Chapter Twenty-One
TEN MINUTES LATER Natalie sat on a cushy little sofa on the main deck of the yacht as it chugged slowly out to sea.
Harrison Wallace had given her a towel to dry off—probably more so she wouldn’t ruin his boat than anything else—and then handed her a blanket, which she had wrapped around herself with grudging gratitude.
She didn’t think for a minute he cared about her comfort, only her cooperation.
He wanted a weakened, easy target, and she’d be damned if she gave it to him, even if her chances of anyone coming to her aid had disappeared alongside the tracking bean.
Sitting across from her in crisp khakis and a striped button-down shirt that probably cost as much as her monthly rent, Wallace gave her a stern look from under thin gray brows, looking every inch the wealthy douchebag she remembered, right down to his shiny, sunburned head.
Nothing had changed since the last time she’d seen him in person two years ago.
She’d been working undercover at his favorite country club in Des Moines, placing listening devices in his car, golf bag, and the flower vase on his lunch table. Not that he’d remember. She’d worn a disguise, and the help generally went unnoticed.
“Nice yacht.” She stroked the plush leather seat with mock reverence. “Does the rocking lull your conscience to sleep, or do you just not have one?”
His upper lip curled and she mentally pumped her fist. This man wasn’t used to being pushed or questioned or denied, and right up until the moment her team had laid bare his sins for the world, he’d never suffered any consequences for his actions.
Not for the women he’d assaulted in college—and probably beyond—not for the insider investments he’d made, and certainly not for all the deaths caused by his fraudulent clinical trial data.
Even now, he looked very little worse for wear, despite all the Night Herons had done to hold him accountable for killing thousands. Natalie wasn’t generally prone to violence, but the urge to choke him with her bare hands made her fingers twitch.
He sighed, a gratifying sound of exasperation. “Tell me, Natalie. Who do you work with?”
“Nope.” She leaned back in her seat. “Where’s Erik?”
“Maybe I tossed him overboard.”
Something hot and spiky rushed her veins and her stomach tensed, but she managed not to react outwardly. Forcing her jaw to relax, she cocked her head and studied the older man. “That would be foolish. How do you plan to bargain for information if you have nothing to trade?”
“There’s still your life, which seems very much in my hands at this moment.” He gave her a repulsive smile.
Fear surged down her spine, but she ignored it, sitting up straighter. “And yet, if you kill me, you’ll never get the information you’re so desperate for.” She gave him her own smug look and raised an eyebrow. “Where. Is. My. Brother?”
“Where is my money?”
She shrugged and held his gaze, not even blinking, for an interminable amount of time. Honestly, for such a gross man, he should look more evil—beady eyes? Fangs?—and less like a middle-aged doofus.
Finally, lips tight, he looked up at the hulking man who’d ferried her over from the speed boat and gave him a slight nod. Waiting, she and Wallace sat in tense silence, swaying slightly as the yacht cut through the ocean swells, accompanied only by the low rumble of the engines beneath them.
She’d counted to a hundred nearly four times before her brother finally appeared at the top of the stairs from the lower deck.
Her heart constricted at the sight of him, rumpled, dark circles under his eyes, T-shirt and shorts covered in unidentifiable stains.
His floppy brown hair had become matted to his head, and yellowing bruises covered what she could see of his arms.
“Natty?” He lurched forward, immediately bouncing back toward the goon who apparently held his restraints.
She shuddered in sympathy at the thought of being tied up.
Jumping to her feet, she dropped the blanket as she rushed toward him.
He smelled like sweat and vomit, but she fought a rush of nausea and gave him a gentle hug.
“Are you okay?” She stepped back to look at him and shook her head.
“I mean, of course you’re not okay, but…
?” How to finish that question? She already regretting asking.
“No serious injuries.” Erik’s gaze strayed to Wallace—who’d been watching their reunion without comment—and his blue eyes sparked with hatred.
“I’ve been tied up in the crew quarters puking my guts out for days, but they did give me food and water.
” His normally rich voice came out scratchy and strained.
“Pretty sure it was laced with a sedative or something.”
He looked back at her with something like wonder and whispered, “I can’t believe you’re really alive. God, Nat. After we got word…it was…awful.” Tears glistened in his eyes, triggering a prickling in her nose that made her look away.
“I know. I’m so sorry.” Hooking a thumb over her shoulder, she said, “Blame this guy.”
Wallace harrumphed. “I told you that was a mistake.”
Ignoring him, she said, “Now, the trick is to stay alive.” She leaned in and stage whispered, “Kinda wishing we’d learned to swim right about now.”
Her brother might’ve been injured and exhausted, but the former breaststroke champ didn’t miss a beat. “I’d say it’s fucking tragic.”
Their captor’s eyes narrowed. “Enough with the reunion. Both of you, sit down.” He waved at the guard, who tugged Erik toward the seat across from her and pointed his chin at the small sofa she’d vacated.
Erik gingerly sat, wincing when the goon tugged him back against his bound hands.
Nat’s fingers curled into fists, but she didn’t move. She couldn’t take Wallace and his lackey in a fight, but she had other methods for causing chaos.
“Okay.” Wallace stood with his hands on his hips. “Now talk.”
“Yeah, right. If you think I’ll give you anything before I see him safe and sound back on land, you’re delusional.”
The henchman pulled a gun and held it to her brother’s temple.
A knot lodged in Nat’s throat. Fuck. She had to throw her captors off balance without getting Erik killed. She sat on her hands to keep herself from doing something that would endanger them both, and focused on not hyperventilating.
“If anyone’s delusional here, it’s you.” Wallace looked at her almost pityingly. “You’re not in a position to bargain, little lady.”
Little lady? What era was this condescending asshole from, anyway?
“Lear,” he said, looking at his guard. “Let’s take this outside. If things get messy, I don’t want to ruin the upholstery.”
Things were not going to plan, so Ford took a page out of Natalie’s book and tried to focus on something else.
Cool, salty air numbed his face as he sat at the front of Jason’s small special ops-style inflatable motorboat and stared out over the water. The bright spots of lamplight bounced along the shoreline with the immense glow of Los Angeles hovering over the city like a fog.
He could live here again. For Nat, he could live anywhere. If she’d have him—and she wanted to stay in LA—he’d return to the States and find a way to look his parents in the eyes.
Sure, he’d always feel some degree of responsibility for Connor’s death, but the rational part of him knew Natalie was right.
Ford hadn’t killed him. And he sure as hell couldn’t have controlled him.
He’d fucking tried. Connor’s injuries had been preventable, but only if his brother had been willing to take precautions.
His fall was the perfect storm of bad decisions and bad luck.
Ford needed to figure out how to forgive himself and become a full member of his family again. Maybe invite Nat to join him. Join them. His heart thunked hard in his chest.
He wanted all of that, but first, he had to find her.
As soon as he and Jason had picked up the signal from the tracking bean, they’d started following it on land. Emma had stayed back with Reina and Michael to go the other direction if necessary.
Ford and Jason had mirrored the tracker’s path in Jason’s truck for almost half an hour, until the signal indicator had stopped moving about a quarter mile offshore.
Unfortunately, it had almost immediately turned faint and then disappeared.
Ford had been trying not to catastrophize about what that meant.
Maybe it had simply run out of battery. Or, been damaged…somehow.
He gripped the handle on the hull of the boat, grateful for the life vest Jason had provided to strap on over his borrowed hoodie. Water sprayed over the sides as they loudly motored south-southwest toward fog-shrouded Catalina Island and—please God—Natalie.
Perched at the back, Jason steered while Ford gestured directions from the GPS device that showed where her tracker had last been active.
Every minute felt like an hour, but eventually they exited a wide cove and reached the spot where the signal had died.
And found…nothing. No boat, no debris. No sign of Natalie.
Jason shone a heavy-duty LED flashlight down into the water. Looking over the side, Ford held his breath and scanned the murky sea, hoping like hell they wouldn’t find her in the kelp forest. Jason slowly circled the area, and then took another few passes, following the current.
“This is good news,” he said.
Is it? Ford silently begged the universe for it to be true.
A man’s voice came through his earpiece. “This is Dallas, over.”
If Ford remembered correctly, this was the computer guy who worked for Natalie’s team. He’d been tasked with digging into the holdings of everyone they’d exposed, with a special emphasis on Harrison Wallace.
Jason brought the boat to a stop, letting the motor idle. He pressed his earpiece and raised his voice to be heard over the noise. “Whatcha got?”
“The speed boat is buried under a series of shell companies that I’ve got our finance whiz working on, but I tried to connect anyone else on the potential enemies list with a boat. Guess whose wife has a sweet sixty-five-footer made by Princess Yachts, normally berthed in San Diego?”
Ford’s pulse picked up.
Jason whistled. “Our main suspect?”
“Bingo. I’m texting you a photo of one from the company’s website.” Dallas added, “Just in case you didn’t know this guy was a complete asshole, he named it The Side Effect.”
Jason shook his head. “Seriously?”
Given Wallace’s deadly history with clinical trials, the yacht’s name was more than a bad pun, it was disturbing.
“Yep. I’ll figure out if there’s any way to locate it—”
Ford pressed his earpiece. “With a boat that size, he might have an AIS, a transponder.” The Automatic Identification System was designed to allow for better communication between ships and prevent collisions on the water, but it could be misused.
One of his clients had been attacked on his yacht—before hiring B&A—when he forgot to instruct the crew to shut off the device.
His enemies traced him to a mooring off Mallorca and sent a crew of mercenaries to board in the dead of night.
He’d only escaped by jumping overboard and swimming to shore.
“Check one of the maritime tracking websites. You can search by name and port.”
“Brilliant. Hang tight.”
He didn’t feel brilliant. He felt helpless.
Ford stared at the lights from shore twinkling off the water’s surface and the silver path cast by the moon.
Did Natalie have a similar view right now?
Any view? God, he needed to find her, bring her back safely.
He couldn’t bear the thought of anything else.
He forced himself to take a slow breath while they waited for word. He suddenly understood her need to stay in motion, to distract from the tension in any way possible. He’d welcome one of her shocking statements right about now.
Really, he just wanted her.
“Okay.” Dallas’s voice spoke into his ear instead. “According to several of the websites, The Side Effect recently pinged a little further down the coast from you.”
Ford looked at Jason. “This asshole probably doesn’t even realize his precious water palace has an AIS. Or that he could have turned it off.”
“Lucky for us.” Jason nodded and touched his earpiece. “Copy that. Great work. We’re on our way. Em, stay where you are in case this is a red herring. Dallas, keep digging. Finn, start heading south and get as close as you can by car.”
“Roger.”
Jason revved the motor and the little boat shot forward.
Ford ran scenarios in his head as they bounced over the waves for another fifteen minutes before spotting The Side Effect anchored in the swells just outside of another small cove.
Jason kept their inflatable downwind of the yacht and stopped about two hundred yards away. “How do you want to play this?”
Surprised by the man’s deferral, Ford scanned the boat through binoculars, frustrated with how little he could see from this distance.
“There are too many unknowns.” For example, was Natalie even on that boat?
Or Erik? How many crew and security personnel?
He took a calming breath and tried to channel the way Nat reveled in uncertainty, thrived in chaos.
So much like Connor, it hurt. “I think all we can do is approach fast, take them by surprise, and trust our training to deal with whatever comes up.”
“So, we’re winging it.”
Ford nodded, swallowing hard. He could pivot on short notice, but normally he’d have the time and intel to plan for multiple contingencies so he could show up prepared.
His job entailed prevention and protection.
If he did it right, a rescue—replete with wildly unpredictable, uncontrollable scenarios like they faced now—wasn’t necessary.
Ford hoped like hell he was up to the task.
The former PJ gave him a grim smile. “Luckily, winging it is my specialty.”