning.
He found a pillow and blanket in the closet and determined that he had more than enough to make himself comfortable for the
night.
Lying down, he stared at the door. It was bolted from the inside. But tonight, he was certain that no one could suspect that
they were anything other than a happy young married couple, ready to enjoy one another and all the wonders that the cruise
had to offer.
He lay there awake. It had been one hell of a day. When he had woken up that morning, he hadn’t had the faintest idea that
he’d be going to sleep on a cruise ship when night fell.
That he’d be partnered with an agent from the state rather than the federal government.
He hadn’t heard about the first so-called suicide of Frank Adams before they’d been briefed and left to study what was known.
The deaths of the six people had made national news immediately and he could also remember reading about the wife who had
supposedly killed her husband before eating the gun herself.
And it did so often come down to why.
Killers had an agenda, or they were stone-cold psychopaths.
Or both.
What were they looking for? Someone like Celia Henderson?
Or were she and her husband just the kind of personalities who strangely worked together?
Celia being the one who was calling all the shots.
Him being her obedient second, a man happy to have a powerful leader to show him the way?
They hadn’t even begun to fathom the personalities of the others who were on their suspect list.
He groaned and twisted and turned and found himself thinking about his new partner.
Chloe was picture-perfect for the role with her shoulder-length dark hair and bright green eyes, sleek form and energy. She
had managed to be passionate yet inoffensive when she had stated that art needed to be created by human beings and not artificial
intelligence—not that AI hadn’t already been used over and over again in the field.
And he hoped that she was really okay. From what he had read, it appeared that her timely arrival had kept her partner, Alex
Rodriguez, from being shot dead straight through the heart—one of the “boatyard killers” they had taken down had been standing
right over the man.
But he knew, too, that anytime a partner was struck in a situation, the second man or woman couldn’t help but blame themselves.
Maybe it was part of being human.
He jerked up suddenly; the door between the bedroom and the parlor had opened.
Chloe stuck her head out.
She smiled.
“Sorry, couldn’t help myself, just checking. Hm, but had you fallen asleep yet, anyway?” she asked him.
“You’ll never know,” he told her.
She laughed softly.
“No, honestly, the little refrigerator is out here and I just wanted to get some water,” she told him.
“I think you were checking on me.”
“I think I really wanted water.”
“Then you should get some!”
“Yeah. I’ll do that!”
She slept in an oversized T-shirt. He wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t expected her to be clad in anything frilly and he wasn’t
sure why.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re secretly laughing at me.”
“No,” he assured her. “I’m laughing at myself.”
“Oh?”
He shook his head, lying back down as he spoke.
“We’ve all taken profiling classes. And I guess I was profiling you.”
“Oh?” she said warily.
“I just surprised myself. I was pretty sure you slept in something like that. Something comfortable and easy.”
“Hm. I guess I had you down right, too, then.”
“Oh?”
“I knew you’d be out here with the bare minimum, pillow, blanket—and that you’d sleep with your clothes on.”
“Hey! I’m trying to be professional here!” he countered.
She acquired her bottle of water and headed back to the door, grinning. “And, of course, I’m trying to be professional here,
too.”
“Hm,” he murmured.
“What?”
“You could have tried a little harder. That cotton kind of hugs your form!”
She let out a soft groan.
“Well, you know, I am on my second honeymoon. Good night, darling!”
“Good night, my beloved. Sleep well.”
With a last grin and a shake of her head, she disappeared and the door between them closed.
He liked her. She was serious, but she had a sense of humor.
And . . .
He couldn’t help but wonder more about her past. It was one thing to get to know someone through a dossier. It was quite another
once you were with that person.
Naturally, she had to be wondering about him. It was never easy to be thrown into a situation undercover.
And sure as hell never easy when you were just beginning to know one’s partner.
But . . .
He smiled to himself.
Something told him that it was going to be all right.
He closed his eyes and felt the gentle movement of the ship as it moved through the sea in the night.
One thing was sure.
He’d been far worse places.
And still . . .
Someone was out there poisoning people, paralyzing them, killing them.
And the powers that be believed that the someone they were after was on the ship.
In the coming days, they were going to have to discover just who that person might be . . . without becoming poisoned, paralyzed
and killed themselves.