“I want you to make love to me,” she whispered breathlessly into his ear.
He looked into her eyes, and then kissed her passionately on the lips, draining the last of her remaining strength.
“You will be my first,” she said with a slight nervousness in her voice.
Aaron touched a finger to her lips. “You are mine as well,” he said quietly. “You can trust me, Katya. I will honor you.” He kissed her lips again, gently this time. She closed her eyes as in a dream.
Then, as the sun slowly settled into the Pacific, he patiently and carefully made himself one with her.
Cabo San Lucas, Mexico
Chapter 39
James Harness and Larry Holt took a taxi from southern Baja’s Aeródromo Internacional into downtown Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. It was hot outside. Really hot. After questioning several locals, the two ended up at the infamous Cabo Wabo Cantina.
The nightclub was huge, with a stage and a set of drums toward the back, and wild, festive lighting and decorations covering every inch of the space. However, considering it wasn’t even 6:00 p.m. yet, the men weren’t surprised to see that it was deserted.
As they approached the bar, Harness pointed out a wall full of Van Halen memorabilia, and Holt was first to notice the vast collection of ladies underwear hanging above their heads.
It was hotter in the Cantina than it was outside, and Officer Holt looked at Harness expectantly. Harness looked back at him with a look that said, What the hell do you want?
“Are you gonna buy your partner a drink or do I have to buy it myself?” Holt said. “And don’t feed me any of your bullshit about us being on duty. If I can’t have a drink in fucking Cabo San… Wabo, where the hell can I drink?”
Harness gave him a disgusted look. ”I’m a little busy at the moment,” he said, jerking his head toward the bartender to remind Holt that they were there to gather information, not to get drunk. “And if we were on duty, I’d have your badge for insubordination and abusive language.”
“Fuck you,” Holt said.
Harness turned to the bartender. “Two shots of your best tequila and two beer backs, please.”
“I’d buy my own damn drink if you’d pay me once in a while,” Holt mumbled.
“Whatever makes the big baby happy,” Harness said.
“Kiss my big black ass,” Holt said.
They watched with dry throats as the bartender poured the shots and delivered their order to the bar.
Holt threw back his shot and chased it with his entire beer. He hoped that everything he’d heard about the potency of Cabo Wabo’s tequila was true, since it was unlikely he could pry another dollar out of Harness’s wallet.
“You’re not supposed to chug the beer, Holt,” Harness said. “It’s for sipping.”
“Where’d you come up with that?” Holt said. “And why don’t you just shut up about it?”
Harness downed his shot as well, along with a sip of beer, and then he introduced himself and showed the bartender Jason’s picture, offering him the usual $50 cash incentive.
“He looks a lot different out of uniform,” the bartender said, stuffing the $50 in his tip jar. “But yeah, I saw him. About three days ago. He was with a hot redhead and some young guy that looked like a surfer or something. They had dinner and drinks… lots of drinks.”
“Three days ago, did you say?”
“Yeah, Tuesday night, I think,” the bartender said. “I heard them say something about San Diego.”
“Did they say anything else?” Harness asked.
“I don’t know… They were all pretty hammered by then.”
Harness shoved another $50 across the bar.
The bartender scooped up the bill and glanced around the empty club, and then he leaned toward Harness, as if he were going to divulge a national secret. Holt leaned in as well.
“Here’s where it started getting really weird,” the bartender said in a near whisper. “The guy you’re looking for? The guy in the picture? He started going off about a plot to assassinate some high-level official in the United States government.”
“What?” Harness said. “He had to be bullshitting.”
“How the hell should I know?” the bartender said. “But he was talking about torpedoing the son-of-a-bitch.”
“Yeah, right,” Holt said. “Where’s the guy gonna get a torpedo? Fucking Walmart?”
“He mentioned an old Russian submarine that’s part of some museum in San Diego,” the bartender said.
“Cobra,” Harness said to Holt. “She’s moored at the MMSD. But she barely floats.” But he knew better than to underestimate his adversary’s resourcefulness.
“Just telling you what I heard,” the bartender said.
“His companions,” Harness said. “Were they in on it?”
“It was hard to tell… they were pretty fucked up. But I doubt it. It was a one-sided conversation at that point, and the guy didn’t seem to care if they were listening or not.”
“The redhead,” Harness said. “What did she look like?”
“She was hot,” the bartender said.
“That’s it? A hundred bucks and I get ‘She was hot’?”
“What do you want from me?” the bartender said, annoyed now. “Beautiful face, long, flaming red hair, smokin’ body… You’re the detective… You describe her.”
“Okay, okay, I get it. She’s hot,” Harness said. “No need to get your panties in a bunch. Did they say anything about a day and time? For the assassination, I mean.”
The Bartender paused for a moment. “Friday night, I think.”
Harness turned to Holt. “What day is today?”
“How the fuck should I know?” Holt said.
“Today is Friday, come to think of it,” the bartender said.
“Damn it!” Harness said. “How long does it take to get from here to San Diego on a motor-yacht?”
“San Diego? Under power? Oh, I’d say two or three days tops — assuming the weather holds, and including stopping for fuel.”
Harness checked his watch and looked at Holt. “It’s 6:00 p.m. If they left here Tuesday, they could be there by now.”
He turned back to the bartender. “How long’s a flight from here to San Diego?”
“Two hours and ten minutes.”
Harness thought maybe he could get a call off to Naval Command in Point Loma. “Do cell phones work here?” he asked.
“Not necessarily. You’d have to arrange that with your provider, and the dialing out is different here. And you need to understand basic Spanish because the operator recordings are —”
“Do you have a house phone?” Harness demanded.
“Yes, but it’ll only handle local calls,” the bartender said.
Harness couldn’t believe his luck. Here he was, stuck down in Cabo San Lucas while Jason Souther attempted to bring America to its knees. He asked the bartender to call a taxi.
“Drink up, Holt,” he said, sliding his nearly full glass of beer in his direction. “I think our problems just got a lot more serious.”
Naval Base Point Loma
San Diego
Chapter 40
The Executive Officer checked his watch. 7:00 p.m. The final security arrangements had been made, and now he had the privilege of escorting the President of the United States and his four secret servicemen on board the 362-foot nuclear submarine USS Hampton, joining its standard complement of 12 officers and 98 crewmen. He unhooked the maroon-velvet rope guarding the gangway.