Chapter 3
Dane drove to his beach shack on Harbor Lane.
It was the one place on the planet that he thought of as home.
When he turned off Owen Park Way, a quick glance in his rearview told him he hadn’t been followed.
It also told him that his mouth was turned down as if he wanted to punch someone. Now would be a good time to call Peter.
With one hand on the wheel, Dane pulled the phone from his pocket and hit the governor’s number as he pulled into the crushed seashell-and-gravel drive that fit exactly one car.
“That was quick,” the governor said. “Does this mean you’ve already wrapped up the case?”
Dane could picture the grin on his friend’s face.
“This ‘case’ doesn’t appear to be a good match for my skill set.”
“Is that some kind of P.C. language that’s supposed to mean you think it’s a shit case and beneath you?” Peter laughed at him.
“Glad someone is amused by all this. How about if you have Chauncey Miller take over working the case when he gets here? Maybe with a different angle.”
“Look, I know you just got back from some ungodly place that no one is supposed to know about—not even me—and I don’t need to hear the details to know it was a bad mission.
Maybe you could use some rest. But I’m thinking maybe you need a different kind of mission instead.
Something that doesn’t require you to sleep in mud or kill your own food.
You’re not likely going to get yourself killed on this one. ”
“Doesn’t matter about the danger to me if we end up with dead bodies in the end.” Dane paused and added quietly, “It’s not my bones I’m worried about.” It was his soul that needed a break. A break from seeing the hurt and suffering.
That admission cost him. Didn’t like to think of himself as soul-weary, less than tough, less than impervious to the nightmarish horrors he’d witnessed in the worst hellholes of the world.
There wasn’t another living soul he’d have confessed it to.
He could never tell his mother, no matter how close they were and no matter how much he loved and owed her.
It would cause her too much grief to know.
Once upon a time he’d have told Elena and she’d have soothed his soul with her special brand of balm—with lovemaking that was part physical and part soul-wrenching.
Peter quieted on the other end of the line and Dane checked his phone to make sure they were still connected. It was good and secure. Finally, Peter spoke.
“I didn’t realize. I hadn’t considered that. I’ll see if Chauncey can handle the role—he just got back from his honeymoon and I promised him light duty but—”
“No. Don’t.” Last thing Dane needed was to cause a new bride grief.
“I’ll have myself a shot of tequila and buck up.
You’re probably right. It’ll feel good to work in something other than fatigues.
” He looked around his shambles of a kitchen-dining room combo and hoped he’d still be resting here when this was all over.
But before the thought finished floating through his mind, he knew better.
The place he called home would no longer be an escape.
It would be tainted by the mission, however lightweight it might prove to be.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” No need to go into it. Wouldn’t help. Peter knew damn well what changed his mind. His friend also knew he’d be good for his word and would jump all in for all he was worth.
“I know I can count on you, Dane, and I owe you everything. I’ll make sure Chauncey knows—”
“No. I’d rather you didn’t do that.”
“Anything else?”
“I’m skeptical about the con and about the Aussie woman.” Dane didn’t like her name. Shana. It was too girly and immature. Too much like Elena. Maybe it fit her. Maybe not.
“She’s all we’ve got. She can surf and I’m told she’s tough as nails.” Peter paused a beat. “And I’m told she’s a real looker. Perfect for the role—an irresistible mark for this con. You can make up for her inexperience.”
“That a P.C. comment meaning you think I’m an old S.O.B.?”
“I’m counting on your ability to handle any situation—not in spite of your age, but because of it.” Peter sounded dead serious.
Dane matched his tone and said, “Tell me the real reason you’re in this.”
“Two reasons. The daughter of a good friend has gone missing, which you know. And…” He paused a telling beat. Shit.
“We have reason to believe some Brazilians with very nasty reputations may be involved.”
“Brazilian cartel? Damn important detail to leave out of the briefing.”
“So far that part is sketchy. You need to verify it on your end. With an open mind so we don’t miss anything.
Think you can do that now that I’ve tainted your mindset?
” Peter’s voice went back to smiling. Dane found he preferred it that way.
Hi old special ops team leader had always been upbeat and Dane now realized how much he’d needed that—craved it, if he were honest.
“My mind is a very talented and well-behaved machine,” he said, “like the rest of me. I’m all in. We’ll get your friend’s daughter back.” One way or another.
Peter grunted on the other end of the line because he’d heard the words Dane had not spoken. They ended the call.
After sunset, Dane sat in his parked car not far from the Whittier house where Shana was staying. From his slouched position, he raised the night vision binoculars to his eyes. No need to be too obvious. The Frenchman wouldn’t respect him if he had no tradecraft.
There she was. In the bedroom. In full view of the window.
Blinds up and curtains billowing around her silhouette in the soft light.
Unpacking her bag. He hoped to God she closed the blinds before undressing for bed.
His hard-on couldn’t stand to get any harder.
This whole thing called for a trick he hadn’t had to use since he was a horny young man—pre-Elena.
He picked up the giant cup of icy Pepsi and scooped out a few cubes and dropped them on his crotch.
Clenching his teeth for a moment, he let out a breath and knew it worked.
Goddamn. He hated that woman. If he stood in front of Elena right now, if Elena was there with him… then he remembered he shouldn’t go there.
Dane resumed his watch. Shana left the room, still fully clothed. Scanning the area, he swung the binocs to where Frenchie, his fellow Peeping Tom, sat, sans car, in some bushes. Apparently, he wasn’t worried about dogs. Apparently because he’d done his homework and knew there weren’t any.
Dane sparked up his two-way, which was technically a three-way tonight, and talked.
“Frogman is in position in the bushes. How about if number one takes a walk to scare him out of there and we can call it a night.”
“So soon?” Shana drawled.
Dane’s teeth felt like screaming.
“He knows I’m here watching you. Our point has been made.”
“You got a hot date, Mr. Dane the Demon?” She laughed.
Captain Lynch came on with a fuzzy burst and a loud breath as if he were talking too close—apparently still figuring out how to use his equipment. He said, “Copy Number 2. Rendezvous in the morning as planned. Afternoon trip to the airport to meet the friend. I think we should meet again at—”
“Got it, Cap. Over.” No need to go over that shit on the air tonight.
Dane turned the telecom off and started the car.
Without lights, he backed it up the narrow residential street until he got to the main road and then took off.
He moved slowly in case Frenchie or his cohorts wanted to follow him.
After a quarter mile, he had company in the form of a flashy convertible. One of Frenchie’s accomplices.
It was a beautiful night for a drive and he had time to kill. He was the furthest a man could be from sleepy.