9. The Jailbird
NINE
THE JAILBIRD
JACKSON
While walking arm in arm from boat to boat, I use my phone to snap pictures of names and registration numbers, holding it in such a way no one would know. “Each vessel is required to display these near the bow,” I explain to Gigi.
“I know. I’ve lived in Love Beach my entire life, and have picked up a thing or two about boats,” she insists.
“That’s right. You’re a lifer,” I tease, but I don't like the frown she wears as a response. “Team, are you getting these and running the registrations? Confirm if we get any hits.” I say, knowing that my phone instantly uploads to their computers in an undisclosed location.
Seconds later, a voice crackles in my ear. “Yes, sir, we were on it. Over.”
“The marina must have a dozen docks. Cataloging everything in one night is impossible. And I’m worried Mike won’t be too pleased to see our faces around here again.” Gigi glances back over her shoulder and tightens her arm around my elbow, as though trusting me to protect her. It’s remarkable how far we’ve come in just a couple of days compared to before.
“Don’t worry. My guys have eyes on security several docks away. They’ll warn us. Let’s just keep our eyes peeled for The Jailbird,” I say, and resume our mission-focused walk, even though my arm occasionally grazes the swell of her chest beneath her coat.
At the end of a second dock, we reach a large, covered boat slip with a metal roof and two closed sides, commonly reserved for elite yachts—or in this case, hiding The Jailbird. This wouldn’t be visible from the club and hard for our satellites to pick up the image.
“There she is. Holy shit,” I mutter, and take the photo of the name and number. “Team, tap into CGIS databases and interagency intel to dig deeper. I want to know everything about this ship. Over.”
“Yes, sir.”
I take several more photos from different angles while Gigi stands off to the side, rubbing her arms and glancing back like she’s nervous. Soon enough, my team reports back with the details I need.
“We got it, sir. Jailbird is registered to a company out of Belize—Blue Sky Holdings.”
“What does Blue Sky specialize in?” I ask.
“Officially? Not much. Unofficially? Our database shows they’re a shell company, a long-suspected front for various smuggling operations and drug trafficking. Over.”
“We need to board for a closer look.” I reach for Gigi’s hand, but she hesitates.
“Are you crazy? What if the owners come back?”
“My people have eyes on this place and will tell us. Now come on. You wanted a story, right?” I shake my hand and she relents. I’d prefer her by my side rather than left exposed on the dock.
I leap onto the lower-deck of the yacht and then pull her up to join me. Drawing my gun just in case there’s anyone else aboard, we push further into the quarterdeck—the command center where the captain would oversee guest lists, crew rosters, and cargo manifests.
The comm crackles again. “Sir, based on your photos, we’ve traced her previous docking locations worldwide. And get this. She’s been spotted at known smuggling sites for both illegal big game fish and weapons. Over.”
“Shit. Cross reference with known locations of Lorenzo Ybarra,” I bark.
“Who is that?” Gigi asks.
“Someone you definitely don’t want to mess with. Help me sort through these manifests. We need any lists of cargo, anything that looks off.” Although we find nothing illegal, I’m convinced that any records of it they’d have locked up somewhere.
“I need to explore the lower decks. You coming?” I ask Gigi, whose wide eyes betray a thrill of danger—one I feel every single time.
We descend, expecting lavish sleeping quarters for a yacht like this, but discover that it has been gutted and converted into an enormous cargo bay. “What the fuck? Only smugglers would do this.”
Using my phone’s flashlight—also handy for recording videos to upload to the team—we search around the dim lit space until we stumble on a startling find in one corner: the fin of a large fish, as if someone had carelessly lobbed it off.
“Are you seeing this?” I confirm with the team. “Can you identify what kind of fish?”
Within a minute, they reply that it’s a sandbar tiger fish—and it’s illegal to catch. They add, “Our computers show that Ybarra and Jailbird have frequented the same locations over the past year.”
While Gigi continues to inspect the hold near me, she almost trips on something. Holding it up, she cries, “Is this a gun magazine?”
A sinking feeling hits me as I rush over, snatching it from her hands to examine and photograph it for the team. I cannot believe what I’m seeing. I swallow hard at the full reality of what we’re dealing with. Everything tonight is connecting, and through gritted teeth, I say, “This isn’t just a fishing operation. I think they’ve been using this yacht to transport weapons, too.”
“What does that mean?”
I know I have to come clean to her, otherwise her nose for news will hound me. “G, I’ve been tracking gunrunners from Central America to here, and you’ve been chasing fishermen. Looks like we’re after the same story.”
She pales, at first. “Gunrunners? That sounds a hell of a lot more dangerous than catching sharks illegally.”
“Yeah. It is. Hold on.” I have intel coming in from my command. They tell me that there’s a report coming out of South America where a smuggler group layered their products. In our case, guns would have been stored on the bottom, ice over that, illegal fish in the middle then more ice, and then cover it all with something legal, like tuna and more ice. Only to make the cargo appear normal in case anyone were to take a look inside, like inspectors, the ones they hadn’t paid off at least. The guns are the real story here, the fish are only decoys.
“Well, G, thanks to you, we’ve just cracked a major federal weapons case wide open.” I shake my head at the irony of it all—how our two paths have converged.
She folds her arms, smirking. “You’re welcome.”
“Now, who is being cocky?” I tease with a sly grin. “Feels good to be the hero, doesn’t it?”
She lifts a shoulder toward her ear. “Only if we catch these guys. It won’t mean a thing if we don’t succeed.”
We? A new worry forms as we make our way back up. I jump off the boat and lift her down, too, steadying her until her heels are safely on the dock.
“Negative, G. Now that I know what this is, you’re out,” I command.
“What? It’s my story, you can’t?—”
“It’s my mission and these are dangerous criminals.” My tone rises in pitch, matching her defiance.
“So? I can handle myself. I took self-defense classes and I kick box a couple of times a week at the gym.”
I snort. “Yeah, but do you carry a gun? Because these assholes sure do.”
She shifts on her heels. “Well, no. Should I? Can you teach me to use one?”
“Fuck no. You with a gun? That’s a lethal combination.” Although I silently resolve to get her a taser or pepper spray—after all, Gigi’s knack for sticking her nose into dangerous situations might soon land her in real trouble. And what if I’m thousands of miles away and can’t protect her?
She shoves past me and gets no more than a few feet away when my team informs me of a guard coming our direction. I pull her back to me and…
I intend only a tease of the lips, a brush, just enough to derail the guard passing by into thinking we weren’t just snooping on a boat, but two lovers on a romantic stroll under the stars on this moonless night. But the urge to claim her kissable lips has been so strong since the moment she woke up in the hospital, my brain short circuits. I land fully, covering hers with mine—and surprisingly, she doesn’t slap me for it.
She grasps my lapel in her hands, kissing back, a moan escaping her throat. Fuck yes. I greedily take more and weave my fingers through her wild curls, pulling her head closer and intensifying our connection. Her lips hold a tantalizing hint of berries I devour with every passionate second, poisoning me against ever wanting another pair of lips. Just hers.
It’s always been her I want.
She presses into the kiss, gripping me like a lifeline, tethering herself to me. Our teeth clash in an electrifying spark, only to retreat and collide once more, opening a fierce dance of tongues. A deep, primal moan erupts from my chest, charging the air between us, and she answers with a bold hum, drawing even nearer.
It’s a damn fine kiss, but I know it can’t last. We have to part at some point, and I dread it. Because then comes the questioning, and I know Gigi well. There’ll be plenty of it. But I won’t have answers because all I can think about is when we can repeat this and how can I get her body next to mine with no clothes on so I can kiss every inch of her supple skin.
Smell the sweet spot at the apex of of her thighs.
Taste her. Hear her cry out my name as she shatters all around me.
Dive into her depths with my cock. And repeat. Again and again.
Until I have to leave Love Beach…
Reality sucks.
Clear of the guard, our kiss passes into a few softer ones, lingering on each as if we both desire to savor this fantastical moment we’ve slipped into in order to put off the inevitable.
My crew—who didn’t give me crap while I held Gigi—alerts me through my earpiece about a fight between two men on the next dock. They suspect one is Mike, but the other is unidentifiable because of a black ski mask. The distant sound of splashing water confirms their next update—man down. Man down!
In a flash, I let go of Gigi and sprint, following my team’s directions. I’m torn between the moment I just left, my lips still tingling from hers, and the urgency of the situation ahead.
Gigi’s heels clatter on the dock as she chases after me, shouting, “Wh-what’s happening?”
I arrive at the location my crew pinpointed and scan the dark water until I spot a body floating. “Damn!” Without a second thought, I dive in, desperately hoping there’s still time to save him.