Do or Die Reluctant Heroes

“Wow, I have really good taste,” Phoebe said, as Ian locked the door of their cabin behind them.

They’d come below to shower and change before dinner, which they were having with the Dutchman up in the dining room in an hour. This yacht was big enough to have a dining room. And a living room. And a den.

The master bedroom cabin was huge, too. It was decorated in blues and turquoises and sea greens, with shiny white-painted wood. It really did have a delightful, airy, oceany feel. A bathroom was attached and it, too, was huge, with a big, glass-enclosed shower, and with racks on the walls that were overflowing with towels in those same tropical-water colors.

If this was their yacht—and they were pretending that was so—then it stood to reason that Phoebe had had at least a small amount of input into the furnishings and colors used in the decor. Of course, she’d said it completely as a joke, an attempt to lighten Ian’s very dark mood—because after a day like today, the color of the curtains was the last thing that mattered.

Ian had been shaken—they both had—by Davio’s unexpected attack, and by Sheldon’s unbelievably risky near-sacrifice. The grim reality of what could have happened had Shel not led the SUV filled with heavily armed thugs away from their game of make-believe still lingered.

The entire job could have exploded, and not only would Davio and his men have been trying to kill Ian and his team, but the Dutchman and Hamori suddenly would’ve been gunning for all of them, too, once they’d realized they were being conned. And they would have realized it when the “dead” and “unconscious” security guards leapt to their feet to help fight off Davio.

There were also a variety of smaller catastrophes that could have happened—including Vanderzee bailing, instead of taking this nighttime cruise to “Cuba” in a boat carrying drugs.

But the man hadn’t bailed.

“Are you all right?” Phoebe asked Ian, following him into the bathroom and watching as he turned on the shower.

Ian shook his head no.

And okay, the fact that he hadn’t said yes or I’m fine stunned her. That was why she was frozen with shock when he reached out, took her by the hand, and pulled her in, hard, to his chest. It was like hitting a wall, he was that solid, and if that wasn’t enough to take her breath away, he said, “But I will be, soon,” before he kissed her.

It was an echo of the searing kiss they’d shared beneath the dock—hungry and desperate and filled with blessed relief while still laced with remnants of pure fear.


He’d been as scared out there as she had, Phoebe realized with another jolt of shock—maybe even more scared. It was his brother’s husband who’d nearly been killed, and that loss would’ve been unmanageable.

For someone who managed everything for everyone, for someone who seemingly effortlessly kept dozens of balls in the air at all times, facing the very real possibility of Shelly’s impending, unfixable death must’ve been terrifying.

But right now Ian tugged at her clothes, unfastening her pants even as he shucked off his own, and Phoebe helped him. She put her glasses on the bathroom counter, pushing them down into the sink for safekeeping, and then pulled her shirt over her head and kicked off her boots.

Ian nearly fell over in his haste, tripped by pants that were down around his ankles. He sat on the floor to untie his boots, leaving Phoebe free to lose her underwear as she ransacked the cabinets and drawers, searching for …

Found ’em.

Phoebe tore a condom free from the accordion-pleated strip, and turned to find Ian back on his feet. He pushed between her legs as he lifted her up onto the counter of the sink—good thing she’d moved her glasses or she’d be sitting on them—and simultaneously took the little square package from her, opened it, covered himself, and slammed himself inside her with lightning speed.

“This,” he said, as she wrapped her legs and her arms around him, trying to move him even closer, because as good as that felt, it wasn’t enough. “Oh, God, Phoebe, this. This is what I wanted, what I needed. Right here. I just f*cking wanted to jump ahead to now, to skip all that bullshit with the cargo, and the Dutchman, and Aarie and Shel.…”

“I know,” she told him. “Me, too. I know.”

After the cargo had been moved from the truck to the yacht, Vanderzee had pulled Ian aside to let him know that he would not be comfortable if Aaron and Shel joined them on their ocean journey.

A bit earlier, he’d asked Phoebe if the two men were brothers, and she’d told him that they were Ian’s brother and brother-in-law—which could have been interpreted in a number of ways. But no doubt he’d figured it all out when he saw Aaron and Shel sharing a very nonbrotherly kiss.

She knew that Ian had had to tread very lightly in the face of the Dutchman’s prejudice. They’d come too far to blow up this mission at this late stage—and Ian had said very little in response. He’d simply left Aaron back on shore with Shelly.

Which was probably exactly where Aaron wanted to be.

Still, Phoebe knew Ian was not pleased by having one fewer teammate aboard the yacht. And when Ian had glanced at her while discussing this with Vanderzee, she knew exactly what he was thinking—about the man’s child brides, and the way he disposed of them. And he was uncomfortable?

But Phoebe also knew that Ian was thinking, too, about those kidnapped children, and the mother who was probably going mad with worry.…

So he’d done what he’d had to do. He’d kept Aaron on shore, but he wasn’t happy about that.

Ian was, however, much happier now.

Phoebe kissed him as she moved both with him and against him. God, this felt so unbelievably good.

But then Ian picked her up—effortlessly. When was the last time that had happened? But he was stupid strong. And even though the muscles in his shoulders and arms stood out, and even though the effort of lifting her expanded them from huge to gigantic, he didn’t seem strained or winded or uncomfortable in any way as he carried her into the shower, and stepped under the spray.

It was a little too cold, and she gasped and then laughed, because it felt so good after the heat in the warehouse, after the fear-induced sweat that had dripped down her back while she’d smiled reassuringly at the Dutchman while praying that Ian didn’t get himself killed.

He lifted his chin and let the water stream onto his head and face, opening his eyes—still so startlingly blue—to look at her, water beading on his ridiculously long eyelashes.

He breathed, “Jesus, I’ve been wanting to do this since …”

Phoebe nodded, breathless, too—barely able to speak. “Me, too.” Ever since they’d shared the shower more platonically at the Dutchman’s house.

She was trying to create more of that mind-blowing friction, but he held her so tightly. Without proper traction, her movement was restricted and minuscule. Just enough to tantalize and torment.

Ian smiled at her efforts through half-closed eyes.

“I need to start doing more sit-ups,” she said.

“No,” he told her, “you don’t. You’re perfect.”

This moment. This moment. This was the one that she wanted to slow down, so she could remember it, always.

The water, warmer now, streaming down her breasts.

The slickness of his skin, the delicious feel of him heavy and hot inside of her.

His eyes, his smile fading as he tried to show her he was serious. You’re perfect.…

“You are, too,” she whispered back. And he was—not that he was perfect for everyone. Not even close. His language was atrocious. His sense of humor was a mix of sophisticated and purely juvenile. He was, admittedly, a thief and a liar—a con artist, no matter how extraordinary and artistic his skill.

But tomorrow, when he brought those two children home to their mother—that would not be the first time he’d used his talents and notoriety to make the world a better, safer place. And she also knew that it wouldn’t be the last.

He was far from perfect. But for Phoebe …?

She’d never before met a man more fascinating, intriguing, and infuriatingly perfect for her.

Ian was standing there, holding her, looking into her eyes as if trying to see inside of her, but then he shook his head and said, “I don’t really know what to do with you.”

Keep me around, she wanted to tell him. Don’t push me away. Write to me from prison. Let me visit. And please, please, come find me when you’re out and finally free. But she was afraid—not just of scaring him, but of scaring herself with the weight of those words.

Instead, she leaned in close and whispered in his ear just what she wished he would do to her, right here, at this moment, using words she knew he’d enjoy but that she rarely, if ever, said aloud.

“Well now,” Ian said, laughing. The expression on his face was one of pure delight. It was good to know he was that easy to please. “And you’re blushing. That’s just too f*cking great.”

And with that, Ian backed her up against the shower wall, providing her with the traction that she needed. And with his mouth, hands, and the exceptionally large part of his body that had an equally large variety of rather rude and silly nicknames, all of which made him laugh when they tumbled from her apparently pristine lips, he made her wishes come true.

* * *

Even a root canal eventually ended.

Everything awful always did.

So Ian knew that this dinner with the Dutchman, too, would end.

It helped if the time spent was subdivided into more easily manageable segments. He’d already survived drinks, appetizers, and the main course, all served by Deb, as their stewardess.

All that was left now was dessert. After that, the remainder of this four-hour segment of this job would be easy, as they all went into their private cabins for a rest. The excuse—and it was a good one that would also act in Ian’s favor on the return trip—was that while this yacht could travel at an impressive thirty-seven knots, holding on was involved while at high speeds, as was shouting over the engine and the wind.


The ride, as on any boat, was always less rocky down below.

And even if this super-luxury yacht had an impressively even keel, their pilot—a former U.S. Navy Special Boat Squadron guy and current alphabet agent going by the bland name “Captain Bob”—could make it as bumpy as Ian needed it to be.

As Vanderzee drank his wine, he told a long and self-indulgent story of his last visit to Paris. And Ian watched Phoebe pretend to be fascinated.

She sat with her chin in her hand, wearing a dressy black top complete with plunging neckline with her jeans and flip-flops, hair down around her shoulders. She was beautiful, and it wasn’t hard to follow the very same advice he himself had given her, just a few short hours ago, while they were in the car that Shel later destroyed.

Don’t think about the fact that Shel had nearly died, or that look on Aaron’s face when he thought he’d lost him. Think about Phoebe. In the shower. Think about doing, about feeling. Think about pleasure—not pain and fear and loss.

Think about the way Ian had made them so late to dinner that she’d had to rush to dry her hair and get dressed, about the way he’d grabbed her and kissed her before they’d gone out that door together, about how oddly right it had felt when she’d slipped her hand into his as they’d walked into the dining room.

Mr. and Mrs. Dunn.

Phoebe turned, right at the moment he was thinking that, to look at Ian with an expectant smile, and he realized with a start that their guest had finished his story and asked them a question.

How long had they owned this yacht?

Um …

In prep, Ian had been given a massive amount of information, including the make, model and year of the Lady Mysterious, as well as floor plans and photos of the contents of her storage lockers. He remembered that there was a travel Yahtzee and a backgammon board in the living room lockup—bottom shelf on the left—but when it came to the year this yacht had been built, his mind was blank.

Phoebe saved his pathetic ass, laughing as she said, “He’s zoning out, he’s so tired, poor Ian. The Lady’s relatively new for us, but Eee’s had similar boats for quite a few years, right, baby?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “When we’re in Florida, we make this trip south pretty regularly. It’s our little home away from home.”

Deb came in then, carrying a tray with tea and coffee, and Ian was again struck by how young the FBI agent had made herself look. Her clothes were pure Vegas hooker, but she’d purposely done her makeup and hair in such a way as to make herself appear to be in her teens. No doubt she’d paid attention to the story Ian had told about Vanderzee’s preference for underage girls.

And sure enough, the man was watching her now.

“I’m sorry, where are the facilities?” the Dutchman stood up as he asked Deb.

She smiled as she made sure the tray was secure. “Right this way, sir.”

Hamori, Vanderzee’s man, stood, too—he’d been sitting by the door throughout the meal. But now he followed Deb and Vanderzee out of the dining room. He stood in the passageway, waiting, as his boss took a leak in the nearest head.

Deb came back in to finish removing the mugs from the tray, and in a low voice she told Ian, “We’ve got weather coming in. A pretty big squall. Small-craft warnings, the whole thing.”

Ian’s first reaction was Jesus, we can’t catch a break. But then he realized that they had, in fact, caught a Christload of breaks to date, even despite the multitude of screw-ups. The fact that they’d gotten this far was pretty damned miraculous.

“It’s not going to disrupt this leg of the trip,” Deb informed them quietly. “But it’s definitely going to delay our departure.”

And that was not okay. They had to leave Faux-Cuba, as Martell called it, around two hours before sunrise or the charade wouldn’t work.

“Delay it for how long?” Ian asked, bracing himself.

“Right now?” Deb said. “Too long. But it’s weather. With luck it’ll change.”

“Can we go around it?” he asked. “Even if we take a little longer to get back. If we approach Miami from the east …?”

“We’re working on it,” she told them, even as she shook her head no. “In a few minutes, I’m going to come back in, and suggest you move below as we increase our speed. After you’re settled, I’ll bring fresh towels to your cabin. We’ll talk contingency then.”

Ian nodded. “Okay.”

At the sound of Vanderzee opening the bathroom door, Deb went back to the galley, and Ian realized that, at some point during their conversation, Phoebe had reached over and taken his hand.

She gave his fingers a squeeze, but then let him go as Vanderzee sat back down and started fussing with his coffee. Hamori, meanwhile, reclaimed his seat just inside the dining room.

Both these men were armed and dangerous. That was too easy to forget. No more zoning out.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” the Dutchman said as he stirred milk and sugar into his coffee, “if you insist on working, always, with your brother.”

And here it was. A question Ian was hoping this man wouldn’t ask. He looked over to find Phoebe watching him, and he knew she was going to say something—it would be hard for her to stay silent—so he shook his head, just slightly, and she closed her mouth and waited.

Vanderzee took a sip of his coffee, and as he put his mug down, he looked over at Ian, his eyes cool. “You know, if he were my brother, living in my country, he would have already been put to death.”

“I did know that,” Ian admitted. It was the moment of truth. He knew it was entirely possible that what he said in response would mean life or death for those two kidnapped children and their mother. And he would have told any lie, said anything to ensure their safety, but his instincts were screaming for him to be bluntly honest here. In fact, he was certain that this was a test, and that for him to lie and bow to Vanderzee’s archaic ideology would actually prevent them from moving further along in this game they were playing.

So Ian took a deep breath but waited until Vanderzee looked up at him again before he said, “My brother and his husband, both, are two of the bravest, most honorable men I’ve ever worked with. I trust them not just with my life, but with the life of my wife, who is the most important person in the world to me.”

He glanced over at Phoebe, who had no idea what he was doing, but was clearly ready to cheer him on. When we’re with the Dutchman, you are so f*cking in love with me, he’d told her. She was doing a damn fine job of it, right down to the pure adoration he could see brimming in her eyes.

“Aaron and Sheldon are, both, valuable members of my team,” Ian continued. “You know, Georg, I raised my brother.”

“I did not know,” the man murmured.

“I took care of him. Our mother died, and our father … had many problems. I was in charge of Aaron, pretty much from the moment he was born. Making sure he had food to eat, and a place to sleep. And I knew, early on, that he was special. I didn’t know he was gay until … Well, it was after I was twelve, at least. Because when I was twelve—he was five—he got sick. He had such a high fever he started having seizures, which scared the hell out of me. I knew I had to get him to the hospital, but my dad was so drunk he was nearly unconscious. Somehow I woke him up, and when the ambulance came, I got him in there with us, and we all made it to the ER. Aaron was put on intravenous antibiotics, which saved his life, and all night long, I just kept nudging my father awake to talk to the doctors and nurses. And then I pretended that he didn’t speak English, so he didn’t have to, you know, put words together in an intelligible sentence.”


Ian was aware that Phoebe was listening to him, too, quite possibly with even more intensity than the Dutchman.

“That night, there was one nurse in the ER who saw through my charade,” he continued. “She was the only person who cared enough to sit down and really talk to me. I remember she brought in sandwiches and cookies, and when she saw me starting to wrap them up, so that I’d have something to give Aaron later, she brought me more, and made me eat some of it myself. She told me that there was a rule when you’re flying on a plane, that if something bad happens and you need oxygen, and the masks drop down from the bulkhead, you’re supposed to put the mask on yourself first, and only then tend to the other people around you. Because if you don’t take care of yourself, then you can’t take care of anyone else. I don’t know—that doesn’t really have anything to do with this story, but I’ve just always remembered that. It made sense to me, and I remember because of that, I liked her. I didn’t like a lot of people when I was a kid, but I liked her. A lot. Her name was Susan”—he glanced at Phoebe, and he knew she recognized the name as belonging to the woman Aaron had lived with when Ian first joined the Navy—“and she tried to talk me into meeting with someone from child services, but I wouldn’t. I was afraid they’d split me and Aaron up, and I wasn’t going to let that happen. I pretended that my father’s condition was a fluke, a rare occurrence, and I’m sure she didn’t believe me, but … she let me have that. She told me her work schedule—she mostly worked nights—and she said if I ever needed someone to talk to, or something to eat, that I should come by, because the sandwiches were free. She was lying, but I was twelve. What did I know? I took her up on it, a lot, over the next few years. And sometimes when I went over to the hospital, I brought Aaron with me.

“And one day we were in the cafeteria with Susan, and Aaron went back up to the line to get an apple, and she looks at me and goes, Did you know that sometimes boys fall in love with other boys, and that that’s okay? And I didn’t know it at the time, I didn’t put it together, but she was talking about Aaron. She knew, even back then. She saw him. And one day, maybe a few years later, when I looked at him, I saw him that clearly, too. And I knew she was right. Aaron was who Aaron was—and how could that be wrong?”

Vanderzee opened his mouth to tell him, no doubt in detail, but Ian stopped him by raising his hand.

“It doesn’t matter,” he told the man. “You believe what you believe, and your idea of truth is not going to change my mind. But here’s something that might help you understand where I’m coming from: He’s my brother. I have always protected him, and I always will. Likewise, as I said before, I would trust him with my life. And with Phoebe’s life. And you probably know me well enough to recognize that I do not say or take that lightly.”

Vanderzee looked from Ian to Phoebe and back, and he said, “You’re a man of strong convictions.”

“He is,” Phoebe said, reaching over again to take Ian’s hand.

And then Vandezee said what Ian hoped he would say. “I like that about you.”

* * *

The second dock could’ve been Cuba.

Especially in the dark.

Nestled in a remote cove, way south of Miami, it was a little worn out, a little run down, and a whole lotta overgrown.

Martell had changed into his richie-rich expat partner clothes—a very nice green-and-yellow Hawaiian shirt worn open over a snug-fitting beater and a leather-holstered Browning. He wore another nine millimeter, a Colt—more ornate—at the waist of his cargo shorts, which he was grateful to be wearing with action-treaded sandals after the long-pants sweat-fest in the warehouse.

Especially considering that the humidity was now hovering at about a billion percent.

Francine and Yashi were dressed as his minions, and okay. Color him a graphic-novel-reading, sci-fi/fantasy-loving geek, but he was enjoying having minions. Especially one wearing what Francine had on, which was kind of a cross between Lt. Starbuck and Buffy from season eight, when what was left of the Scooby Gang went paramilitary high-tech.

She was a walking armory with handguns holstered everywhere—not to mention her sharply muscular arms, which looked like they should’ve been registered as weapons, too. She wore jungle-print cammie cargo pants stacked over masculine boots, and the mix of that with her blond cheerleader’s ponytail, her womanly bosom accentuated by her no-frills olive tank, and a mouth that looked soft and inviting, regardless of how tightly she clenched her teeth …

Yeah, it pushed all the right buttons for Martell, and he found himself revisiting last night’s bathroom encounter and imagining a different scenario and outcome.

And then, because there was not much else for him to do while in wait mode, he imagined Francine on one side of him, and Deb, in her full goth ensemble on the other, each more capable and kickass than the other …

“Help me make one more check of the truck.”

Martell looked up to find Francine standing over him, hands on her hips. “Yes, ma’am.”

She offered him a hand up, and he took it, not surprised to find that she was strong enough to haul him to his feet with very little help on his end.

“I thought Yashi was in charge of that,” he added as he followed her back down the dock to the clearing that was barely big enough to hold the beat-up and ancient cargo truck, to which the FBI agent had affixed a Cuban license plate.

“He is, but you have eyes, too, so let’s use them,” she said.

“I’m not sure what I’m looking for,” Martell said, as they walked around the truck.

“Anything thing that says You are not in Cuba.”

“Yeah,” Martell said, “but if my buddy and his boat drop in regularly from Florida, it stands to reason that the Starbucks cup on the floor came from a care package.” But the truck was clean, at least of trash, both inside and out. The only things on the bench front seat were an unopened box of Cuban cigars and a pile of audiobooks on cassette tape—a nice touch that said, Yes, you’re in the middle of nowhere.

“The cigars are your gift to Vanderzee,” Francine told him. “Should you choose to give it. Have you come up with a reason for why you’re understaffed?”

Sheldon was supposed to have been one of Martell’s minions, but thanks to the SNAFU at the warehouse, the Dutchman had already met him. That was one of the limiting parts of running this kind of an operation. When things went south, people got used up at a crazy-fast pace.

It was why Francine had been so adamant about Martell not pulling that bag off his head at the warehouse. If he had and Dutch had seen him, suddenly Yashi would be playing the part of Dunn’s expat partner, with Francine as his army of one. Unless Martell slapped on a Rastafarian wig and some sunglasses—but that would’ve been risky.

“Yashi recommended I go simple,” Martell told her now, “and say the bulk of my army’s out protecting the perimeter, making sure none of my neighbors stumble onto us. Plus, I figure I could add that it’s best if the fewest possible of my peeps get a glimpse of Ian and his yacht. This op is trusted eyes only.”

She was nodding. “That’s good.”

“This whole thing is kinda like adult cosplay,” he said, and then quickly word-stumbled all over himself to add, “And as that came out of my mouth and I heard it, I realized that there probably is something called adult cosplay, which no doubt means something else entirely, something adult as in triple X, which is not at all what I meant and—”


“I knew what you meant,” she said with a smile. “It’s okay. You’ve already established yourself as not-a-dick.”

“Yeah, but I’m fully capable,” Martell confessed. “Of being a dick. I’ve been a dick. And it’s actually kind of weird for me, that you seem convinced that I’m not, so …” He was babbling again, so he changed the subject. “What does it mean for you, that Manny’s dead?”

Her smile was gone. “It means Davio’s unleashed.”

“Do you think Berto’s right, that Davio somehow killed Manny in, what did he say? A power grab?”

Francie sighed. “If Davio found out that Manny and Berto had some kind of alliance going—an agreement that didn’t include him—which they did, because he’s a f*cking nutjob … Yeah. It’s possible. And it affects Ian most of all. He may resort to … other means of taking down Davio, like …”

“Killing him?” Martell suggested.

She didn’t confirm, but she also didn’t deny. She just kept going. “Like things he couldn’t do before, because Manny would’ve then come after him—after all of us.”

“Things like … sending Davio to jail for rape?” Martell asked.

Francine didn’t understand, so he clarified.

“I’ve been wondering why Davio is still walking around after what he did to you,” he said. “The statute of limitations on sexual assault takes a very long time to run out—”

Francine cut him off. “You really think I didn’t try to press charges after it happened?” she asked. “I did. But my mistake was that I didn’t go the police or to the hospital the very same night. I showered, and I waited because I wasn’t thinking—I just wanted to stop hurting, and when I finally went, there was no DNA evidence. There were only my cuts and bruises—and my word. Which wasn’t enough, because Davio got to the police ahead of me. He claimed I’d fallen in with the wrong people, that I’d gotten involved with drugs, that I’d started stealing from him—money and jewelry and alcohol. The necklace I always wore, it was my mother’s … The police detective, she actually took it from me, to return to him. Then she told me to walk out of there, because Davio apparently wasn’t willing to press charges, but if I persisted with this nonsense, he probably would.”

Dear God. Martell did the only thing he could do. He put his arms around her. “I’m so sorry that happened to you,” he told her. She was stiff and unyielding, until he dropped a kiss on the top of her head and said, “It’s unjust and unfair and … You deserved better.” That seemed to wake her up, and she hugged him back, almost fiercely, as if no one had put their arms around her like that in a good long time.

“Hey, guys?”

They both looked up to see Yashi, heading toward them from the surveillance van—now blue—that was down at the end of the driveway, parked so that the dirt and pebble path was blocked off from any traffic.

“Sorry, but I need you in the van,” Yashi said. “The storm that’s coming in is bigger than we thought. There’s going to be a delay before the yacht can make its return trip, which could be trouble. We’ve got Ian on a scrambled signal—he wants to brainstorm possible Plan Bs.”

* * *

“There are plenty of very good reasons why an American couple and their guests should not go wandering about Cuba in the middle of a stormy night,” Aaron pointed out testily from the surveillance van back on shore. “Arrest by the government for illegal entry into the country being a biggie.”

Phoebe was on board the yacht, sitting on the bed in the cabin she shared with Ian. He was pacing as they spoke to the other team-members via secure connection. Deb was in there with them, sitting in the room’s only chair.

Instead of putting the call on speaker, they were all tied in via their headsets and mics—so that they could hear over the sound of the yacht’s engine, and speak relatively quietly.

Vanderzee’s cabin was not that far away. And Hamori was even closer, sitting in the passageway outside his boss’s closed door, constantly on guard.

“But when night turns into daylight?” Deb asked. She looked tired. “It’s going to get harder to keep Vanderzee confined to the yacht. He’s not exactly a rule-follower.”

“Nuh-nuh-no,” Ian said. “No way can we delay our return trip for nearly twenty-four hours, until tomorrow night. That’s not an option. If we’re that late, he’d need to call to let his people know, and how do we do that? No. We have to leave as soon as we can.”

And yet, at the same time, they couldn’t depart from Faux-Cuba after daylight, since it would be obvious that they weren’t heading north, simply from the position of the sun.

And if you didn’t set a northern course to the open sea when departing from the north coast of Cuba, well, then you were obviously not in Cuba. It wouldn’t take the Dutchman long to figure that out.

Shelly was crunching the numbers to figure out the dead-last split-second they could leave—not just by sunrise, but before that ghostly predawn twilight time when the soon-to-be-rising sun first lit the horizon. It was like one of those horrid math equations that Phoebe remembered from school. If a yacht sailed at its top speed of thirty-seven knots, and the total travel time of its journey was to be no less than four hours …

“So we’ll have to distract him,” Francine’s voice cut through, clear and calm. “Keep him in his cabin.”

“Make sure he’s sleeping,” Phoebe suggested, because it stood to reason that if Vanderzee’s eyes were closed, he wouldn’t be able to see the sun. And if he were in his cabin, Hamori would be planted, absolutely, outside it in the porthole-free passageway, too. “Is there something we can give him? Slip an Ambien, or shoot, even just a heavy antihistamine in his drink? We can open a bottle of wine to celebrate our departure …?”

“He’ll know it,” Ian said. “If not in the moment, then the next morning. I’d know it, if I’d been drugged.”

“Me, too.” Deb and Francine both said it at once.

“He’ll wake up and wonder what we’re hiding,” Ian told her. “We don’t want that.”

“So maybe we don’t slip it, then.” Phoebe was unwilling to give up on her idea. “Maybe, because of the waves from the storm, it’s going to be rough passage. So we give him something like Dramamine, to keep him from getting seasick. Only we tell him that he’s gotta take it before he gets sick—we tell him it won’t work after he’s nauseous, so he has to take it before we depart? And P.S. it’ll make him feel drowsy?” She looked from Ian to Deb and back, but neither seemed impressed.

“What if he refuses?” Deb asked. “Besides, do we even have anything to give him?”

“I can send Aaron and Shelly to the drugstore,” Yashi’s voice came through clearly.

Ian vetoed that. “No.”

“Davio’s not a threat if he’s being held—” Aaron started to say, also from the van.

“Assuming he’s still being held,” Ian pointed out as he continued to pace. “And even if he is in temporary custody, that doesn’t mean he hasn’t got his men on full alert, sweeping Miami for the two of you.”


“And you,” Aaron countered.

“But I’m not in Miami, am I?” Ian said, his hand up on the back of his neck as if he had a headache. “And you’re not going to the drugstore.”

“Then I’ll go,” Yashi volunteered.

Martell spoke up, his no way heavy in his tone. “And suddenly, if you don’t get back in time, I’m down to Francine as my security force? She’s kickass, but that’s stretching belief.”

“There might be something like Dramamine already on board,” Deb said. “I can check, but again …” She shook her head. “That’s a pretty risky Plan B. Will Vanderzee take it? Will it affect him? You know, it doesn’t make everyone fall asleep.”

“Give him three,” Yashi intoned. “It will.”

“But what if, instead, he’s extremely susceptible?” Deb countered. “And he’s still unconscious when we pull into port? That could be awkward, too.”

“So we go with distract,” Francine said from the van, in a voice that implied she, for one, had made up her mind. “I’ll come back with you, on the return trip. When we reach the point of no return—right before the sun’s about to rise—I’ll bring a tray with a nightcap to Vanderzee’s room, and I’ll make it clear that I’m a part of the special delivery.”

“No freaking way.” Martell’s voice was up a full octave in his outrage, expressing exactly what Phoebe was thinking.

Francine, however, sounded impervious to his disbelief. “I’ll make sure the shades are down and that he doesn’t come out of the room until we’re safely heading back north. We can set up some kind of signal so I don’t have to stay in there longer than I have to.”

Phoebe looked at Ian, who was silent, but was shaking his head no. Thank God.

But Deb was watching Ian, too, and she said, “She’s right. That would handle the problem. Easily. But it should be me. I mean, I’m already on board, and … it’s pretty much what I’m dressed for—”

Yashi cut her off, sounding as if he’d finally gotten his heart rate up. “That was not my intention.”

“Nor mine,” Ian said.

“I’m sorry,” Martell said from the van. “But are we actually discussing—”

“Yeah, well, Vanderzee’s already let me know that he’s a big tipper,” Deb told them, cutting Martell off, “should I care to, how did he put it? Provide service for his personal needs.”

“Oh, ew, really?” Phoebe said, and as Deb nodded, she added, “This is not okay.”

“But it might be the only way,” Deb countered. “And I should be the one to do it. I’m who he’d expect to knock on his door. Plus unlike Francine, I’m not in a relationship.”

“Whoa, wait, what?” Martell’s voice came back as Yashi made noise, too.

“I still don’t like it,” Ian said, rolling right over all of them. “Phoebe’s right, it’s not okay.”

“Yeah, like you’ve never used sex to distract,” Francine’s voice was tinged with disgust. “If the weather doesn’t clear, it’s our only viable option, and you know it. Deb offered. She’s a grown-up and she’s willing to do it. I’m pretty sure this is not her first time at the rodeo.”

Dear God. Phoebe looked at Deb, who was studying the toes of her shoes as she nodded her agreement. This may not have been her first time at the rodeo, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to hate it. Every awful, hideous second.

“Shelly, what’s our dead-last possible time of departure?” Ian asked.

“I’m … still double-checking,” Shel said, sounding vague and distracted. “But it’s sometime around … four seventeen A.M.”

“Then let’s hope,” Ian said, “that the weather clears well before oh-four-seventeen.”

* * *

The rain had just started when the Lady Mysterious pulled up to the dock.

Martell went on board, where there was a flurry of greetings and introductions, even as the cargo began to be off-loaded into the beat-up and ancient truck.

“I feel bad we can’t help,” Shel said.

“I don’t,” Aaron said. He and Shelly were stuck in the surveillance van, watching and listening as the rain drummed on the roof and soaked both Yashi and Francine, who were out in it, in Faux-Cuba.

After the yacht had left the first dock, Aaron had helped Shelly clean his massive collection of cuts and scrapes—the worst being a gash above his eyebrow that probably should’ve had stitches. Instead, in lieu of surgical thread, he’d done the best he could with a butterfly bandage, all the while fervently thankful that Shel had been struck only by pieces of rock and brick and glass, instead of actual bullets.

Still, going out into the rain would’ve stung like hell, bringing a new level to the grim misery that Francine and Yashi were enduring with the help of the yacht’s “crew.”

Martell, meanwhile, was being his usual charming self as he shook off the wet and greeted the Dutchman, box of cigars in hand.

The surveillance van had both video and audio up and running, so Aaron and Shel could watch as well as listen as Martell expounded on the magnificence of his invisible personal army, lurking out in the dark jungle. They would, he said, “protect the cargo ferociously on the next phase of its journey.”

Vanderzee was interested in learning more. Aaron could see the man’s curiosity on his face.

Shel saw it, too. “Come on, baby, bite …,” he murmured.

Vanderzee did, asking, “And where, exactly, will it go from here?”

“Exactly is a trade secret,” Martell told him with a warm smile. “More generally, it will travel via one of my trucks to one of my airfields, where a jet is currently waiting. It flies from here to … let’s say, North Africa, where the buyer will collect it, and pay the remainder of his bill. Half up front, half on receipt.”

“And do you ever move cargo out of the U.S.,” Vanderzee asked, “from an interested party who will send their own jet to your airfield, and pay upon receipt at that point?”

Martell’s smile broadened. “Making it easier for us? That would be a hell-yeah, with a big high five.” He turned to Ian at that point, and Aaron winced because now he sounded as if he were delivering lines. “I assume your crew has told you about the bad weather moving in? It’s going to hover offshore and force you to delay your departure by a few hours. I am sorry about that.”

Ian’s smile was expansive and hid his horror at the fact that Martell suddenly sounded like an actor in really terrible porn. Of course, he was also hiding the trepidation Aaron knew he felt about Deb whoring herself out for the sake of the mission. “The day you can control the weather,” Ian said easily, “is the day we no longer have to work for a living.”

“Since we have this extra time, I would love to see your airfield,” the Dutchman told Martell. “And perhaps your home.”

And Martell froze.

“Come on, come on,” Aaron muttered. “Lotta reasons why that’s a no-go. This shouldn’t be that hard.”

It was Phoebe who saved him, stepping forward from where she was standing behind Ian. “Oh, please, no,” she said. “Martell lives up near his field. It’s lovely but …” She turned to Martell. “You know I love you madly, darling, but making that drive—four hours,” she turned back to tell Vanderzee, “in good weather. It’ll take us six in the rain. All the way up into the hills, on treacherous roads, no thank you. Ian and I are staying here.”


“Jesus, she’s good,” Shel murmured.

“Yup,” Aaron said, as Ian jumped in.

“The weather’ll clear long before we could get there and back,” he told the Dutchman with just the right amount of apology in his voice. “Maybe some other time.”

“I’d like that,” Vanderzee said, even as he turned and obviously tracked Deb, who entered, carrying a tray with coffee mugs and glasses of whiskey.

“That’s not at all creepy,” Sheldon said.

“Imagine being Deb,” Aaron countered, and when Shel met his eyes, he felt a rush of gratitude. “I’m very glad you’re not dead, by the way.”

Shelly smiled back at him, before returning his attention to the computer monitor and the video feed. “I’m feeling pretty glad, too.”

Phoebe was playing the hostess, herding them into the yacht’s living room, encouraging them to “Sit down, please, sit down.”

Ian did sit, pulling her onto his lap, where she pushed his hair back from his face before she sweetly kissed him.

“Eee’s in love with her,” Aaron told Shel, who nodded his agreement. “And just watch. Ten to one, he’s gonna f*ck it up.”

* * *

As Deb served coffee, Martell tried to catch her eye. He was sitting in the living room of the luxury yacht with Ian, Phoebe, and the pedophile serial killer that Deb was maybe going to sleep with, for the sake of the mission.

His disapproval and disbelief must’ve been coming off of him in waves—how could she even think about bumping the extrauglies with that nasty turdnozzle—because she refused to meet Martell’s gaze as she held the tray in front of him, even when he took his sweet time, deliberately shoveling spoonful after spoonful of sugar into his mug. In fact, she finally just picked up and moved on with that spoon still in his hand—she simply jammed a clean one into the sugar bowl.

Apparently the not-looking-at-him thing was intentional.

And when Francine came into the room, dripping wet and carrying that briefcase filled with money, Ian signaled for Deb to leave, so she did. Again, looking past Martell, her eyes aimed at a distant point on the wall.

Ian, meanwhile, was looking pointedly over at Dutchie as if expecting him to adios his man Gollum, too. The message being, Shit’s about to get real, Georg. Or secret. Or private. Or whatever.

And sure enough, Golly shuffled on out of the room, as did Francine, who went back outside to help finish humping the boxes off the boat in the rain.

Unlike Deb, Francine did meet Martell’s gaze with her spooky, pale-colored eyes, nodding very slightly as she went past him, and closing the door tightly behind her. And he had the very non-Christian thought that if anyone could survive close-your-eyes-and-think-of-England-style sex with a psychopath, she could. In fact, Dutch himself might not live through the punishment Francine could surely deliver.

But hey, now everyone was looking at him expectantly since he was in possession of the briefcase. So Martell cleared his throat and forced a tight smile before presenting the damn thing—ta da!—to Ian.

Ian met him halfway, shifting Phoebe off of his lap. He took the briefcase—motherf*cker was heavy, and it showed—over to a table where he clicked open the two latches, and yes, there it all was. Rows and rows of neatly stacked bills, filling the case. Ian made sure to give Dutch an enticing flash as he pulled out the packet that contained the 20K he’d requested separately. None of the bills in that bundle were newspaper. Martell had double-checked and even smelled it to be extra sure.

“I appreciate the work you did, the effort you went to,” Ian told the D-man as he handed him that 20K with a flourish. “I know we didn’t use your contact, but really it was just luck that Martell’s guy came through.”

“It was unexpected,” Martell agreed as D-bag tried not to make it obvious that he wanted to rub the cash all over his body as he counted it. “I thought we were screwed. It’s good to know we had access to an alternative solution. And it’s always good to make new friends.” He turned and lifted his eyebrows at Ian. “You gonna get those crazies back in line, up in Miami? End the drama for once and for all?”

“Yes, I am,” Ian said, adding, “and I apologize again for that … drama.”

“It was handled swiftly and courageously,” Vanderzee said with what he probably believed was a gracious nod, even as he pocketed his packet of cash.

There was silence for a moment then, and Martell looked over at Ian. It was highly unlikely that the Dutchman was going to approach them here and now about his need to move those kidnapped kids out of Miami, so when Ian nodded, he stood up. “Well, I’d better get on the road,” he said. “Six hours home.”

“Maybe the rain’ll let up, and you’ll make it in four,” Phoebe said, rising to her feet so she could kiss him good-bye, her lips cool against his cheek.

Martell didn’t envy her—having to spend another unknown amount of time with Mr. Creepy and his boy.

“Before you go,” the Dutchman said, and they all turned to look at him.

Phoebe, who had a mad sense of how to do this kind of playacting turned her pivot toward Vanderzee into intention and movement. She glided across the floor toward Ian, and took the briefcase gently from him, murmuring, “I’ll put this in our room, in the safe,” before adding, “I’ll give you gentlemen privacy to talk business.”

And with that she swept out the door, closing it tightly behind her.

Dutch cleared his evil throat and said, “I have a friend who has a very important package that he needs to move from Miami. However, the cargo is special, with very special needs.”

A friend. Dude had a friend. Was that really how they were gonna do this? Martell couldn’t speak for fear of laughing or maybe throwing up as a picture of this creature with Deb again flashed through his head—but then he didn’t have to speak, because Ian played it like the total pro that he was.

“You’ve seen the yacht,” Ian told him. “Do you feel we could handle the cargo’s needs?”

“I do,” he said.

“May I ask the value?” Ian said. “Because it may not be worthwhile for … your friend. With the payments we need to make for the authorities to look the other way … We’d have to receive at least a million. More if the cargo … shall we say breathes? That makes it more dangerous to transport.”

The Dutchman didn’t blink, so Martell tried not to either. “The cargo will be crated appropriately. Labeled as antique furniture.”

“Label or not, if there are extensive delays—and there sometimes are—it could get complicated,” Ian pointed out.

“The condition in which this package arrives at its destination is allowed to vary,” the man told them, and weren’t those words to make their blood run cold. Dude was essentially telling them that his client—the children’s father—didn’t particularly care either way if the kids were dead or alive when they showed up on his palace doorstep. In other words, what he really wanted was to take them away from his ex. He’d kidnapped them to deliver punishment to their mother, not for reasons—misguided ones—of fatherly love. “Of course, the condition affects my friend’s payment, but only by a million dollars. Perhaps if you agree to split that, in order to guarantee the cargo’s safe arrival …?”


“So a million five,” Ian clarified, looking to Martell as if for his agreement. “Assuming, of course, the cargo arrives alive. A flat million if it doesn’t.”

Martell chose his Buddha face as his response, which Ian, of course, took as a yes.

“I think we could agree to that,” Ian said, ending the conversation by standing up. “Check with your friend, and let us know. Take your time—no rush. I’m not going anywhere.” He reached out and shook Martell’s hand. “You, my friend, better get our current cargo safely home.”

D-bag stood up.

Don’t make him shake his hand, don’t make him shake his hand … ugh.

Vanderzee shook Martell’s hand.

But then, unlike Ian and Pheobe and Deb, Martell was free to leave. In fact, he had to leave. He lingered as long as he could, looking for Deb, but she was nowhere to be found. Francine, however, was waiting for him, and there was nothing left to do but follow her out into the rain, and dash down the dock toward the truck. He let her take the wheel, climbing into the passenger side as he shook the water off his shirt and tried to wipe his hand clean on his shorts.

“There is not enough Purell in all the world,” he told her.

She shot him an amused look. “Trust me, I know the feeling.”

And now the ugly picture that flashed through his head was of Francine. Younger. Vulnerable. First with Davio. Then, assaulted a second time as she faced the police detective’s flat disbelief.

As she pulled away from the dock, heading down the dirt drive toward the surveillance van—which would remain on site until the yacht departed—she said, “I hope the weather clears.”

Martell nodded. “I do, too.”

* * *

The weather cleared.

Well, it didn’t so much clear as it shifted—far enough to the west so that they were able to leave the dock at a little before four A.M.

Phoebe was still awake when Ian came into the cabin to give her the news. He’d been up on the bridge, obviously trying to mind-control the weather, but now he could finally get some desperately needed sleep.

He yanked off his clothes and crawled into bed, pulling her close and exhaling the awful worry she knew he’d been carrying.

Phoebe hadn’t helped him at all. After Martell left the yacht, Vanderzee had vanished into his cabin to try to get some sleep. Ian had gone to their cabin to tell Phoebe that she should do the same.

She hadn’t been able to keep herself from pulling him inside to offer potential solutions. “If he’s in his cabin, sleeping, then he won’t know exactly when we started for home. We can tell him we’ve been traveling for hours.”

Ian had sighed as he’d sat down on the bed. “Hamori will know. Unless you think he’ll believe we set the engine on the stealth glide setting.”

Okay, so that wouldn’t work. Still …

“Hamori can’t see out a window,” Phoebe had pointed out. “So why don’t we shove off, and just motor back and forth across this cove?”

“And if Vanderzee wakes up and looks out the porthole …?” Ian flopped onto his back on the bed, feet still on the floor. “And if he does, we won’t know it. He’ll just vanish with our twenty thousand dollars—and those kids. He’ll cut his losses and kill them. Easier to ship them that way. He only loses a million bucks.”

That was an awful thought, but still, Phoebe had to say, “I don’t want Deb to … do that.”

He turned to look at her. “Bad enough so you’d sacrifice the lives of those children?”

“That’s not fair.”

Ian sighed again. “I know. It’s not.”

“Would you let me do it?” Phoebe asked.

His answer was immediate. “No.”

“Then—”

“She’s a trained operative,” he said, sitting back up. “You’re not. She’s willing, for the sake of the mission—”

“But you’re in charge,” Phoebe countered.

“Yes, I am,” Ian agreed. “And I wouldn’t make her do it, if she didn’t want to.”

“She doesn’t want to,” she countered.

“Yes, Phoebe,” Ian said as he stood up. “She does. She wants to, more than she wants to tell Dr. Vaszko, sorry, we lost her kids. Jesus Christ! You think I don’t f*cking hate this?”

He’d stood there, with his heart and soul in his eyes, before making her promise to lock the door behind him, while he went up to the bridge to watch the radar.

“You were right,” Phoebe whispered to him now. “About letting Deb make her own choices, about what’s more important. I just found it impossible not to think maybe there was a solution that we’d overlooked.”

“I know,” Ian said, kissing the side of her head.

“I was lying here thinking I’m guilty of being sexist,” she whispered. “That it’s somehow okay when James Bond does it—sleeps with someone in order to learn the secret code, but then I realized that I kind of hate James Bond. Probably because he sleeps with people to learn the secret code.”

Ian sighed, and his breath moved her hair and was warm against her face in the darkness of the cabin. “Just ask me.”

She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Had he ever …? Would he ever …? Was he currently making the best of a bad situation; was he using sex to handle or control her?

But in the space of her hesitation, his breathing had steadied and slowed—he was already asleep.

So Phoebe closed her eyes, too, well aware that with every passing hour, her time left with this man was ticking down to zero.

* * *

After the yacht finally left Faux-Cuba, the surveillance van headed back to the other dock.

They had four hours to kill.

Francine had already staked out the space beneath the console in the back. She’d curled up under there and had been asleep for a while.

Martell was in the front seat beside Yashi, who was driving. Shel was still working on the computer, and Aaron was in the back passenger seat.

Martell could tell that Yashi was exhausted. He was working it, hard, to stay awake.

So Martell said, “Thank God, right?” To keep Yashi awake through conversation.

“I’m glad to be moving on to the next phase,” Yashi said.

“No,” Martell said. “I mean, Deb. Does she really do that shit?”

Yashi glanced at him. “She’s dedicated.”

“That’s not dedicated,” Martell said. “That’s f*cked up.”

Yashi was silent.

“I thought you and Deb were. You know.”

Yashi did know and he answered succinctly. “Nope.”

“And you never wanted to …?”

Yashi’s eyebrow went up as he waited for Martell to end his question with a verb.

Hit that. He didn’t say it, instinctively knowing that that kind of disrespect would get him hit. Damn, if someone else said that to him about Deb, he’d hit them.

Instead, he tried: “Wrap her in a cuddly fleece blankie and keep her safe? Make sure she never had to do stupid shit like have sex with psycho turdnozzles?”

Yashi shrugged. “And then what?” he asked. “She’s tougher and smarter than both of us, and she’s very good at her job. Most of the time she keeps me safe.”

Martell persisted. “And you’ve never slept with her, not even accidentally?”

That got him another eyebrow. “How exactly would that happen accidentally?”


“I don’t know,” Martell said. “I’ve had some pretty strange accidents happen. You’re with her, twenty-four/seven.”

Yashi just shook his head.

It was clear he wasn’t going to say more, so Martell asked, “So what’s the next phase of this thing? The yacht returns to the dock, Dutch and Hamori get their cell phones back, take that twenty grand, and go home.”

He’d overheard arrangements being made, so he knew that there would be a hired car waiting at the dock, to drive Vanderzee back to his house. Ian didn’t want to drive him—he wanted a little separation. Not just for a chance to breathe air that had no trace of the man’s noxious evil, but because the guy needed to walk away with all that money. It was part of the psychological game of building and reinforcing trust.

It reminded Martell of that stupid saying: If you love something, set it free … Except this had nothing to do with love, and everything to do with greed.

“When Vanderzee gets home, he’s going to check his messages,” Yashi told him, “and find out that Dr. Lusa Vaszko’s name is on the manifest of a flight leaving Miami for Rome.”

“She’s not really,” Martell started.

“Nope. Ian wanted Vanderzee to think that both Dr. Vaszko and the U.S. authorities believe that the kids have already left the country—that they’re already in K-stan,” Yashi said. “The idea is to make Vanderzee believe that he’s under less scrutiny—make him feel like now’s the right time to try to move those kids.”

Which was when Ian—with his hair on fire—would call Vanderzee and announce that he’d just found out that Berto had died from his wounds, and that now Davio would be gunning for him harder than ever. The threat was dire enough for Ian and Phoebe to make immediate plans to leave the country—via their tried-and-true route to Cuba.

So, hey there, Georg-y boy. If you want to ship your friend’s “special cargo” via the Ian Dunn luxury yacht express, it’s now or never, baby.

At that point Ian would take Berto’s giant and safe-seeming truck, and pick up the Dutchman’s crated package from its point of origin, which was probably going to be the K-stani consulate. Ian and his brother would load it into the back of the truck, lock the doors, wave good-bye, and drive it not to the yacht, but to FBI headquarters, where Dr. Mommy was waiting.

Check and mate, motherf*cker.

“Dutch is gonna be pretty pissed when the dust settles,” Martell said.

“After we have the proof that he’s involved with this crime,” Yashi said, “i.e., the missing children in his crate, he’ll be deported. Permanently.”

“Not thrown in jail?”

“Can’t have everything,” Yashi said, as they drove into the night.