Chapter 10 #5
West put the car in Drive. Pulled down the driveway. Through the gates. Back onto the residential street.
Away from Win’s estate. Away from the Secret Service. Away from Britta.
And what he really wanted to do was just keep driving.
Away from the tangled mess of his heart.
Yep, complicated.
INDIAN RIVER, MELBOURNE BEACH, 6:47 A.M.
The tracker under Alan’s skin itched.
It was not supposed to—Scarlett had said it was inert, biocompatible, wouldn’t cause any sensation once the injection site healed. But Alan swore he could feel it. Like a grain of sand embedded in his left bicep. York watching every heartbeat.
The fishing boat rocked in the slow current of the Indian River. Twenty-three feet, center console, white hull streaked with rust and salt stains. The kind of boat that blended into Florida waterways—could carry local fishermen, could carry tourists, could carry anyone.
One of Tomas’s men, Alan’s new best friend, the one who’d left him stranded back in Key West—stood at the helm. Tall, heavily muscled, wearing board shorts and a fishing shirt that did nothing to hide the weapon at his hip.
Alan sat on a cooler at the stern, binoculars in his lap. He wore tennis shoes, faded jeans, and a gray T-shirt, damp from spray and sweat.
He traced the Marshall actor’s property again.
Mangroves lined both banks. Herons stood in the shallows.
The sun was just clearing the horizon, turning everything gold and orange.
No movement except security. His position here would attract less attention than being out at sea, a lone boat watching the beachside face of the property. But he felt blind.
The earwig in his right ear crackled.
“Are you listening, Alan?” Tomas Smirnov’s voice. Coming from somewhere miles away but feeling close enough to whisper.
Alan touched the earwig. “I’m here.”
“Sitrep.”
He wanted to answer The situation is stupid.
Because this was never going to work. He was telling too many lies to too many people, and losing track of which was which.
He’d had some explaining to do when he’d caught up with Tomas last night after his so-called escape from York’s custody.
“Twelve hours of silence. No contact. No confirmation of status.” Tomas had seemed remarkably mild, sitting in his car in the Keys. “Help me understand. Are you trying to make me kill you? Or are you just stupid?”
Alan had shrugged. “York Newgate tried to turn me.”
“Did he?”
“I killed two of his guards and escaped.”
A lie, but he and Logan’s team had set up the evidence.
Silence, then, “Show me your hands.”
Alan had extended both hands. Palms down, then up.
His knuckles were bruised. He had split skin across his right hand from working the hinge pins. And there were fresh scabs forming from when he’d hit the cement wall not long after York left.
“I see you fought your way out.”
“I removed the door hinges and took out two guards when they came to check on me.”
Vladimir, who’d sat in the back seat behind him, had snorted.
“You have something to say?” Tomas had asked.
Vladimir had shrugged. “Just seems convenient. Two dead guards. Clean escape. No evidence.”
“There’s evidence,” Alan said. “Seabreeze Inn, Room 317. York had a team in 319—communications equipment, the whole setup. They evacuated around 0300 hours. Check it. You’ll find power marks on the carpet. Cable runs. Someone was definitely using it.”
Thankfully, Logan’s team was thorough, but Alan could admit to the clenching of his gut when Vlad the Impaler left to check his story. He returned with confirmation.
“Room 319 has evidence of occupancy. Equipment marks. The hotel manager says a group checked out early this morning. Paid cash.”
“So,” Tomas had said, “either you’re telling the truth and York’s team cleaned up after you, or you’re very good at lying and York coached you on exactly what to say.”
Alan met his gaze, a darkness in it. “You think I’m working with York?”
“I think you made contact with an old friend. I think he offered you things I can’t. And I think you’re smart enough to know that cooperation might get you what you want.”
“The family you’ve held hostage for sixteen years.”
“Protective custody,” Tomas corrected. “But semantics. Here’s what matters—I need to know whose side you’re on. York’s or mine.”
“I agreed to help him if he saved them.” Not a lie, just in case Tomas had already known that. The tracker would have been recording the elevated heart rate. The stress.
“And?”
“And I choose my family. Whoever actually has them. Whoever can actually deliver.”
More truth, and Tomas had turned silent for a long moment. Then, “Finish this, and you’ll get what you ask for.”
And that had been it.
They’d driven north, following the caravan of Secret Service agents, and of course York must have known that, but he’d kept Alan’s family out of Tomas’s reach.
And this morning, Tomas had shown up with Vlad and a boat. “Winchester Marshall’s property,” Tomas had said. “2847 Ocean Drive. You’re going to scout it. Full security assessment. I need to know if we can breach tonight.”
Tonight.
“Vladimir will take you close. Use the binoculars. Document everything. Then tell me if it’s viable.”
So Alan had spent the morning in the glorious company of a thug who’d be happy to strangle him, throw him overboard, and leave him as pelican breakfast.
Fantastic.
Alan raised the binoculars again.
The property sat across the road, a gated estate that stretched all the way to the ocean. A private dock extended out into the river, and beyond that, lush palm trees and landscaping hid it from the road.
Alan had no clue how he was supposed to advise Tomas about a breach.
Especially with the Secret Service and private tactical security everywhere. And the Jones, Inc., guys in a beach villa next door.
So, yeah, no breaching.
Alan counted four men on the dock alone. Black tactical pants, polo shirts, weapons visible. They moved in coordinated patterns, covering overlapping fields of fire.
Alan adjusted the binoculars. Scanned what he could see of the house. Cameras on every corner. Motion sensors on the windows. A patrol boat—Coast Guard, maybe—passed the property every twenty minutes like clockwork.
Vladimir let the boat drift closer. Not close enough to draw attention. Just close enough that Alan could make out details.
Upper windows. Movement behind the glass.
A woman passed one of the windows. Blonde hair. Blue sundress.
Alan’s finger froze on the focus dial.
She turned toward the glass. Stood there with a coffee cup, looking out at the ocean.
Britta White.
“Martin. Sitrep!” Tomas said again in his ear.
“It’s a vault,” Alan said quietly.
“Explain.”
“Four Secret Service on the beach. Probably six more inside. Patrol boats every twenty minutes. Camera coverage on all approaches. Motion sensors. Reinforced entry points. Sight lines favor defenders on every angle.”
“Can we breach?”
“You can try. Maybe you get inside. Maybe you even reach the target. But you’ll lose half your team doing it. And even then, she dies in the crossfire.”
Vladimir was watching him. Hand on his weapon.
“How many operatives would I need?” Tomas asked.
“Eight minimum. Ten to be safe. And even then—” Alan stopped.
Swallowed. “Even then it’s maybe fifty-fifty you pull it off.
The Secret Service isn’t going to roll over.
They’ll fight. It’ll be loud, messy, and the federal response will be immediate.
Coast Guard is already patrolling. You’ll have helicopters within five minutes. ”
Static in his ear.
The boat rocked. A fish jumped nearby. Vladimir kept staring at Alan like he was trying to see inside his skull.
“You’re saying the mansion assault won’t work,” Tomas said finally.
“I’m saying it’s high risk, high casualties, low probability of success.”