Michael stood, momentarily dizzy. Then, after a few deep breaths, he headed back to the saloon. The smell of death followed him, tainting the scent of the ocean. He felt pretty sure that the coppery taste at the back of his mouth would remind him of tropical islands for some time to come.
The saloon itself was in good shape. Michael’s gaze went right to the big leather chair. The government would be selling off the boat once Ed was in prison, and it felt damn good to know the bastard would never sit in that chair again.
Michael needed Tate to get back. Looking toward the beach, he didn’t see any water taxis-but then, they were pretty far offshore.
Shit, he couldn’t put it off any longer. He turned to the small room that had been their prison for ten days. Jazz’s body was still in the doorway, and beyond him, Charlie.
IT HAD TAKEN TOO LONG for the police to get their act together once the street cops had taken her to the station. She’d had to scream to get the right person’s attention, but once Chief Eccles understood what was at stake, he made things happen.
In fact, she had to fill in the details as they sped to a police boat. It was long and sleek and, according to the chief, faster than the speed of criminals.
He brought along six men, heavily armed, in what she assumed to be the British colonial equivalent of a SWAT team. As they flew over the water toward the Pretty Kitty, all Tate could do was pray. If only he could still be alive, she’d give more money to charity. She’d work in a soup kitchen. She’d trade years off her own life. Anything. Just not what Ed had said. Not that.
She stood up, too insane to be still, next to the captain. Wind and sea mist sprayed her face, ruining the makeup she’d so carefully applied this morning. Well, that and her tears.
CHARLIE HADN’T MOVED at all, and as Michael knelt next to him, his chest constricted with a stab of guilt and regret. He put his fingers to Charlie’s throat, searching for a pulse. He thought maybe…but that could be his own heartbeat.
He bent down, putting his ear right over Charlie’s heart. There, damn it. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t in great shape, but he wasn’t dead.
Relief made his eyes water as he sat back up. Now it was just a matter of time before Tate and Ed came back. Before Michael could finish taking the trash out.
He put his left hand down to steady himself as he rose.
The blow to the back of his head pitched him forward again, and for a second he thought Ed had returned to surprise him. But when he looked up, it wasn’t Ed but the not-so-dead, very pissed off Jazz.
THERE IT WAS IN THE distance, the Pretty Kitty. She’d been brought aboard unconscious and she’d been taken under duress, so this was the first time Tate had really seen the boat. It was gorgeous. Sleek like a cheetah, it was an exceptional yacht in a harbor full of yachts. No wonder they’d gotten to the Caymans so quickly.
The beauty of the vessel paled as the thought occurred again, as fresh as the first time, that it was Michael’s coffin. She chased the image away as quickly as it had come, but there was no more admiration for the boat.
She held on to the dash, willing this boat to hurry. To take her to the man she loved. To find him alive. Nothing else mattered. Nothing.
JAZZ STOOD UNSTEADILY on his widespread legs. His shirt-Hawaiian, like Ed’s-was matted with blood. Blood that dripped down his fingers into the pale plush carpet.
He glowered at Michael with malevolent red eyes. “You’re gonna die,” he said. “You are gonna die slow.”
Michael reached for his weapon, stuck into the folds of his pillowcase brace, but Jazz beat him to the punch with his own second gun at the small of his back. The Derringer was small, but it would kill just fine.
“Drop it,” Jazz said.
“Like hell. It’s over, Jazz. You’re the only one left alive.”
“Ed’s still alive.”
“He won’t be-”
Charlie moaned. Of all the rotten timing…He moaned again and moved his head.
Jazz sneered and moved his gun so it pointed at Charlie. “You still think you can stop me?”
Michael smiled as he got to his feet. “With one hand tied behind my back, asshole.”
Jazz took a step back, a hell of a lot more shaken than he’d been a minute ago. “Stop there or I kill him.”
“Go ahead,” Michael said. “You pull that trigger, it’s the last thing you ever do.”
“Fuck you, man.” He jerked the gun up to shoot, but Michael was quicker. He dived over Charlie, knocking Jazz off his feet. Jazz lost his gun, but he still had his hands and he hit Michael, hard, in the right shoulder. The pain nearly knocked him out, but not quite.
The second blow hit his bad shoulder again. Michael had to get his left hand moving. He had to get his gun up, aimed at Jazz-and this time there could be no mistakes.
He could feel Jazz’s knee come up against his stomach, his fist come down on his shoulder, then his other fist into his head. It was the most inelegant fight Michael had ever seen, but it was working. In another minute Jazz would be out from under him, and once that happened, adrenaline alone would carry him through.
With all the energy he had left in his body Michael pulled his left arm up, raised it above his head, stuck the barrel in Jazz’s gut.
He almost lost it as Jazz bellowed and struck him fiercely in the head, in the shoulder, in the stomach. But Jazz didn’t hit him in the left hand.
Michael pulled the trigger.
The sound of the gunshot filled his head as blood splattered his body.
He tried to move, to get off the dead man, but all his strength had gone with that last bullet.
He felt the dark close in on him. And he felt grateful.
“YOU HAVE TO STAY HERE.”
“I can’t.”
Chief Eccles shook his head, even as he braced himself as the grappling hooks pulled the police boat up against the Pretty Kitty. “We don’t have any idea who’s up there and how many weapons are on board. You could be killed.”
“I don’t care. If Michael is alive, he’ll need me.”
“The ambulance boat will be here in a moment.”
“Please,” she begged. “I have to-”
“I know you want to see him. But I can’t let you on board. I promise I’ll let you see him as soon as it’s safe.”
She couldn’t argue anymore. They were in position and ready to board. Numbly she watched as the men in their heavy armor climbed up into the yacht, quickly disappearing into the saloon.
She’d given the chief Michael’s description, afraid that they’d think he was one of Ed’s men. Even so, the thought scared her. Maybe scared was better than knowing. She could deal with scared.
The minutes ticked by. She heard no gunfire. There were shouts, but she couldn’t understand the words. The ambulance boat pulled up, and as quickly as they could the EMTs climbed into the yacht, carrying heavy bags and a portable gurney.
If they could go aboard, that must mean that the coast was clear, right? What kind of chief would let his EMTs walk into a gun battle?
There was only one cop left on the police boat. His job was probably to keep her from disembarking, but at the moment he was busy on the radio, his gaze on the ambulance boat.
That was all the permission she needed. With strength she didn’t know she had, she jumped over to the ladder leading up to the Pretty Kitty’s saloon. She made it onto the yacht just as the cop assigned to watch her shouted out. But he was too late-she was going to find Michael no matter what.
There was a huddle of men just at the door to their room. EMTs crouched beside someone, but she couldn’t see who.
She took one step, then another, dread and hope battling it out in her head. When she saw them lift Michael’s body onto the gurney, her heart shattered.
She was too late. Ed had told her the truth. Michael-her lover, her hero, her friend-was dead.
They came toward her, one EMT pushing the gurney and Michael. Her horrified gaze took in all the blood, all the bruises on Michael’s face. God, they’d tortured him. Tortured him, then killed him in cold blood.