Chapter 7 #2
The challenge in his voice was unmistakable. Idris was wealthy, entitled, constantly measuring himself against other men. He wanted to prove something, to establish dominance—probably because his father dominated him. Was it a cliche? Yes. Was it a cliche for a reason? Also yes.
That was fine by Omar. Let him work out his daddy issues. Let him think he was winning.
Brad perked up immediately. “Hell yeah. Let’s do it.”
“I don’t know,” Marielle said, uncertainty creeping into her voice. “I’ve never—”
Omar stood, pulling her up with him. “We’ll try anything once. Right, mon coeur?”
“Right,” she parroted. “Anything once.”
Twenty minutes later, Omar was running through a mental safety checklist while simultaneously trying not to think about Marielle’s half-naked body pressed against his back.
They’d changed into swimwear. He wore board shorts and a rash guard; she wore a sporty two-piece that somehow managed to be both practical and distracting. She’d pulled her hair into a high ponytail that made her look fresh-faced and fierce at the same time.
She clung to him as their jet ski idled in the water, her arms wrapped around his waist, her thighs bracketing his hips.
A crew member had brought them down to the deck where the water toys were stored. Four jet skis hung in their mounts, keys dangling from hooks on a nearby board. A rigid inflatable boat sat ready for launch. Through an open hatch, Omar spotted paddle boards, snorkel equipment, and diving gear.
Always know your exits, always catalog your assets. The jet skis could do forty, maybe fifty, miles per hour. The yacht was maybe five nautical miles from the coast. He committed this information to memory in case things went sideways and they needed to evacuate quickly.
“You sure about this?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Too late to back out now,” she said, but he could hear the nervous edge in her voice.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he promised. And he meant it. Mission parameters be damned—if it came down to recovering the intel or keeping Marielle safe, there was no question which he’d choose. Sorry, Jake.
Ahead of them, Brad and Poppy’s jet ski roared to life, shooting forward in a spray of white water. Brad was whooping, Poppy was screaming, and the Secret Service agents on the chase boat behind them were unamused.
To their left, Idris revved his engine, showing off. Hanna sat behind him, her face expressionless, her arms around his waist.
“You ready?” Omar called back to Marielle.
“Ready!”
He opened the throttle gradually, letting her adjust to the sensation of speed and spray and the motion of the jet ski bouncing over waves. After a few minutes, she relaxed against him, and tight grip loosened.
“Faster!” she shouted in his ear.
He grinned and gave her faster.
They cut across the wake of Brad’s jet ski, caught air for a heart-stopping moment, and landed hard. Marielle’s laughter—genuine, uninhibited—rang out over the engine noise. He wanted to chase that free, happy sound.
He took them out farther from the yacht, away from the others, and slowed to a stop. The sudden quiet was jarring. The only sounds were the slap of water against the hull and their breathing as they bobbed on the waves.
“That was incredible!” Marielle said, still holding onto him.
He twisted to look at her, and his breath caught. Her face was flushed, her eyes were bright, and the water droplets on her shoulders sparkled in the sun. She looked alive in a way he’d never seen her at the office, where she spent her days staring at screens and living in her head.
“You’re having fun,” he said, stupidly stating the obvious.
“I am.” She looked almost surprised by it. “I didn’t think I would be, given everything.” She gestured around them. “But this is amazing.”
“You’re amazing.” The words came out before he could stop them.
Her smile faltered. “Omar—”
“I’m serious. You could have said no to this mission. By rights, you should have. This isn’t what you do.But you’re here, and you’re doing great, and—” He stopped himself before he said something he couldn’t take back.
“And?”
And I’m falling for you. And I have been for years. And this mission is torture because I get to touch you and hold you and kiss you but it’s all pretend, and I don’t know how I’m going to go back to just being friends when this is over.
“And I’m glad it’s you,” he said instead. “I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have as a partner.”
“Partner,” she repeated softly.
“Yeah. Partner.”
Then the roar of Brad’s jet ski shattered the silence as he circled back toward them, Poppy shrieking with laughter.
“You guys giving up already?” he taunted.
“Just getting started,” Omar called back.
He gunned the engine and they shot forward again, chasing Brad and Poppy across the sparkling water. Behind them, Idris and Hanna followed, and further back, the chase boat with its grim-faced occupants kept pace.
They raced for another thirty minutes—long enough that Omar’s arms ached from steering, long enough that the guards started making “wrap it up” gestures from the tender. Omar turned and circled back toward The Fakhar.
When they pulled up to the tender deck, two crew members were waiting. Omar watched them guide the jet skis back into their mounts without locking them into place. They hung the ignition keys back on the board.
He turned to Marielle. She was soaked, her bangs plastered to her forehead, her mascara slightly smudged under her eyes, and her olive skin already turning gold. She looked perfect.
“I need a shower,” she announced to no one in particular. “And maybe a nap. That was exhausting.”
“For someone who wasn’t sure about trying it, you did great out there,” Hanna said quietly. She’d climbed up behind them and stood dripping on the platform, maintaining a careful distance from everyone. “It looked like you were having so much fun.”
“I was,” Marielle enthused. “We should try driving next time.”
Longing flickered across Hanna’s face. Before she could answer, Idris jumped onto the platform with cat-like grace and landed beside her.
“Hanna doesn’t drive,” he said flatly. “She prefers to be a passenger. Isn’t that right, habibti?”
Hanna inhaled sharply as if the endearment pained her. “Right,” she murmured.
Omar caught Marielle’s hand and squeezed it before she could say something that would blow their cover. Her jaw was tight, but she managed a smile.
“Well, I’m going to go rinse off all this salt water,” she said brightly. “Oscar, coming?”
“Right behind you.”
They made their way back to their stateroom, still dripping, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the teak deck. The moment their door closed behind them, Omar held up a finger—wait—and moved to turn on the bathroom faucets, creating their white noise cover.
In the steamy bathroom, they stood close together near the tub.
“I don’t think Hanna’s safe here,” Marielle whispered immediately.
“I understand how you feel. But we have an assignment. We can’t just—”
“I know.” She yanked out the ponytail holder and ran her hands through her wet hair, frustrated.
“But we need to at least try to talk to her. I need to make sure she’s okay.
Besides, she’s probably the only one here who might know where the intel is.
Or at least the only one who might know and might tell us. ”
She had a point. Jake’s contact had been extraordinarily vague about what they were looking for.
“Sensitive data” could mean anything. A hard drive, physical documents, a voice recording, photographs …
. Not only did they not know what they were looking for, they didn’t have a clue where to start looking.
The ship was the size of some boutique hotels he’d visited.
They were searching for a needle in a floating haystack.
With eight men ready to gun them down if they felt the need.
Using Mahmoud’s girlfriend for information was a smart play from an operational standpoint, and, with any luck, talking to her might ease Marielle’s mind.
Maybe she was just naturally quiet, not cowed.
“Okay,” he said. “We search the ship and we also look for opportunities to get her alone. But carefully. No unnecessary risks.”
“Agreed.”
He brushed a drop of water from her cheek with his thumb. There was no camera to see the gesture. She didn’t pull away.
“We should shower,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended.
She swallowed. “You go first.”
He escaped to the shower, turned the water as cold as he could stand it, and tried not to think about the fact that Marielle Moreau in a wet swimsuit was possibly the most dangerous thing he’d encounter on this entire mission.