CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Brett ended the call and slowly lowered the phone from his ear, staring at it for several seconds before he shot out of his chair.
“Fuck!”
He paced behind his desk, dragging one hand over his face while his mind raced through everything his colleague at corporate had just told him.
Federal agents had walked into Gulf Tide’s headquarters roughly thirty minutes ago, armed with search warrants and immediately started locking things down.
Nobody seemed to know exactly what they were looking for yet, which meant rumors were already spreading through the building faster than actual facts.
One of those rumors had nearly made Brett drop the fucking phone.
Apparently, whatever the Feds were investigating was said to be connected to one of Gulf Tide’s offshore rigs. His colleague had even heard someone mention the possibility that federal agents were already onboard.
Brett had laughed when the guy told him that.
Actually, fucking laughed and asked what the hell federal agents would want with an offshore platform.
He had even made some stupid joke about being glad he was stuck in the middle of the Gulf while somebody at corporate apparently screwed the pooch badly enough to bring the federal government down on them.
He had sounded good too. At least, he thought he had.
Now that the call was over and there was no one listening, Brett stopped pretending.
“What the fuck happened?”
He stopped pacing and stared toward the rain-speckled window. Maybe this had nothing to do with him. Maybe Gulf Tide had gotten itself wrapped up in some regulatory bullshit completely unrelated to anything Brett and Matisse had been doing.
Yeah, right. And maybe the fucking Easter Bunny was leading the raid.
His thoughts went immediately to Matisse, followed by Capperson, although he quickly dismissed the latter. Capperson wasn’t talking to anyone. That left Matisse or someone else connected to the operation, and Brett had no way of knowing how far the damage had already spread.
But it was the rumor about federal agents being on the rig that really bothered him.
Brett’s mind immediately supplied two names. Nova Hart and Mr. Iverson.
Hart was supposedly an attorney working on Silverman’s acquisition, while Iverson had been brought in as an engineer. Brett had accepted the explanation because he hadn’t had any reason not to.
Now he found himself questioning everything.
His office door suddenly flew open, and Brett spun around as Clint rushed inside.
“What the hell is going on? You sounded like someone was dying.”
“Shut the door.”
Clint shut the door before facing him again. “Okay. What happened?”
Brett drew in a breath. “Federal agents showed up at corporate about thirty minutes ago.”
Clint stared at him. “What?”
“They have warrants. They’re searching the place.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
Clint gave him a look that made it obvious he didn’t believe that for a second, but Brett didn’t particularly care.
“And apparently there’s a rumor going around that whatever they’re looking into is connected to one of the offshore rigs.”
Understanding slowly settled over Clint’s face. “This one?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“Shit.” Clint scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “So, they could be on to the smuggling operation?”
“And possibly something else.”
Clint’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”
“A device.”
“What kind of device?”
“One that you don’t need to concern yourself with.”
“Considering the fucking FBI might be coming out here, I’m thinking maybe I do. Is this what you’ve been hiding over there on Platform Three? And why you don’t allow anyone over there?”
Brett stepped closer. “You are in no position to question me. What I need from you is to carry on the day as if nothing is wrong.”
“What are you going to do?”
Brett grinned. He had no intention of telling Clint his plan. The less the kid knew, the better off he would be.
“I’m going to take care of the problem. But first, did you see Ms. Hart or Mr. Iverson this morning?”
Clint frowned at the sudden change in subject. “No.”
“When was the last time you saw them?”
“Last night in the dining area. I stopped by their room about fifteen minutes ago to let Mr. Iverson know that we got that broken valve replaced.”
“And?”
“They weren’t there.”
Brett got a bad feeling. “Neither of them?”
“No. I figured Ms. Hart was up here.”
“She isn’t.”
Clint went quiet, and Brett could practically see the same pieces beginning to come together in the other man’s head.
“Wait, are you saying that you suspect they could be agents?”
“I don’t know what the fuck I think.”
Except that wasn’t entirely true. The more Brett considered it, the more things started making an uncomfortable amount of sense.
Maybe Silverman had never been the real reason they were here.
“Do you think they know?” Clint asked.
“I don’t see how. I’ve covered everything.”
Brett’s phone rang. When he looked down at the screen, an uneasy feeling hit his stomach when he recognized the number as belonging to one of Matisse’s people.
He answered immediately. “What?”
“They got Andre,” the voice on the line said.
Brett tightened his grip on the phone. “What do you mean, they got him?”
“What the hell do you think I mean? Federal agents arrested him.”
“When?”
“Early this morning. Fuckers appeared out of nowhere.”
Brett gripped the edge of his desk with his free hand. “Is he talking?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No. But I thought you would want to know.”
“Yeah. Thanks for the heads up. Let me know when you hear anything else.”
Brett disconnected the call before the guy could finish.
For a moment, he simply stared at his phone as everything that had happened that morning rearranged itself into a picture he really didn’t fucking like.
Matisse was in federal custody, agents were tearing apart Gulf Tide’s headquarters, Hart and Iverson were nowhere to be found, and the prototype was still sitting on Platform Three.
“What happened?” Clint demanded.
Brett lifted his gaze. “Matisse was arrested.”
The color drained slightly from Clint’s face. “That’s bad.”
“No shit.”
For the first time since his colleague had called, Brett stopped trying to convince himself there might still be a way to talk his way out of this.
Even if Matisse kept his mouth shut, there were records, financial transactions, shipments, and people who knew pieces of what they had been doing.
People also became remarkably fucking cooperative when federal prison was suddenly part of the conversation.
He needed to get out. That was his only option.
The thought came with surprising clarity, and Brett almost laughed at the irony. Two nights ago, he’d been standing on Delilah, congratulating himself on a successful test and thinking maybe this deal would be the last one. He would take the money and disappear to his oceanside villa.
His gaze moved toward the window and the distant structure of Platform Three.
The prototype couldn’t stay there, and neither could the evidence surrounding it.
If he could destroy the platform and make it look like something had gone catastrophically wrong in the aftermath of the storm, there would be chaos.
Better yet, if everyone believed Brett had gone down with the platform, nobody would immediately be looking for him.
He could use Delilah. He could retrieve the prototype, set everything in motion, take the boat, and get as far away as possible. He had money hidden where no federal agency would find it, along with an alias.
It wasn’t a great plan. But at the moment, it beat spending the rest of his life staring through prison bars.
“What do you want me to do?” Clint asked.
Brett looked at him. “Nothing. Just go about your day.”
Clint stared at him. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. Get coffee. Check on the crew. Complain about the weather. I don’t give a shit. Just act normal.”
“And you?”
“I’m going to take care of a few loose ends.”
Clint studied him for an uncomfortable moment before shaking his head. “I’ll do what you say. Let me know if you need anything.”
Clint opened the door and left.
The sudden quiet that followed gave Brett a moment to organize his thoughts. He needed to get to the prototype, then get it all loaded onto Delilah, and after that, get the hell away from Gulf Tide before anyone realized he was gone.
Everything else could be figured out once there were a few hundred miles between him and this fucking rig.
He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a passport. He flipped it open. Anthony Telesford. That would be his new identity.
He crossed the room toward the window. Then stopped when he saw movement on Platform Three.
Brett frowned as anger rose within him as he watched Ms. Hart and Mr. Iverson walk along steel grates heading in the direction of where the prototype was stored.
“No fucking way,” he said out loud.
How the fuck had they gotten over there?
Brett tried to convince himself there was no reason to panic. They couldn’t know about the room. The entrance was concealed, and even most of the crew had no idea the space existed. They could search that entire platform and walk right past it without realizing it was there.
He grabbed a bag he kept at the ready. It was filled with cash and other items, and he headed for the door.
He could figure out how they’d gotten onto Platform Three later. Right now, he needed to reach that room before they did.
And if he was already too late?
Brett pulled open the door, his fear hardening into something much colder.
Then Hart and Iverson had just become two more problems he needed to make disappear.