Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
Jaz was furious with himself.
He shouldn’t have left Kenzie. No matter what Wright had said, he should have made sure she reached the airport. He should’ve… He should’ve done something different.
He hadn’t, and now she was in danger. She could be dead…
Please, don’t let her be dead.
He’d left her alone while he’d walked—boated, in his case—right into a trap. What had made him think he could play the hero? All he’d done was get Kenzie kidnapped.
He should’ve sent her home days before.
No, he should’ve let her climb aboard that Coast Guard clipper with the rest of her crew. He hadn’t, and now she was gone.
The thought was colder than the wind, making him shiver. It had been a nice day, but with the sun down and the air whipping, thanks to the speed of their boat—and Jaz’s soaking wet clothes—he couldn’t get warm. Not that it mattered. Not that anything mattered except getting Kenzie back.
He glanced at Wright, who looked as tortured as Jaz felt. Wright couldn’t have known that someone would try to get revenge on him for something that had happened almost forty years ago. This wasn’t his fault.
Jaz heard his own thoughts, letting Wright off the hook while condemning himself, even though he couldn’t have known, either, that Kenzie had been targeted. He’d assumed she was a random drug mule, nothing else.
Just like he couldn’t have known his father would fall into the ocean that day and drown. Yet Jaz had condemned himself ever since. Had he caused Dad’s death? Had Wright caused his daughter to be kidnapped?
The answer to Jaz’s second question seemed an obvious no, but to the first?
It didn’t feel right not to blame himself. He’d been so sure he was to blame. But was it a lie? It felt real, like an old friend.
Maybe it was an old enemy, one he needed to shed.
His thoughts were spinning, barely making sense.
Lord, I don’t know what to think. Just please, help me fix it. Help us get her back.
The man at the helm eased the small watercraft through the marina at a crawl, the boat’s wake a ripple in the oily water.
Jaz had barely noticed him, but in the marina’s light, he saw the set of his shoulders, the way his eyes swept the docks.
He seemed like a professional—and not a professional boater.
If the bulge visible on the man’s side was what he thought it was, he was carrying a weapon beneath the casual, untucked shirt.
No idea how Wright had found agents, or whatever these guys were, to come to his aid, but he had, and Jaz was grateful. Or he would be, if any of them could find Kenzie.
He moved closer to the front. “I’m Jaz. Jasper Aylett.”
The man turned to him and nodded. “Call me Duck.”
“Duck?”
“Don’t ask.”
His moniker was better than Splat, but only by a little.
Duck slid the boat toward an empty slip in Dock Maarten, the largest marina on the island. It was close to the one where Jaz and Kenzie had left his boat the day before, and between the two, there had to be eighty, ninety vessels, and that wasn’t counting all the ones moored in the harbor.
Yellow lights cast pools across weathered planks, and somewhere nearby, a halyard clanged against a mast in the evening breeze.
Movement caught Jaz’s eye.
A figure limped along the dock, one arm pressed tight against his ribs. As the man drew closer, the light found him—Hispanic, bearded and broad-shouldered. Mud stained his forehead. Or…not mud? Blood. It dripped down in a dark line, disappearing into his eyebrow.
He looked like death in boat shoes. And he was headed straight for them.
Wright tensed beside Jaz, his whole body coiling.
But the driver—Duck—wasn’t alarmed. “You okay?” He tossed a line to the bleeding man, who caught it one-handed but didn’t secure it to the cleat.
“Wright?” His voice was gravel and broken glass.
Kenzie’s father gave a single nod.
“Name’s A.J. Splat.”
Oh. This was the man who’d lost Kenzie. Looked like he hadn’t gone down easily.
“Got hit from the side,” Splat said. “Shooter couldn’t have been more than two feet away. They knew we were coming.”
“How?” Wright demanded. “Did you tell—?”
“Didn’t tell anyone except Duck what was going on. I have no idea.”
“You were shot?” Jaz stared at the blood on his forehead, the way he held himself. “How are you standing?”
Splat’s mouth twisted into something that might’ve turned into a grin on a different day.
“Last time I did a favor for Michael Wright, I ended up half dead in a Turkish hospital. I learned my lesson.” He lifted his shirt with his free hand, revealing a bulletproof vest, shredded on one side.
“The bullet knocked me down. I cracked my skull on the pavement. Lost hold of her.”
Wright’s voice was tight. “And they just…walked away?”
Splat dropped his shirt and grabbed the gunwale, hauling himself aboard with a grunt. “I played dead long enough for them to move along. Followed on foot, but they had a vehicle waiting. Lost visual when they hit the main road.”
“So you have no idea where she is?” Jaz’s hopes plummeted through the boat and into the water.
“The plate got pinged.” Splat settled onto the bench, his jaw tight against the pain. “Traffic cam caught it heading into this marina about twenty minutes ago.”
Jaz spun, scanning the endless expanse of masts and hulls. Sailboats and cruisers and sport fishers, all jammed together in a maze of docks. The harbor was even worse—vessels dotting the dark water like scattered stars.
She could be on any one of them. Or maybe they’d come here to throw Jaz and Wright off her tail. Maybe they’d transferred to another vehicle and were long gone.
But the driver backed out of the slip and swung the bow back toward open water.
“What if she’s on land?” Jaz spun to face the others. “How do we know—?”
“We don’t,” Wright said. “We position ourselves in a spot where we can move as soon as we know something. Unless she’s inland, that means the water.”
“But if she’s inland—”
“We’ll deal with it,” Duck said.
Made sense. But Jaz’s insides twisted. On land, on water. Either way, they still didn’t know where she was.
“When we find her”—he made himself use the word when—“we rescue her?”
“That’s the idea,” Wright said, “unless you have a better one.”
Jaz wished he did.
Wright turned to Splat. “You sure you’re good? You need a hospital?”
The man exhaled through his teeth. “Rib’s cracked.
Maybe two. I’ve had worse.” His expression hardened, the blood on his forehead making him look almost feral in the low light.
“People don’t get the drop on me like that.
Didn’t see his face. Didn’t hear him coming.
” He shook his head once, then squinted as if the action caused pain. “I don’t lose people.”
“We’ll find her.” Wright’s words came out flat and certain, as if he were reciting an unbreakable law.
“Yeah.” Splat’s dark eyes swept the water ahead. “We will.”
“When we do,” Jaz said, “we’ll need help.” He held his hand out to Wright. “I need to use your phone.”
“Who you calling?”
“Friends. Friends with weapons. And skills.”
Splat’s eyebrows lowered. “We don’t need a bunch of amateurs—”
“Kenzie’s boat was overrun with pirates three days ago. Those amateurs and I rescued her. They can help.”
Splat stared at him for a long moment. “More bodies are better, as long as they know what they’re doing. I’ll find out if there’s any video.” He pulled out his phone and in seconds was barking questions at someone on the other end about security footage and camera angles.
Duck was on his phone as well, navigating one-handed. They were planning, preparing. They weren’t giving up.
Wright was just looking at him.
Jaz left his hand out, waiting. “I want to get her back as much as you do.”
“I doubt that.”
“It’s not a competition, Wright.”
After a beat, he said, “Yeah,” and handed over his phone. He faced forward, looking like a figurehead, shoulders squared against the wind, staring into the darkness as if he could will his daughter to appear.
Jaz dialed Laguerre’s number from memory.
“Oui.” Laguerre’s customary answer was clipped.
“It’s Jaz. I need your help.” He ignored the stab of guilt. He should’ve asked after his friend’s health, considering he’d been shot because of the last time Jaz asked him for help.
But Laguerre said the same as he always did. “Anything.”
“Kenzie’s been kidnapped. We think she’s on a boat…” He explained the situation and what he needed.
“I’ll get Martinez and Auggie on their way. This number is good?”
“Yes. Please, hurry.”
“You find your pretty mademoiselle, and we will help rescue her.”
Jaz ended the call and lifted his gaze to the sky. Thank You.
It wasn’t a solution, not yet, but when they found Kenzie—they had to find her—they’d be ready.
All wasn’t lost, and Jaz wasn’t alone. He’d done what he could for now. The only thing left was to pray.