Chapter 2 #3
He found a picnic table on the terrace, the walls covered by license plates from the fifty states. A wooden fishing trawler hung between two pylons. His stomach growled. Nothing like fresh-shucked oysters, a bucket of steamed clams, and deep-fried shrimp to bring a guy back to his roots.
Those days when he was stationed in San Diego, his rare getaways to Seaport Village. He could almost hear his mom’s laughter, see the pride in her eyes when he’d treated her to her first surf and turf. Oh, he’d had dreams.
The memory pinched a little, and he exhaled, smiling up at a waitress who handed him a menu, water. He ordered a plate of oysters.
His gaze hung on the harbor, the afternoon sun sending shadows into the water. Dive boats and other vessels motored in from their afternoon excursions.
“Declan!”
Elise Hunter. He got up, gave her a kiss on either cheek, and then held out his hand to Hunter.
“Thank you so much for picking us up,” Elise said and sat on the opposite bench. “With all the storms that came through the last few days, we thought you might be delayed.”
“I have an excellent captain,” he said, leaning back as the waitress brought the oysters. “But I think we’ll wait until tomorrow to leave, just so we don’t get caught in anything in the dark.”
Hunter ordered for himself and Elise.
“Oh, the sea at night is terrifying,” Elise said. “I keep wondering if I should have just braved the float plane.” She took a sip of water.
“I think we’ll be just fine on Dec’s yacht, honey,” Hunter said and pointed out to the Invictus at the end of the dock.
Declan followed his gesture and stilled. Set down his oyster uneaten.
Steinbeck Kingston stood on the dock, talking and gesturing with another man, still aboard a dive boat, docking at one of the piers.
Declan stared at him a moment longer to confirm— yes. Definitely his former bodyguard, now dressed in shorts and flip-flops, a T-shirt, his glasses perched backward on the top of his head, that pensive look on his face.
Whatever he was saying, it seemed to have galvanized the other man, who was nodding.
They started to walk down the dock?—
“I’ll be right back.”
Declan blamed the sense of unfinished business, the crazy impulse that something had gone down between himself and Steinbeck and...
Shoot. He simply didn’t have that many real friends. And sure, Stein couldn’t exactly be a friend—frankly, that was the problem. Anyone who got close enough to be a real friend was on his payroll.
Still. “Steinbeck!” He’d left the restaurant, walking out to the dock, and maybe it looked desperate, but—“Stein!”
The man turned, and it seemed Declan’s appearance shook him because he stopped and took in a breath as if bracing himself. What? The coincidence of meeting Steinbeck felt almost providential, but... well, maybe Stein had come to the Keys because of Austen.
Not unlike Declan, so...
Stein’s mouth tightened, his hands in his pockets, and the strangest sense that he wanted to run or maybe... hit him? ... snaked through Declan. Because the narrow-eyed look on Steinbeck’s face, the fact that he didn’t extend his hand to Declan, felt off.
Which only put a burr in Declan. “What’s going on? I’ve called a dozen times, texted more. You okay?”
Steinbeck glanced at the man standing a little away from him. Looked back at Declan. “Yeah, I’m good.”
A beat. “I was worried after... after you were shot.”
“Thanks for your help getting me home.”
Declan nodded, frowned. Another beat. “Is... did I do something to offend?—”
“No. Listen, I gotta go. Austen’s...” He closed his mouth.
Something about the way Stein looked past him to the harbor, then sighed, made Declan’s gut clench. “What about Austen? Is she okay?” He looked to the other man. He wore an Ocean Adventure Divers T-shirt, so probably part of a local dive operation. Oh no. “Is she injured?”
“She’s missing,” said the man. He held out his hand. “You’re Declan Stone?”
Declan met his grip.
“People around here know you,” the man said. “Hawthorne Marshall. People call me Hawkeye.”
Right. “Yeah. What’s going on with Austen?” He looked back to Stein.
Stein blew out a breath, met Declan’s gaze. “She put out for the DR two days ago to do some diving.”
It took a second. “Alone?”
Stein nodded. “And... her PLB just went off.”
Personal Locator Beacon. “Is she in trouble?”
“Dunno. I can’t get ahold of her boat. It’s not responding, and no one seems to be able to locate it.” Stein swallowed, ran a hand across his mouth. Shook his head. “So, yeah. I think?—”
“The DR, you said?”
“Yeah. Lots of squalls down there right now, so maybe... could be her communication got knocked out. Maybe that’s why she turned on the PLB.”
Declan glanced at the yacht. Seemed they’d finished refueling. He turned back to Stein. “Did you alert the Coast Guard?”
“In the Dominican Republic? I was just on my way to do that.” He glanced at Hawkeye. “We’re taking out his boat, heading down there.”
“Come with me,” Declan said. “I can?—”
“No.” Stein blew out a breath. “But I guess two boats are better than one. I’ll send you her PLB signature.” And for the first time, Stein seemed to be the man Declan knew. “I’ll keep you informed.”
“I’ll find her, Stein. I will.”
Stein’s mouth tightened. He nodded. Then he held out his hand.
Huh. Declan shook it.
“I’m trusting you,” Stein said, his gaze hard on Declan.
Declan suddenly felt like he was back at boot camp on his way to do push-ups without knowing why.
No, worse. He was back in Afghanistan, the horror coiling around him as?—
“Keep me updated,” Stein said. Then he and Hawkeye took off toward the parking lot.
Declan jogged back to the bar. Motioned to the waitress as he pulled out his credit card. She came over, and he handed her the card.
“We need a takeout box.”
Then he looked at the Jamesons. “We’re leaving port. Right now.”
Hey, Austen. Stay alive. I will find you.
* * *
She’d taken cover in the lions’ den. Because rash decisions led to lethal mistakes.
At least for now, Emberly was safe. Ish —safe ish . What was the penalty for stowing away in international waters? Walking the plank? Thirty lashes?
But what choice did she have with the Petrov Bratva on her tail?
So maybe, yes, it had been a bad idea to stick around the island of Mariposa for the last two months, trying to get a bead on exactly what the Russians on the other side of the mountain were up to.
Maybe she shouldn’t have alerted them to her presence by stealing a four-wheeler back a couple months ago when she’d escaped the mine with Steinbeck.
But hello, the former SEAL, her nemesis-slash-fellow-survivor had been bleeding out.
So yes, into a Russian mining camp she went, liberated a four-wheeler, tore out of camp, threw Stein on the back, and hightailed it to town.
Sometimes in her sleep, she still saw herself dumping Stein off at the doorstep of the Mariposa clinic. Wishing that, just once, it didn’t have to end that way with them.
But her life didn’t have room for a happily ever after, so...
She’d done what she had to in order to keep Stein alive. Then she’d hidden out, having missed her getaway flight from the island. Apparently her chopper reservation had been commandeered by someone flying a bunch of injured people to nearby St. Kitts.
Declan Stone, pretending to be a hero instead of the mastermind of this colossal mess.
One did not get in bed with the Russian mob and survive. Unless one was part of their evil echelon.
Oh, she wanted to take him down, destroy his empire. Just because a guy gave millions away to a charitable organization—or many—that didn’t make him a hero.
Or even a good guy.
But the last place she’d thought she’d end up was on his very yacht. She’d had few choices—as in, none —when one of the Russian thugs tracked her down in Mariposa.
So she’d liberated a uniform from the catering crew stocking the yacht, then walked aboard, introduced herself to Chef Camille as Declan’s new hire (What? He didn’t tell you?) , had netted herself a ticket out of Dodge.
Her great escape meant a week on a luxury yacht, which might not have been so bad if she weren’t a scullery rat and a cabin maid.
“Declan has guests tonight, so I’ll need you to serve, along with Jermaine.” The words came from Chef Camille, Declan’s fancy chef from France, who had no problem filling up the sink with a thousand pots as she created Declan’s gourmet dinner.
A dinner she’d be AWOL for. But Emberly just smiled, nodded, and kept scrubbing one of Camille’s dirty pots, her apron wet, her short dark hair in a net, her hands parched as she counted the hours until her shift ended and she escaped off the Invictus and into Key West.
Okay, she didn’t hate her choice of transportation, even with her lack of options. Big enough to hide in with its three stories and numerous lounge areas, the boat also had a Jacuzzi, a couple of Jet Skis on the swim deck, and a fire-table lounge area on the top sky deck.
Built for luxury for sure, bought with his dirty terrorist millions.
At least Emberly had her own cubby in the crew quarters, a bunk that came equipped with a light and a locked compartment, and a curtain for privacy.
Still, she shared the hallway with some kid named Tyrone, the skinny deckhand; and Jermaine, a former Navy corpsman from Puerto Rico; and the engineer, Raphael, who kept to himself and spent his off-shift hours reading.
Ivek, the big Swede, and Teresa, the captain, had their own cabins, and Chef Camille slept in a cabin off the kitchen.
Not a bad crew, and Chef Camille was focused and maybe a little exacting, but more bossy than unkind.
Today they would come ashore, and as soon as she got off this boat, she’d vanish into the crowds of America, deliver Declan’s precious Axiom hard drive, which she’d liberated from his safe before the terrible landslide, then pop up to see her sister Nimue in Melbourne Beach.
Catch her breath. Because she’d been chasing Declan and his evil plans for the better part of six months, and frankly, she needed to shake off the residue of this op.
No, shake off the residue of Steinbeck Kingston, and the fact that he still haunted her dreams.
She’d left him to die, again. He would probably murder her... if he’d lived.
Please , let him have lived. She probably shouldn’t care so much, except...
Well, except he had long ago gotten under her skin and maybe a little into her heart, and she lost her brains a little around him, total kryptonite for a Black Swan like herself. The way he made her feel when he looked at her with those blue eyes just...
Healed her, perhaps. Made her see a different life. A different future.
Naw. He was pure temptation, chocolate on the top shelf that she could never, never have.
“Here’s the last pan,” Camille said, and set a baking tray on the counter. “Then wash up and take a break. Declan is due back in a few hours with his guests.”
And... she’d be long gone by then.
She dumped the tray into the sink, scrubbed at the residue, once in a while looking out the window to the port where they’d docked.
The sun hung low on the horizon, painting the sailboats a deep amber.
Camille had cracked the window, releasing the humidity from the kitchen, and now the salty air swept in, beckoned.
Someday Emberly would retire, find a beach, live in safety. Anonymity.
With Nimue, of course. Because she’d made promises to her sister—to herself—that she couldn’t break.
She finished the pan, then dried it and slid it into the cabinet, cleaned the granite countertops and sink. Camille had hung up her jacket and hat, clearly taking her own advice, and now Emberly untied her apron.
Stepping into the cool of the hallway, she saw that Camille’s door was shut, as was the captain’s. Teresa was on the bridge for sure.
They wouldn’t even miss her until they’d left port.
She opened up her bunk and grabbed her folded clothing. She didn’t have any personal belongings, really, just her uniform along with the clothes she’d arrived with.
She changed clothes in the bathroom, folded her uniform, put it on her bunk, then donned her cap, tucking her hair up under it. She’d need to score a phone, but she’d worry about that once her feet hit land.
The gangway was out, but as she came along the edge, she spotted Declan heading back to the boat. Behind him followed a couple, well dressed, toting suitcases. Jermaine carried a couple bags as well.
Declan’s guests.
Two hours early.
“Where are you going, Belle?”
The name Jermaine used—her alias—didn’t register, not right away, because.
.. well, because even as Declan marched down the dock to where his yacht moored at the end, she spotted a man standing on shore across the small harbor.
He wore a black T-shirt, sunglasses, shorts, and was helping load water and gear into a forty-foot dive boat.
His gait, the sun-kissed hair, the way he moved, his body lean and strong... And then he stood up.
And as if he possessed a radar, looked at Declan’s boat.
At her .
No, no, not at her. Her heart slammed into her ribs, lodged there, and she stepped back, turned away, even as Declan and his entourage walked up the gangway.
“Get us moving as fast as you can, Ivek.”
Of course, Declan didn’t even look at her as he headed up the stairs to the bridge. Because she was a no one. A staff person.
Not Ashley, who’d nearly run him over in Barcelona. And certainly not one of the catering crew that had attended the Kingston family wedding.
And he hadn’t even been in the room when she became the mysterious woman who danced with Steinbeck at the reception of said wedding.
So no, he didn’t spare her a glance.
But Ivek did. “We’re casting off. Shore leave’s been canceled.”
She looked at him, caught her breath. “No, I?—”
But Raphael and Tyrone were already pulling in the gangway. And sure, she could force her way off—even take a dive into the drink—but then she’d attract attention.
Steinbeck might see her.
And unlike Declan, he knew exactly who she was.
She ducked into the shadows, watching Steinbeck through her sunglasses as Teresa backed the yacht away from the dock.
He’d returned to loading his boat.
Maybe it wasn’t him. Probably.
Aw, shoot.
She knew Steinbeck Kingston when she saw him. And with that realization, she caught her breath and held in a strange swell of emotion.
He’d lived .
Maybe that information was enough.
They pulled away from the harbor, cutting a small wake as they headed out to sea.
“You’re needed in the galley,” Jermaine said as he walked past her toward the salon. “We have guests.”
Right. “Yes, sir.”
But first chance she got, she was off this boat.
And maybe Steinbeck Kingston would haunt her no more.