5. Tyler
Salt air filled my lungs as I stepped off the gangplank and onto the Rhino’s weathered deck. The gray timber creaked beneath my sneakers as I followed Indiana across the top of her massive salvage boat. Her ass looked mighty fine in her tiny denim shorts, and I didn’t think I had ever followed a woman with longer legs than the one in front of me.
I hadn’t had the pleasure of a woman’s company in a long time, and even longer with a woman who knew my real name.
Indiana had barely said a word since I let her out of the holding cell. As Lacey had driven us down to the wharf where Rhino had been moored overnight, Indiana made it clear that social chit-chat with cops was not her thing. Her body language told me just how pissed off she was about this arrangement.
It was going to be a long couple of days.
“Dad,” Indiana yelled as she stomped her Dr. Martens across the deck, dodging pieces of equipment that looked decades old. They probably were.
“Lazy bastard is probably still asleep.” She stopped at a ladder that disappeared into a dark, square hole. “Follow me.”
“Do I bring these with me?” I indicated to my bags.
“Yep. Unless you plan on sleeping up here.”
Across the deck, a couple of battered leather sofas were positioned facing each other with a coffee table between them. Behind the seating was a kitchenette with a sink, kettle, toaster, and microwave. “Is that the only kitchen?”
“Yep.” She tilted her head, and the sun caught in her hair, turning brown strands to gold. “Were you expecting the Hilton?”
“Nope.” I strode toward the covered area, lowered my heavy duffle bag to the floor, and as I offloaded my backpack onto the nearest sofa, Indiana marched into the shaded area.
“What are you doing?” She stood with her feet apart and her hands on her hips, like she was getting ready to wrestle me.
“Just making myself at home.” I unzipped the duffle bag and lifted out my coffee machine.
She burst into laughter. “Are you for real?”
“Life’s better with good coffee.” I grinned, trying to lighten the mood.
She pointed at a jar of instant coffee. “We’re not Neanderthals, Kingsley. We have caffeine.”
“I said good coffee.”
“Instant coffee is faster.” Her eyes danced with the challenge.
“Well,” I said as I nudged the kettle aside to fit my Nespresso machine on the bench, “some things are much better done slowly.”
I turned to her, expecting a fiery reply.
Her gaze flicked between my eyes and my mouth, and a glint of mischief curled across her expression. Progress. But it vanished just as quickly.
An elderly man shuffled toward us, scratching his bare chest. “Good to see the bastards finally let you out.”
Indiana swiveled to him. “Hey, Dad. You okay?”
He stepped into the shadow of the covered area, and I adjusted my assumption of his age down a couple of decades.
“Dad, this is Officer Tyler?—”
I offered my hand. “Detective Tyler Kingsley,” I said, correcting her. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Smith.”
“They call me Old Smithy.” He sneered at my outstretched hand before he wrapped his calloused fingers around mine and squeezed much harder than he needed to, then dropped it like I’d handed him dogshit. “What do you want?”
“I had to make a deal to get out of jail,” Indiana said.
“What kind of deal?” He pinned his pale eyes on me.
“We need to salvage Chui’s sunken yacht.”
His brows drilled together, and when he turned to his daughter, I could practically see the cogs turning in his mind. Old Smithy’s bones seemed to sag, and his rubbery skin was weather-beaten, but there was nothing wrong with his cognitive skills. “And if we refuse?”
“Then I go back to jail,” Indiana said, so matter of fact, I had the impression she really didn’t care.
“What’re you here for?” He eyeballed me.
“To protect you.”
He released a noise that may have been a chuckle.
He glanced at my coffee machine, and his scowl deepened. “For how long?”
“As long as it takes,” I said.
He wriggled his finger in his ear. “Guess you better take my room then. I’ll bunk up here.”
“No, that’s not?—”
“Take him up on the offer, Kingsley.” Indiana rolled her eyes. “We don’t need to hear you bitching all day and all night.
“You don’t know me, Indiana.”
“You’re a cop. That’s all I need to know.” She turned her back on me, and as she walked away, she said, “Dad, take him downstairs and show him around. I’ll get us out of here.”
Grumbling, Old Smithy strolled in the opposite direction.
I pulled one of my three packets of coffee pods from my duffle bag, put it next to my Nespresso machine, and shoved the food I’d brought to last me four days into the fridge, then I grabbed my two bags and chased after Old Smithy.
As I followed him, I counted seven decent-sized scars crisscrossing his back that looked like he’d been whipped.
He climbed down the ladder we’d stopped at earlier, and I followed him into a narrow passage.
“Shower and shitter are that way.” He pointed in the direction behind me. “I piss overboard.”
At the end of the passage was an open door where half a toilet was visible. It looked clean enough. I’d had worse, that was for sure.
“The water pressure is shithouse, and the hot water system sucks. So, unless you’re covered in fish guts, don’t bother.”
Great.
He continued walking along the passage. “That’s Indiana’s room. If you value your balls, don’t go in there.”
I peered through the cracked door to a single bed. The sheets were made, and a pale pink T-shirt was neatly folded on the pillow.
“Here’s my room,” he said from farther down the passage. “Excuse the mess.”
As he waved me forward, nasty aromas of sweat and something I couldn’t pinpoint laced the air.
The passage walls and floor shuddered, and a deep rumble groaned from the floor.
I turned to Old Smithy.
He grinned. “Welcome aboard.”
“Thanks.”
He grabbed his pillow and a book with curling edges and yellow pages from the side table and exited the room.
I sat on the bed, and the springs twanged beneath my ass. During my undercover mission, I’d slept in some rough places. This was going to be up there with the worst of them, but at least I didn’t need to worry about being murdered in my sleep.
Then again, that was exactly what I had to worry about with Nikki Bolton still out for revenge against me.
Old Smithy’s cabin contained the bed, a side table, and a battered leather seat in the corner that was just about concealed by discarded clothes. The tiny round window was caked with sea salt, obscuring the view outside. I strode to it, desperate to let some fresh air in, but gave up wrestling with the rusted latch when it wouldn’t budge.
Maybe sleeping on the deck would have been a better option.
When the engine noise increased to a thumping beat that made it impossible to think, I lifted my two cases from the floor onto the bed and removed my laptop. I pulled on my sunglasses and cap, and carrying my computer and phone, I climbed up to the top deck.
We were out of the marina, heading toward open waters. A couple of boats flanked us on either side, each going in the opposite direction, and both were much faster than Rhino.
Maybe most of our time will be getting out to the sunken yacht.
The midday sun was stifling hot, but thankfully, a slight breeze took off the edge.
At the covered area, I placed my computer on the ring-stained coffee table and went in search of Indiana. I found her in the bridge, and my breath caught. She’d removed her T-shirt and wore a plain black bikini top, and with her denim shorts and ankle-high boots, she looked damn hot.
“Hey.” I stepped onto the bridge with her.
She nodded.
I smiled.
She turned her attention back to the front windshield which stretched the full length of the bridge, and her knuckles bulged as she strangled the large stainless steel steering wheel in the center of the counter.
The air was heavy with scents of salt and metal, and thankfully, the engine noise was barely a hum in this room. Beneath the windshield, the bench was covered in marine equipment, monitors, and gadgets that I had no hope of understanding.
Sunlight streamed in through the open doorway, casting a golden strip across the well-worn wooden floor. Along the rear of the room, charts and navigation instruments adorned the wooden bench with a surface that was smooth with age and use.
Through the front windshield, Old Smithy was bending over a machine, bashing it with a spanner. I had a feeling that was standard practice on this boat.
“How long will it take to get there?” I asked.
“As long as it takes.” Indiana turned the steering wheel.
Waiting for her to elaborate, I rested my hip against the counter at the back of the room, where the wall was covered in maps, yellowing newspaper clippings, and a couple of bills that had ‘overdue’ stamps on the top of them.
She had no idea who she was messing with. I’d learned how to be patient during Operation Vivid.
“You checking out my ass?” She flicked a sassy grin at me.
“No. Do you want me to?”
Although she didn’t answer, she seemed to be fighting a smile. Indiana seemed to belong here, amongst the weathered equipment and faded maps, but I had a feeling that something very sad had happened to her, and whatever it was, it dragged her down.
She pushed the throttle forward and flicked a couple of levers next to an empty coffee cup. Rhino’s engine beat increased.
“Would you like a coffee?” I stepped forward and indicated to her empty cup.
“Sure. But not your pussy brew.”
I grabbed her mug. “I wouldn’t dream of it. How do you have it?”
“Two spoons of coffee. Three sugars.”
I cringed, and as I strolled away, her laughter drifted to me. As I chuckled with her, I tried to pinpoint when I’d last laughed, but I couldn’t. It had been a tough couple of years. When I’d joined the force, I hadn’t aspired to go undercover. I sure as shit hadn’t known it would rob three years of my life.
As the wind tickled my neck, a sense of freedom embraced me. It felt good to be out in the open. It felt good to be me, Tyler Kingsley, yet I still couldn’t shake off the memory of being Adam Holman, the man who pretended to be a hard-ass criminal, just to fit into the underworld I’d embedded myself into during my undercover operation.
As I made two coffees, I turned on my laptop and opened the folder containing all the files on Zǐháo Hàorán Chui and his criminal dealings.
I returned to the bridge with the two steaming coffees. Indiana jolted when I put her mug in front of her.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She reached for the coffee and, stepping back from the wheel, cupped the mug in both hands, turned to face me, and put one foot up on an overturned metal bucket. “So, you say you’ve been out on the ocean a few times. What are you talking? Surfing, boating, fishing?”
“All three.”
“What kind of boating?”
“I’ve been sailing a few times. I’ve taken the ferry across to Tasmania many times. I’ve been on a couple of fishing boats. But I’ve never been on a boat like this.”
“Rhino is one of a kind, that’s for sure.”
“How long have you worked on Rhino?”
“I was born on this boat.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, what?” She leveled her gaze at me.
“I’ve never met anyone born on a boat before.”
“And?” She cocked her head, revealing a jagged scar on her forehead.
“And nothing. Just making conversation.” I rested my hip against the back counter, and as she turned her back to me, I sipped my coffee.
After a couple of minutes, where she made it obvious that she didn’t want to chat, I said, “Well, I’ve got work to do, so I’ll be in the covered area if you need me.”
She glanced at me over her shoulder. “We call it the hut. And no, I won’t need you.”
I saluted her. “Roger that.”
As I returned to the hut, my thoughts drifted to the last woman I had protected, Nikki Bolton, wife of a ruthless drug kingpin and mother of the teenage boy I’d killed. The woman I shouldn’t have had an affair with.
My undercover role had led me to work as a driver for her husband, Albert ‘Bonebreaker’ Bolton. Primarily, I drove his identical twin sons Wesley and Owen to and from school, and Nikki to her various social appointments. It took four months for Nikki to even look at me. It was another two months before she spoke to me. I’d been patient, and when Nikki finally opened up to me, I discovered a demoralized woman who hid behind a stony fa?ade.
I had a feeling Indiana was like that.
Something, or someone, had made her hate the police.
I had every intention of turning her opinion around.
Provided she didn’t toss me overboard beforehand.