Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
Jaz’s clothes had dried. His shivering had stopped, but he still felt a bone-deep chill—the kind of chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.
After refueling and filling the reserve tank, they’d patrolled the harbor for what felt like forever, weaving between moored yachts and charter boats as if Kenzie might just appear on a deck and wave them down.
Lights everywhere—strung along the marina, glowing from portholes, reflecting off the black water like roads to nowhere.
The town sparkled in the distance, oblivious to the nightmare unfolding just offshore.
Splat’s phone vibrated, and he lifted it to his ear. “Anything?”
Jaz stared at him, trying to read his expression, but between the darkness and the heavy beard, it was impossible.
“Okay. Keep looking.” He ended the call. “Video confirmed Kenzie was put on a dinghy. The boat headed out here.”
Jaz looked around at the yachts all around them.
“And?” Wright said. “Where is she?”
Splat shook his head. “They lost it in the traffic. They’re checking all their video feeds to see if they can pick her up again.”
Wright uttered a curse word, and Jaz didn’t blame him. It was so frustrating. She might be in any one of these vessels. They could start going door to door, so to speak, except if Henry believed he was cornered, he’d use Kenzie as his ticket out. Or kill her, just to hurt Wright.
No. They had to be careful. Quiet. At least they knew she was on the water. They were ready, if they ever tracked her down.
Lord, please. Show us where she is. Lead us.
He’d hardly prayed for years before he’d met his Jesus girl. Except for those hours when Charlotte had been missing, he hadn’t dared ask God for anything. Now, the words flowed through his brain as if he’d never given up on God at all.
He’d been a fool to turn his back on the Lord. A fool to think he could do anything without Him.
Keep her alive. Please, protect her and keep her alive until we find her. Show me what to do. I don’t know what to do.
Splat and Duck were in the forward seats, Wright standing behind them, scanning the darkness. The three occasionally shared words that were swallowed by the engine’s hum. Jaz didn’t try to listen. He was too wrapped up in his own thoughts.
Waiting for word on Kenzie. And waiting for Laguerre to get back to him. Had Martinez turned the team against him? Would they abandon him after what happened outside Kenzie’s apartment? Did Martinez still blame him and Kenzie for Laguerre’s getting shot?
Maybe.
Martinez’s parents and older brother had been murdered by a cartel when he was a kid. As soon as he was old enough, he’d joined the Mexican military and served in the special forces in hopes of fighting the cartels. Though he’d left the service, he was still fighting.
Etienne Augustin—known as Auggie—was a Haitian who’d immigrated to the US when he was a kid.
He joined the Marines out of high school.
After he’d served his years, he’d returned to Haiti, wanting to get to know his culture and serve his people.
What he’d found was corruption and greed, people who would walk on the backs of their countrymen to acquire money and power.
Looking for a way to fight the drug trade that fed the strongest and preyed on the weakest, he’d hooked up with Laguerre a few years back.
Laguerre was their leader. Unlike Martinez and Auggie and the few others he’d collected over the years, he had no personal connection to the drug trade. He fought the cartels because that was what the Lord had directed him to do.
Jaz had heard about Laguerre’s band of vigilantes after he realized that the intel he was feeding the DEA wasn’t leading to arrests.
He’d been desperate to do something that would make a difference.
Not that the DEA’s plans weren’t good, but they were after the big fish, not the guppies moving the drugs.
Jaz understood that, but he couldn’t stand knowing he’d coordinated the transport of drugs from South America to the US, and nobody had intercepted them.
In a moment of frustration, he’d tracked down Laguerre and tipped him off about a shipment. Laguerre had insisted Jaz go with them when they stopped the cargo—to make sure it wasn’t a trap, he figured. They were successful, sending the ship and all its cargo to the bottom of the sea.
Since then, Jaz had supplied more tips, and on more than one occasion, helped them stop a shipment.
In his free time, he’d trained with them, learning everything they could teach him.
Laguerre, Martinez, and Auggie were the reasons Jaz knew how to fight.
They were the reason he’d been able to rescue Kenzie from those pirates.
Until this week, the four of them had been like brothers.
Wright turned from his perch behind the helm and held out his phone. “It’s your guy.”
Jaz grabbed it. “Hey.” He had to shout to be heard over the wind.
“It’s me.” Martinez’s voice and accent were clear enough. “We’re nearly to Phillipsburg.”
“Thank you for coming.” Jaz moved toward the front of the boat. “I know you don’t trust her.”
“I was wrong, brother. Laguerre says the guard in front of Captain Kenzie’s apartment realized the distractions were a ruse. He alerted the other.”
That made sense—and was what Jaz had guessed, once he’d been able to think straight after his friend was shot. He reached the helm and spoke to Duck. “My guys are approaching.”
Duck held out his hand for the phone, gave Martinez coordinates, and ended the call.
Then he turned the bow toward open water.
As soon as they were out of the no-wake zone, he opened the throttle, heading straight into darkness and nothingness, as if they were zooming headlong to the end of the earth.
A few minutes later, something materialized out of the void.
A boat. Black hull, no running lights. The figure at its helm wore a wetsuit, face painted to match the night. And he wasn’t alone. As the boat closed in, a second figure, even harder to see in the darkness, came clear.
Duck throttled down, and they drifted closer.
“Hermanos.” Martinez’s voice was low, carrying easily across the water. “Did we miss the party?”
“We’re still looking for the venue.” Jaz caught the line he tossed and secured it, grinning at Auggie. “Thanks for coming.”
“Didn’t we just rescue this woman a few days ago?” Auggie’s Haitian accent was clear. “How many times are you going to lose her?”
Jaz chuckled, not that it was at all funny. “God willing, this’ll be the last. You get everything?”
“You doubt Laguerre?” Martinez held out a couple of duffel bags.
Jaz grabbed them and handed them to Duck and Splat, who laid them on a bench.
“Weapons,” Splat said.
“Explosives?” Duck sounded excited. “I hope we get to use these.”
Wright didn’t seem amused, and Jaz couldn’t blame him. All the supplies in the world weren’t going to help if they couldn’t find Kenzie.
Splat tossed a wetsuit to Jaz. “Might as well suit up.”
At least it would be warmer. He stripped to his skivvies and wrestled the thing on. Facing the other boat, he said, “Scuba gear?”
“Only two outfits.” Auggie pointed to a crate at the back of his boat. “Also, a couple of scooters.”
“What’s that?” Wright asked.
“Diver propulsion vehicle,” Splat said. “So we can move fast underwater.”
A phone rang, and Wright grabbed it. “Yeah?” He listened, then sighed. After a quick exchange, he ended the call. “Henry’s yacht is docked at St. Barts.”
Jaz had hoped the man had made a mistake when he’d claimed he was on his yacht. “They’re sure?”
Wright gave him a look. “No, they just guessed.”
“Right.” It’d been a long shot. Too easy, especially considering how careful Henry had been all these years. But if they weren’t on Henry’s boat, then whose? It could be any vessel, a rental, a charter, even a friend’s…
Oh.
A friend’s boat.
“Have them look for a yacht belonging to Jean-Pierre Magras.”
Wright was already dialing. “You know the boat’s name?”
“I don’t remember. Something French.”
“Le Pari,” Auggie said. “The Gamble.”
“That’s right.” Jaz remembered thinking the name was fitting for a man who owned casinos—and flirted with drug cartels.
Wright spoke into the phone. “Possible lead.” He relayed the name.
They were ready. Splat and Duck had changed into wetsuits. They had enough weapons to take out far more men than would be on a single yacht. They were supplied with everything they needed for an aquatic assault.
Except the target.