Camille shook her head in disgust and motioned for Kim to follow her to the walk-in closet at the far end of the bedroom. “What do you think?” she whispered. “These are the same guys that took Virginia Ross. That means Ronnie Garcia is in real trouble.”
“Isn’t there anyone you can trust to call?” Kim said.
“Jacques keeps work stuff separate from our family as much as he can. I don’t even know how many other guys in the Corps know what he’s up to most of the time.”
“I was just thinking about something Jericho always says.” Kim gave a heavy sigh, as if she’d finally come to understand some mystery that had been eluding her. “He says if you’re going to make a mistake, you should err on the side of action.”
Camille threw her head back and laughed out loud. She looked up at the ceiling and shook her head.
“What?” Kim asked. “What’s so funny?”
“I’m probably the first woman in my family to ever contemplate hiring a babysitter so she can go break a friend out of a secret boat-prison. I guess that counts as erring on the side of action all right.” Camille stretched up on her tiptoes and began to search through the shoeboxes on the closet shelf above the rack of dresses that she never wore anymore. “Got it,” she said at length, finding the holster Jacques had given her, along with the little stainless-steel .357 he’d wanted much worse than she had. She remembered it was called a “Small of the Back” holster, or SOB, because those were the exact words that came to her mind when she saw Jacques had given her a gun for a present.
Peeking around the corner to make sure Benavides was still on the mattress where she’d left him, Camille stepped out of the loose basketball shorts and into a pair of heavy-duty Carhartt pants she wore to work in the yard. She rarely wore a belt and had to rummage around on the floor behind piles of clothing and boxed knickknacks, before she found a wide leather one that still fit her.
“Sorry you had to see in my closet,” Camille said as she fed the belt through the loops and then the holster so it wouldn’t slide around, just like Jacques had shown her. “I just throw junk in here to get it out of the way…”
“Have you got another gun?” Kim said, mesmerized by the little revolver. “I only have one leg, but you have to let me do something to help. These guys are the reason my little girl is hiding out halfway around the world.”
Camille gave her a leather belt from the pile on the floor. It was smaller but looked like it would probably fit Kim. “There’s a gun and holster in the bathroom gun safe.” Camille rolled her eyes. “I know. Right? Don’t even ask.”
“Remember who I used to be married to.” Kim took the belt and gave a nervous laugh. “A toilet gun safe doesn’t seem odd at—”
The sudden chime of the doorbell nearly sent Camille falling into the rack of dresses. The color bled from Kim’s face. Out in the bedroom, Joey Benavides began to scream for help at the top of his shattered voice.
Camille ran to the bedside and grabbed the hammer from the toolbox. “You better hush, mister,” she hissed.
The door was solid core but anyone standing near the window would be able to hear his yelling outside. If it was another IDTF agent, they were finished.
Benavides was obviously smart enough to know that this might be his only chance for escape. Leaning over the bed, Camille struggled to stuff the gag back in his mouth. He arched his body and jerked his head back and forth like a baby not wanting to eat his peas, all the while shrieking for help as if he was being burned alive. In a near meltdown panic, Kim began to whip him with the belt across the pale flesh of his thighs, which only added to his terror and made him scream even louder.
Realizing the situation called for desperate measures, Camille sprang onto the bed and threw herself astride Joey B so she knelt on his chest, trapping his head between her knees. He bucked and bounced beneath her, but she was finally able to stuff the gag between his teeth without getting bitten. She’d just pulled back her hand when she heard the bedroom doorknob rattle behind her. Terrified, and still straddling Joey B’s naked chest, she turned to find all six feet, four inches of her husband filling the doorway.
“Jacques!” Camille said, frozen in place. “Sweetie, I can explain.”
Thibodaux leaned a massive arm against the doorframe and cocked his head to one side, taking in the scene.
“Oh, Boo, you’re wearin’ the gun I bought you.” He grinned, nodding to the revolver on her hip. “I don’t believe I ever wanted you more.”
Chapter 38
“What do you think Petra’s father did to afford such a yacht?” Song said, sitting beside Quinn on the plush leather settee. It was U-shaped and took up much of the spacious salon. She’d taken a shower as soon as they’d boarded the boat and her hair was still wet and shone like obsidian under the wall sconce above her head. Bursaw was up with his father-in-law, just visible through a narrow hatchway, eerie silhouettes in the muted red light of the wheelhouse as they steered the forty-seven-foot cruiser through the black waters of the Adriatic.
“He seems comfortable enough running at night with no lights,” Quinn said. “So I have a guess.” He sat on the long side of the settee, at a right angle to Song, knee to knee.
Quinn’s father had owned several fishing boats over the years. They were beamy things, working vessels, and they weren’t cheap, but compared to this one they looked like a wall tent next to a five-star hotel. Quinn guessed it was at least a million-dollar boat. Pricy for a man who helped his son-in-law tend to motorcycle tires. Quinn didn’t care.
Petra was in the forward cabin, down a short flight of stairs beneath the wheelhouse, trying to get her daughters to sleep after all the commotion. Quinn and Song had the salon to themselves.
Quinn rubbed his eyes, willing himself to stay awake. He’d always been fine when he was moving forward, running or riding toward a goal, but waiting sapped his strength more quickly than a fight. He looked at his watch. It was well after midnight. That put it after seven a.m. in China. It was no wonder he was exhausted. Including his time under anesthesia in the Kashgar hospital and the catnap he’d taken on the flight into Croatia, he’d gone over forty-eight hours on less than six hours of fitful or drug-induced sleep.
Song stared blankly across the interior of the boat, miles away and locked in thought.
“We have to check in at the airport in just over three hours,” he said. “Bursaw says we’ve still got a good two hours on the boat. You should catch some sleep.”
Locks of damp hair mopped the shoulders of the clean white T-shirt.
“Why do you do this?” she asked, still staring off into space.
Quinn raised a brow. “What do you mean?”
“You know… this.” Song waved both hands around in a flourish. “This thing we are doing.”
“I—”
“I do it because my government says I must,” she said. “I think you do it because you can.”
“Maybe,” Quinn said.
“Please forgive me,” she said, letting her head fall sideways so she was leaning back against the cushion but looking at him. “We Chinese can be very direct. What I mean to say is that you do this because you are capable.” A single tear had formed and then dried on her cheek, as if it had given up.
She stretched her legs, staring at her feet, still bare from the shower. They were small for her height and Quinn was surprised to see her toenails were painted a girlish pink. “I do not think I was cut out for this type of work.”
“You seem exceptionally good at it,” Quinn said.