Do or Die Reluctant Heroes

Phoebe slept through it.

The arrival back at the dock.

Vanderzee’s departure in a car that was waiting to take him home.

The high fives Ian gave to the men in the surveillance van, to Team Martell, to Deb, and to the yacht’s captain for a job well done.

Phoebe had slept through Ian’s shower, too, not even waking up when he brought her breakfast in bed.

It wasn’t until later in the morning—not much later, because it apparently all happened very fast—that Ian woke her with a gentle shake to her shoulder.

She opened her eyes, and there he was, already dressed, her first clue that he’d been up for hours.

“Hey,” he said, from his seat beside her. He was smiling with all of his being, not just his face, his mouth, his eyes.

Phoebe smiled back at him—it was impossible not to. “Hey.” But then she sat up fast. “Oh, no! Vanderzee!” She threw back the sheets, ready to leap into the shower.

“It’s okay,” Ian said, catching her arm. “You’re good. He already left. He sends his thanks for a lovely blah blah blah”—he pitched his voice slightly higher, and more nasal, adding the trace of a northern European accent—“bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.”

She laughed, pulling the covers up and around her as a shield, because he not only made himself sound like the Dutchman, he also somehow made his eyes look like the other man’s. “That was a very good impression of him.”

“I know.” His smile of delight banished all remnants of evil as he graciously nodded his thanks. “I’m glad you noticed. So many of my talents are overlooked.”

She seriously doubted that, and she laughed again even as she verified, “He’s really gone?” She pulled back the covers again, this time slipping out of bed and heading into the bathroom.

“Yep.” He raised his voice a bit so she could hear him in there. “Drove away. In a car we arranged for, so we’ve also been tracking it. He didn’t stop, didn’t double back. In fact, he’s almost home.”

“Oh, thank God. I was dreading having to be all air kiss, air kiss, except he wouldn’t air kiss, and then I’d have to go take another shower and scour my face with bleach.” She flushed and washed her hands, grabbing her toothbrush as she glanced out at Ian.

He was leaning back on the bed, and she realized that he was relaxed. Not pretend relaxed. Really relaxed. And she realized why, with an equal rush of relief.

“Deb must be in a rockin’ good mood, too,” she continued, moving to stand in the doorway as she brushed her teeth, stopping to add, “Walking around like, Yes, I totally did not have to screw the child molester! FYI, that’s going to continue to freak me out for a while. For years. Probably somewhere between three and five.”

“Me, too.” Ian smiled back at her, his appreciation for her naked rant brimming in his eyes as she went back to the sink to spit and rinse. “But, shh. Don’t tell anyone else. I don’t want to ruin my reputation as a heartless a*shole.”

Phoebe put her toothbrush not back on the wall hanger, but into her très chic carrying case—a tired plastic Publix grocery bag. At some point today, they’d have to pack up and leave—so the feds could return the Lady Mysterious to its marine-rental owners.

“So are we in wait mode?” she asked, coming back to join Ian. Now that she was morning-breath-free, she had no qualms about getting in his face. She did just that, straddling his lap and pushing his head and shoulders back onto the bed to kiss him.

His hands slid up her bare back, and he sighed his pleasure as she deepened the kiss, licking her way into his mouth. “Mmm,” she lifted her head to say. “Coffee.”

“I brought you some,” he told her. “It’s on the desk. Because no, sadly, we’re not in wait mode. Vanderzee already called back. We’re go.”

Phoebe sat up. “Seriously?” But she could see from Ian’s eyes that he was dead serious. And relaxed. And relieved. “So this ends today?”

She realized as she said those words that she wasn’t just talking about the impending rescue of those surely traumatized children, for whom this probably wouldn’t ever end. They’d carry the memories of their fear and suffering with them forever.

Likewise, Phoebe would forever carry her memories of this time with Ian.

Which—he was nodding yes—was going to end today.

“I’m going to leave you here,” Ian told her, “with Captain Bob. When you’re ready to go, he’ll get you back to the safe house, where he’ll stay with you for the duration. You know, along with Rory, and Johnny Murray and his kid. Plus, there’ll be FBI outside. Now that we know for sure that we’re not illegally entering the consulate, we’ve got access to even more manpower. You’ll be safe.”


“Oh my God,” she realized, “you’re leaving now.” This was good-bye.

As he nodded, Phoebe was acutely aware that she was completely naked and he was not. And yet she couldn’t seem to move.

“I wish I didn’t have to,” he told her. “But everything’s moving fast. I have to go pick up the truck and organize the rest of the team—get everyone into place.”

“I want to go in the surveillance van,” she said.

Ian was already shaking his head as he gently extracted himself from beneath her and stood up. “There’s no point,” he said, not unkindly. “There’s nothing for you to do. You’ll only take up space.”

“Vanderzee will expect me to be with you,” Phoebe countered, even as she put back on the clothes she’d been wearing the night before—anything not to have to stand there naked. Vulnerable.

“I’ll tell him you’re still here,” Ian said. “On the yacht. Getting ready to head for Cuba.”

“If I were getting ready to leave on a major trip,” she countered, “I’d be packing our things from wherever it was we were staying. In Miami. Where Davio’s allegedly looking for us. And FYI, if Davio really was looking for us, you would not leave me alone. Not in the house, not on the yacht, not with a fox, not in a box. I’d be in the van, Sam-I-am—he knows we have a surveillance van. And that’s where I’d be—where he’d expect me to be. Close enough for you to reach me, if you needed to protect me. If you really loved me.” Her voice broke on that last part, and she knew she was screwed. While he’d been running a con, she’d gone and stupidly fallen in love.

She could see in his eyes that he knew damn well she was right about the van, and she turned away to gather up the rest of their things, just scooping and stuffing into the leather bag that was monogrammed with his initials: IJD.

As she saw that, it occurred to her, inanely, that Ian’s middle name was John. She’d seen it in his file, and only now realized that his name was, essentially, John John Dunn, since Ian was the Scottish version of John.

“Look, I just want you to be safe,” he told her as she went into the bathroom to sweep their toiletries into her grocery bag and then stuff it into the leather case. “And I know you will be safe with—”

“If I’m in the van,” Phoebe told him, dropping the leather case onto the floor at her feet, as she brushed her hair back into a ponytail, “I can wave to him from the window. Give him a thumbs-up. If he asks where I am. If he doesn’t, great, but if he does … we’re ready to give him a visual.”

“A visual,” he said. “You don’t, under any circumstances, get out of the van.” He laughed as he said it. His relaxed and relieved demeanor was gone, replaced by frustration, vexation, and ire. “Who the f*ck am I kidding?”

“I promise I’ll stay in the van,” Phoebe said. “I did the right thing at the warehouse, didn’t I? I’m not an idiot. I’ve learned. A lot. From you. And I’m good at this. I am, and you know it. There’s not nothing for me to do. I can help Shel on the computers. I want to be on the headset, listening in, in case there’s a detail that we’ve overlooked. I want to see this through.”

* * *

Aaron had to go in the truck with Ian, to collect the Dutchman’s cargo.

He knew that his brother didn’t like that—that he’d prefer Aaron stay safely in the surveillance van with Deb and Yashi and Phoebe.

But there was really no one else who could help Ian move the heavy crate.

They were close to certain that they were picking the thing up from the K-stani consulate, and neither of the FBI agents could be seen near the place. They had to stay well outside the grounds due to fear of a dreaded international incident, which was limiting.

And since Ian had supposedly left Francine, his usual second-in-command, back in Faux-Cuba with Martell, neither of them could suddenly appear here with Ian in Miami. Even with a heavy disguise, that would’ve been too risky.

So that left Aaron.

Who was actually glad for some alone time with his big brother.

The plan was to go to Vanderzee’s residence and connect with his bodyguard Hamori, who would lead them to the cargo’s location—which had yet to be disclosed. Vanderzee was keeping that info close to his vest—although, again, they all believed the pickup point was the K-stani consulate.

After the cargo was in the truck, Hamori would then follow them to the yacht—see that it got loaded safely on board. Vanderzee would meet them there, at the dock, and they’d all set sail for Cuba.

Except for the part where Hamori would be overpowered and arrested as teams of FBI agents took possession of the truck and its cargo, freeing those children and reuniting them with their mother. And the part where Vanderzee showed up at the deserted, yachtless dock, getting the ugly-ass surprise that he’d been stung before he, too, was descended upon and taken into custody by another team of FBI agents.

Aaron hoped someone would be wearing a helmet-cam, so that he could see the stunned expression on the Dutchman’s face.

But that was yet to come.

Ian was tightly wound as he climbed into the truck next to Aaron and he put the thing into gear.

“You sure I don’t need a disguise?” Aaron asked as the big rig groaned and moved forward. “A baseball cap with a sewn-in mullet, and an I love p-ssy T-shirt?”

Ian didn’t crack a smile. “No,” he said shortly. “He knows you work for me, and that I trust you, and because of that, he trusts you, too.”

“How progressive of him,” Aaron said. “Speaking of progress, I couldn’t help but notice how both you and Pheebs decided to wear your matching sets of grim today. It’s adorable.”

Again, nothing.

They drove in silence for a while before Aaron said, “What’d ya do, freak yourself out because now that Manny’s dead, there’s really no good reason to go back to jail, so suddenly you’ve got to find another excuse to break up with her?”

The look Ian shot him was practically audible and just short of a physical skull duster. A brain-rattling one. But Aaron kept going, because it had to be said.

“Shel and I figured out why you were in jail,” he told his brother. “You made a deal with Manny to serve time for some bullshit crime that Vince committed—getting into a bar fight and trashing most of the cars in some roadhouse parking lot. Yeah, I really believe you were out getting ’faced that night with your buddy Vincent Dellarosa. Hmmm. What’s wrong with that picture? Let’s start with the fact that you don’t drink.”

“It was a simple deal,” Ian admitted. One thing about Ian was that once he was busted, he copped to the truth. “If I pled guilty to the charges against Vince, Manny would keep Davio away from you.”

“But you only did it because you knew the Dellarosas had a solid-gold reputation of protecting the people who went to jail for them. Families are taken care of. Money’s paid. And mouths stay shut,” Aaron said. “So there you were, working for Manny, knowing that we were safe, because if we weren’t, word would get out that they’d reneged on their deal, and their whole system would crumble. And that’s how you were going to take them down. You were going to, what? Find someone else inside the prison, and flip them? Get them to turn state’s evidence against Manny and Davio?”


Ian glanced at him, and this time Aaron knew that it was only because Manny had died, that he admitted it. “Yes.”

Aaron nodded. “I wish you’d told me,” he said.

“Yeah,” Ian said on a sigh. “I know. I gotta work on that. On treating you like an adult.”

And there was an admission he’d never thought he’d hear.

“So what now?” Aaron asked. “With Manny dead?”

“I don’t know,” Ian said, and Aaron called him on his bullshit.

“The answer to What now, with Manny dead, is easy: Find Davio, and kill him.” Aaron looked at his brother. “Of course, you do that, you risk going back to jail, this time forever, and this time for something you really did do. And that is definitely not something you want to tie Phoebe to.” And there it was. One of the reasons for Ian’s case of grim. “You break up with her yet? For her own good, of course. Jesus, you’re an idiot.”

“Just … stop,” Ian said, pulling the truck into a still-attractive but aging residential development that had been built on a former citrus grove.

Aaron didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this Brady Bunch ideal of normal.

“Turn on your headset,” Ian ordered as he did the same. “Ian here, testing.”

“I’m here, too,” Aaron chimed in.

“Read you both loud and clear from the surveillance van,” Yashi’s voice came back as Ian pulled the truck up in front of one of the houses.

“Same from car one.” Shel’s voice came through clearly, too. He and Francine and Martell were following them in Martell’s car, which Shel and Francine had jerry-rigged with some of the equipment from poor deceased van number one. Since there was only one way into this upscaleish neighborhood, they were hanging back, out by the main road.

“I’m going up to the house,” Ian said, telling Aaron, “Keep the truck running. This shouldn’t take long.”

The place certainly didn’t look like an evil overlord’s dominion. It was large, but not ostentatious, with a circular driveway that branched off to lead around behind the house to what looked like an additional detached garage. There were two cars parked in front of the house. Both large and dark.

Phoebe’s voice came through their headsets, saying what they were all thinking: “Ian, be careful.”

“Always am,” Ian said, telling what Aaron knew to be another in his vast collection of bald-faced lies.

* * *

It started out innocuously enough.

The Dutchman greeted Ian expansively, graciously, gracefully even. Niceties and pleasantries and condolences were exchanged—all of which Phoebe heard loudly and clearly in the surveillance van, courtesy of Ian’s headset microphone.

“So sorry to hear about Berto,” Vanderzee said, seemingly sincerely. “If there’s anything you need done locally while you’re away …”

Ian cut to the chase. “No, we just need to get out of town. So if your guy is ready, I’d really like to get moving—pick up that package.”

“There’s been a slight change of plans,” the Dutchman said.

“Here we go,” muttered Deb, who was behind the wheel.

“Give him a chance,” Yashi said from the back, then covered his microphone to reassure Phoebe. “Ian’s very good at thinking on his feet. He’s adaptable—fully capable of a midsprint pivot. If he needs to change the plan, he’ll do it, and whatever he comes up with will be just as good.”

Phoebe knew that. Quite well. In fact, she’d come face to face with a variation on that theme when she’d first gotten into the surveillance van and heard Deb and Yashi discussing the fact that Manny Dellarosa had died.

She’d been stunned, not just by that information—when? how?—but by the fact that Ian hadn’t bothered to tell her. Not even in passing.

And then her head started spinning. How did this news affect Ian’s plan to return to prison? What did it mean for his future? Apparently, whatever the answers to those questions were, Ian didn’t think they had anything whatsoever to do with Phoebe.

And that had stung. Rather sharply.

Phoebe tried to tell herself that it was an oversight. What was it that Ian had said? One goatf*ck at a time.

Still … Hey, guess what? With Manny dead, I’m going to have to deal with Davio in some other way, so maybe we could plan to hang out together for a little bit longer than anticipated. Ian surely could’ve found fifteen seconds—possibly in the shower, while they were having sex—to tell her that.

If he’d really wanted to.

Out on the driveway, Vanderzee was now telling Ian, “I’m uncomfortable putting such a high-value item into your care without collateral.”

“Hamori’s going to be with me,” Ian pointed out. “Right behind me, in your car, every step of the way. If you think I can outrun his car with my rig …” He laughed his warm, familiar laugh, and Phoebe became acutely aware of how easy it was for Ian to sound both warm and familiar.

“That’s not the issue,” Vanderzee said.

Ian continued, “Hell, he can ride along in the trailer, sitting on top of the cargo, if he wants.”

“That’s not good enough,” Vanderzee said.

Ian slipped a little testy into his tone. “I’m doing this as a favor. I should be well out at sea by now.”

“You’re doing this for the one point five million dollars,” Vanderzee corrected him. “I’m not asking a lot. Just some insurance, until we meet at the dock. I promise I’ll drive very safely. Phoebe will be well taken of.”

“Oh my God.” Phoebe realized then what it was that the Dutchman wanted to keep as collateral while Ian went to the consulate and picked up the crate that held those two kidnapped children.

He wanted her.

Ian was absolute. “I’m sorry, that’s not going to work.”

“It’ll be for an hour, at most,” Vanderzee cajoled.

Around Phoebe, in the van, Yashi and Deb had already leapt into action. Both were working the computers and making frantic phone calls. Over her headset, she could hear Shel, who was in Martell’s car, too.

Deb: “Do we still have the dock?”

Yashi: “Can we get the yacht back—fast? Has it even left yet?”

Deb: “Is there a place where snipers can hide, in position, at the dock?”

Shel: “I’m pretty sure there is—Aaron, what do you think?”

Aaron, who was waiting in the truck: “I think it’s possible, sure, but it’s for shit. No way is Ian going to agree to this.”

Yashi: “Could this conceivably work?”

Deb: “Absolutely.” She was certain.

Ian spoke—both to Vanderzee and Deb. “Not a chance.”

Phoebe said, “Talk him through it. Ian, maybe this will work. Just listen. Deb, go.”

“Once we get the crate safely into the truck, taking out Hamori will be easy—we can do that almost anywhere,” Deb said, walking through the potential scenario. “Dunn can demand that Vanderzee take Phoebe immediately to the dock. We’ll put snipers in place there, and as soon as they arrive and Phoebe gets out of his car, we can take down Vanderzee and however many men he’s got with him. They won’t know what hit them.”

Ian spoke clearly and distinctly. “No deal.”

“That’s a shame,” Vanderzee said, “because this is the only way. This cargo is far too valuable …” He kept going. Yada yada yada, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. He sounded so much like the imitation that Ian had done earlier, droning on in the background, that Phoebe nearly laughed.


“We’ve still got both the yacht and the dock,” Yashi reported. “That’s confirmed. The entire crew can be FBI.”

“They can be Navy SEALs,” Deb chimed in. “As long as we’re nowhere near the consulate, we can bring in the whole freaking Marines as part of the task force, if we need to. This can work, Ian.”

Phoebe knew what Ian was thinking. What if on arrival, Vanderzee didn’t let her out of the car? “I’ll pretend I need to use the bathroom. We’re friendly. He’ll let me go.”

“Nuh-uh,” Ian said.

“We can truck the crate all the way to the dock, if we have to,” Yashi continued, theorizing other scenarios. “We can even put it onto the boat—wait to do the takedown until we’re out on the water—seriously, we could bring in a SEAL team for that. Assuming we don’t have a clear and safe opportunity before then.”

“Lookit,” Ian told Vanderzee. “I don’t have to do this. I don’t need the money. I thought I could help you out of a tight spot before I left town. But no way am I going to give you my wife as collateral.”

“Well, I’m sorry we can’t do business, then,” the Dutchman said, and their chance of rescuing those two children slipped from a sure thing to a wipeout.

And Phoebe couldn’t let that happen. She just couldn’t.

She knew Ian was going to be furious. He was going to be livid. And he’d have every reason to feel that way. Worst of all, he would probably never, ever trust her in the future.

Because she had to break her promise to him for the second time in just a few short days.

But, really, losing Ian’s trust didn’t matter, considering they had no future. They’d agreed as much.

And fifty years from now, when she looked back on this day, what would matter more? The fact that she’d helped save those children? Or the fact that she’d pissed off some man with whom she’d had an extremely passionate but short-term fling?

Saving the children won that one by a mile.

So Phoebe did it.

She got out of the van.





Phoebe. F*cking. Got out. Of the f*cking. Van.

And there she came, running up the driveway toward Ian and the Dutchman, waving and smiling a sunshiny greeting, as if they were neighbors in some zany sitcom and she’d popped over to borrow some sugar.

“I was in the van,” she explained, “and since your headset’s on, I kind of heard what you were saying, and Ian, baby, I really don’t mind—”

“Yeah, but I do, baby,” Ian said, hoping that she could tell from the crazed look in his eyes that there was no f*cking way in f*cking hell that he was going to leave her with the f*cking Dutchman as f*cking collateral. He turned to Vanderzee. “I’ll be your collateral. Aaron will drive the truck. He and Sheldon will—”

Vanderzee cut him off. “The men in possession of the cargo have been told to expect you. It’s too late, at this point in time, to change that, not without my going with you to its location. And as we discussed over the phone, I can’t do that. Just as there are those who are looking for you, there are those who are looking for me.”

“And they haven’t found you here?” Ian asked, gesturing around them, because that’s what he would have said, were this real. “Are you telling me that I’m gonna be followed, all the way to the dock, because that’s not—”

“Of course not,” the Dutchman said soothingly. “This is a safe location, unknown to my enemies.” The man honestly believed that—it was said with complete conviction.

Ian gave a silent, inward salute to the FBI, even as he worked to fix this goatf*ck. Step one. Get Phoebe’s ass back in the van. “Get your ass back in the van,” he said to her. “Honey.”

She smiled sweetly up at him. “I don’t want to. Sweetie.”

Ian turned to Vanderzee. “Well, that’s good to know, about this location being safe. But you can’t just call your people and say there’s been a change of plans?”

“If I do, they’ll believe I’ve been compromised, and they’ll take measures against your … people, when they arrive. I assure you, you don’t want that.”

“It’s really okay,” Phoebe told him. “We’ll drive right to the Lady.” There were two cars parked out in Vanderzee’s circular driveway, and she motioned to them. “We’ll go to the dock right now, right, Georg?” She didn’t wait for him to respond. “I’ll just get in, no big deal. We’ll drive over and we’ll wait for you there, along with Captain Bob and the rest of the crew.”

All of whom would be FBI agents, already there and in place. Along with a team of snipers, who were currently moving into position. Phoebe’s subtext was clear. Ian knew that. He got it. It was the drive from here to there that was the problem.

Meanwhile, Phoebe was looking at him like no was no longer in her vocabulary. She wanted to rescue those kids, he knew that, and she was willing to risk everything to do so. Ian admired that. He truly did. But there was no f*cking way …

Still, there weren’t many options. If he couldn’t be the collateral … Francine, Martell, and Yashi were all out, because they were supposedly in Cuba. There was Deb, who worked as a stewardess on his boat. If she suddenly showed up here, Vanderzee might get suspicious.

Might? Try would, as in definitely.

That left Aaron and Shel.

Aarie was obviously thinking the same thing, because he got out of the truck and came partway up the driveway to suggest, “I could go with Phoebe. You know, head over to the boat with her and … Mr. Vanderzee.”

Ian hated that idea. But he hated it less than letting Phoebe spend any time alone with this douchebag.

Unfortunately, the douchebag wasn’t down with that. “I find that unacceptable,” he murmured.

Of course. He didn’t want Aaron—or Shelly, either, no doubt—to get any of their gay on him.

“Stay with the truck,” Ian called to his brother, who did just that, muttering about wigs and T-shirts and stupid brothers.

Phoebe, meanwhile, was unrelenting and serene. “Ian, I’ll be okay. I’ll be fine.”

“Excuse us for a minute,” Ian told the Dutchman, and pulled her back, well out of earshot. “The plan—remember the plan? Was for you to never, ever, ever be alone with him.”

“Hamori will be with us.”

He was already shaking his head. “Hamori’s taking us to the cargo. You’ll be with Vanderzee and Mr. Tall and Ugly.”

She looked at the two men standing on the Dutchman’s front steps. “With the vaguely Hitler moustache …?”

“Yes,” Ian said. “And I’m sorry, but Hitler Junior does not count as an acceptable chaperone. Neither does Hamori, for that matter.”

Phoebe looked at him somberly from behind those glasses. “Ian, if we just give up now …”

“Phoebe, I swear, I’ll get those kids out another way,” he promised her.

She lifted her chin. “Yeah? How?”

“I don’t know,” Ian admitted, “but we are not doing this. We’re going to bail. We walk away. Both of us. Together. Right now.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and she clearly was. “I can’t. If I do, I’ll never forgive myself. To be this close—”

Ian shook his head. “That was not a request,” he informed her. “I wasn’t asking. I was telling.” He drew himself up to his full commanding height. “That was a direct order.”

And Phoebe laughed in his face.

* * *

“So, what?” Phoebe asked Ian, who’d made himself all large and imposing. Like he thought he could intimidate her? “Now I work for you again? That’s convenient.”

He didn’t back down. “You’re a member of this team, of which I am the leader.” He spit the words out like bullets.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m a member of this team! I agree. And sitting like a lump in the back of a car, for a forty-minute ride to a place where I’ll be very, very safe sounds as if it’s exactly in my particular limited skill set. No grappling, no need to speak Farsi, no bomb defusing or scuba diving. I can do this. And I want to. I’m volunteering. And frankly, team leader or not, it’s not up to you to decide. I’ve already cleared it with Deb. So let’s stop wasting time, and do this thing.”

The SEAL commander standing in front of her morphed suddenly into Ian-the-lover. Her lover. She didn’t know how he did it, but suddenly he was warmer and more familiar, and the heat in his eyes spoke of shared intimacies.

“Phoebe,” Ian whispered as he took her face in his hands, pushing back the stray strands that were moving in the morning breeze, his thumbs gentle against her cheeks as he looked searchingly into her eyes. “Please. I’m begging you.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, and he kissed her.

It was beyond romantic and heartfelt. It was sweet and tender and damn near perfect, and she felt herself melting.

As he pulled back, though, he could clearly see her remaining resolve, because he went even further.

“I can’t let you do this because … I love you,” he said, blurting it out so realistically—complete with a slightly surprised look in his eyes. “Phoebe, Jesus, I really do.”

She felt her eyes fill with tears, but there was no time for that.

Ian had made his declaration loudly enough for Vanderzee to have overheard him, and Phoebe now glanced at the Dutchman, forcing a smile. “You know I love you, too, baby,” she told Ian, also loud enough to be heard as she extracted herself from his grasp. “I’ll be fine. Go pick up the cargo, and I’ll see you soon.”

As she walked toward Vanderzee, she smiled and even rolled her eyes as if to imply that Ian was an idiot. “We really do need the money,” she told the man. “We’re leaving behind an awful lot, and who knows when we’ll be back. Is it okay if I wait for you in your car?”

She felt Ian watching as the Dutchman unlocked the doors of one of the parked cars and she climbed in.

“Be at the dock in forty minutes,” he ordered Vanderzee in a voice that she barely recognized, it was so hard and cold. “You disrespect her in any way, and I will hunt you down, rip the lungs from your chest, and stuff them down your throat.”

* * *

Ian felt sick.

As he jogged back to the truck, his brain came up with dozens of SNAFUs and worst-case scenarios in which Phoebe ended up missing or dead.

This was not okay, this was not okay, this was not okay.

And yet, he knew she was right. If they walked away now, those kids would be dead before the day was out.

Ian tried to convince himself that this would work. Georg Vanderzee trusted him. He also knew from the conversation on his headset that Martell’s car was going to follow Phoebe every inch of the way. With Francine driving, and Shelly and Martell as additional backup, there was no way they’d lose her.

Aaron was silent as Ian got into the truck. But he didn’t have to say anything—Ian knew that everything he’d just said to Phoebe had been broadcast to his entire team.

And they believed him, even if Phoebe didn’t.

You know I love you, too, baby.

Jesus H. Christ.

“She’ll be okay,” Aaron dared to say.

Phoebe’s voice came over his headset. “It looks like it’s going to be about ten minutes before we leave. Georg’s in the bathroom.”

Deb spoke up. “Phoebe, we’re going to have to cut our connection to you.”

“Absolutely not,” Ian said.

“Sorry, sir, but you need to reconsider that,” Deb countered. “We don’t want Vanderzee accidentally listening in on our chatter.”

“Shit,” Ian said.

“I’m going to take that as an affirmative,” Deb continued. “In fact, take the device off and put it in your pocket, Phoebe. You can use it as a phone, to contact us if you need to, plus we can track you via GPS, if we have to. But we won’t have to. Martell, Francine, and Sheldon will be right behind you.”

“I know that,” Phoebe said. “Okay, I’m turning this off. See you at the dock.”

Click.

Ian exhaled hard.

Meanwhile, Hamori pulled the other dark car out in front of the truck, ready to lead the way to the cargo’s location—which they already knew was the K-stani consulate building.

“Keep breathing, Eee,” Aaron covered his microphone and reminded him. “I’d tell you it gets better, that you get used to it, but I sure as hell never have. Not when Shel’s in danger—even if that danger’s completely in my own head. And since I can’t lie the way you can …”

“Not helping,” Ian said as he jammed the truck in gear and followed Vanderzee’s man.

* * *

Francine was driving Martell’s car, and she had just taken the exit ramp onto the highway, staying close to the vehicle that held Phoebe, when Ian let loose with, “What the f*ck, Deb?”

He didn’t wait for a response as he continued, just as heatedly: “We’re in the same general area as the consulate, but we’re pulling up to what looks like a private home.”

“Team Martell is heading south on the highway,” Francine announced and Ian responded with a tight “Stay close to her, France,” even as he continued his conversation with Deb and Yashi, who were trailing behind his truck in the surveillance van.

“We’ve got a crate in the structure’s garage,” Aaron said from his seat next to Ian in the truck. “Repeat, large crate visible, garage door going up. Two, repeat, two heavily armed adult males nearby.”

“You said the kids were in the consulate.” Ian had about fifty pounds of not-happy in his tone as he spoke to Deb. “You confirmed that they were there.”

“A confirmation is rarely a hundred percent,” Shel said from the backseat, behind Francine. “More like ninety-two point five.”

“That’s helpful to clarify right now,” Martell said, from beside her in the passenger seat.

“I thought it was a definite, too,” Francie said.

“So where the f*ck are we?” Ian asked. “Because if we can now confirm that these kids are not in the consulate, which it sure as shit looks as if they aren’t, we can completely revamp our plan—except, f*ck! Phoebe is now in a car with two men who are armed and dangerous.”

“You’re on Thompson Avenue,” Deb said. Her voice changed, and Francine knew she was asking Yashi, “Why is that familiar?”

Yashi’s voice answered. “Thompson Ave’s in the database. They’re at the K-stani ambassador’s girlfriend’s house.”

“So now we find out that the Kazbekistani ambassador’s girlfriend’s house,” Ian repeated, and Francine knew from his tone that his head was about to explode, “is where these kids have been held for all this time. Not the don’t-touch consulate. Instead, they’ve been in a civilian’s private home. Which, with a warrant that would not have been hard to obtain, could have been raided by the FBI and local police, without any threat of international incident.”


Deb sounded stressed. “Ian, I’m so sorry, I can only tell you what I was told,” she said. “The intelligence was—”

“Save it,” Ian said shortly, “for later. Okay. We’re here. I am going to walk very slowly to that garage, while Aaron backs the truck down the driveway. Can someone please verify, with one hundred percent certainty this time, that the crate contains, at the very least, something that’s alive?”

“Already verified through FLIR-cameras,” Yashi’s voice came through. “Two human-child-equivalent heat sources are inside, two adults are outside—in addition to Ian, Aaron, and Hamori, who’s getting out of his car.”

“All right.” From the sound of Ian’s voice, Francine knew that he’d made his decision. “Let’s move forward—but new plan, kids. I’m taking the cargo all the way to the yacht.”

Ian’s original plan had been to drive the truck straight to the FBI headquarters.

“I am not going to take chances with Phoebe’s life,” Ian continued, “so Deb, make sure the FBI is ready for our arrival there. Francie, keep me updated. I want reports with your location every thirty seconds, understand?”

“Read you loud and clear,” Francine responded.

* * *

Ian was pissed.

He’d believed the intel that he’d been given, and that was his mistake. This entire sting was based on the information that those children were in the consulate, which could not be easily accessed.

Unlike the ambassador’s girlfriend’s house, which he could have entered with an entire SEAL team backing him up, weapons blazing, as they kicked down the freaking door.

Ian now approached the crate and its two stone-faced guards as Aaron—using his superior driving skills—backed the truck down the driveway, beep, beep, beep.

As Ian got closer to the garage, he stopped and just stood there, because Jesus. The crate was rigged with what looked like a complex, high-tech booby trap.

That was not good. That was extremely not good.

Aaron, meanwhile, stopped the truck with a squeal and gasp of the air brakes, and jumped down from the cab, coming around to open the back with a rattle of metal. He pulled out the tailgate ramp with another metallic groan and a crash.

“I’m Ian Dunn,” Ian said, but the guards didn’t seem to care—maybe they’d already IDed him from his picture. Or maybe it was because Hamori was now there, nodding his approval.

Nodding, and making sure that Ian saw what he was carrying—a handheld trigger mechanism, or maybe it was a dead-man switch. Either way it was obviously connected to the small mountain of C4 that was artistically arranged on that booby-trapped crate.

“Make sure you don’t lose me during the trip to the dock,” Hamori said in his K-stani accent.

Together, the two other men, Ian, and Aaron loaded the crate into the truck, careful to keep it upright and steady.

Ian pushed it to the side and strapped it in as Aaron shoved the ramp back and closed one of the doors, slamming the other and locking it after Ian jumped out.

The guards were already gone, the garage door descending, and Hamori was heading back to his car after his little show-and-tell. This time he waited for the truck to go first—he was going to follow them south to the dock.

As Ian got in behind the wheel and started the truck with a roar, Aaron was wide-eyed. “Holy f*ck. Can I say holy f*ck?”

“Houston,” Ian said, “we have a problem.”

* * *

“It’s not technically a dead-man switch,” Yashi announced from the surveillance van that was following Hamori, who was following Ian and Aaron in the truck as they all drove merrily through the outskirts of Miami. “There’s some sort of electronic signal being sent from this mechanism to the bomb that’s attached to the crate—I think it’s some kind of verification code that prevents the bomb’s timer from automatically activating. The signal is being sent every … Yup, it’s every sixty seconds.”

“That’s not good,” Martell said.

There was a bomb. Attached to the crate. That held those kidnapped kids. That was in the back of the truck that Ian was driving.

And according to Yashi, Vanderzee’s dude Hamori had to input a code into some little handheld device, once every minute, to keep said bomb from starting its countdown sequence and exploding. Like Yashi said, it wasn’t a dead-man switch, per se, but it was certainly related, in that should Hamori choke to death on his BBQ hot wings, or have an unexpected aneurism, or get struck by lightning in a freak storm and therefore fail to enter the code … Boom.

Big boom, apparently. At least according to Ian’s description of the bomb, which included the word massive.

And since Dunn was a former SEAL and therefore an expert in blowing shit up, Martell was inclined to believe him.

He listened to the now-extra-frantic chatter over the radio as he hung on with both hands while Francine pushed his little POS as fast as it could go. They were shaking and rattling and wheezing, all in order to keep up with Phoebe and Vanderzee and the man Ian had aptly nicknamed Hitler Junior.

Both cars—if you could call Martell’s a car—were in the left lane of the highway, heading south. It was particularly harrowing since the road was under construction and there was no shoulder. Instead, scarred concrete barriers loomed to their left, separating them from the traffic that rushed past, heading back to Miami.

They were still about fifteen miles from the exit for the dock—info Francine religiously passed along to Ian.

“We’re going to need a bomb squad at the dock,” Ian was saying, his voice crisp, cool, and in command. “But I think our best bet is to continue the charade. Let’s load this damn thing onto the yacht, welcome Vanderzee on board, buy ourselves at least a little time. Maybe once we’re at sea, he’ll disengage the booby trap to—I don’t know—feed the kids?”

From the van, Deb must’ve said something then, but the signal gave a burp of static and Martell couldn’t quite make out what she said.

But he did hear Ian’s response: “Are you f*cking kidding me?”

Francine said, “Repeat please. We missed that.”

Yashi spoke up. “Deb just got a call from up the FBI chain of command. Way up. This mission is being commandeered by what we believe is another agency entirely. Maybe CIA, maybe Agency, we don’t know for sure. But Ian’s been given an order to slow the truck down.”

* * *

“This is not the deal I made,” Ian said as instead of slowing down, he sped up. “This is my op. I’m in command.”

But even as he said those words, he knew they were meaningless if one of the more covert and secretive agencies was reaching in, past both Ian and the FBI, to take over the mission.

Jesus, they were on a long, flat, empty stretch of road surrounded by orange groves on one side and jungle on the other. It was textbook perfect for an ambush.

Back in the surveillance van, Deb was on the phone with whoever’d ordered her to tell Ian to slow the truck down.

“Hell, yes, I’m concerned,” she was saying. “I want to know exactly what you’re planning. I’ve got a civilian member of this team who is currently in a position of grave danger. I insist that you back the hell off and let this mission continue according to our plan!”

“Eee.” Francine’s voice came into Ian’s ear. “Shel switched me over to a private signal. You’re the only one who can hear me. He thinks you should ask Yashi directly to tell you the next time he picks up Hamori’s access code transmission to that bomb. He thinks if the Agency’s taking over, they’re monitoring that signal, too. He thinks they’re going to take Hamori out, via sniper, immediately after he sends the next signal. Shel also thinks you should slow down, or else they just might shoot you, too.”


Yashi was speaking almost simultaneously, saying the exact same thing. “Ian, I think you need to take this order to slow down very seriously. The next access code transmission will be coming in, in three, two, one …”

Ian hit the brakes.

* * *

Aaron heard the gunshots from a sniper rifle at the same time that the truck’s air brakes noisily kicked in.

He could see the dark car behind them suddenly swerve, driverless, plowing down into the swampy ditch that ran parallel to the road, and flipping and tumbling out of control.

Ian meanwhile was wrestling the truck to a full stop—as from around them black SUVs pulled onto the road. There was even a chopper, big and dangerous-looking, appearing suddenly overhead, coming out from hiding behind the brush.

Ian was shouting, “Go, go, go,” as he hauled Aaron with him out of the rig’s cab.

Commandos had already blown open the truck’s back lock, swarming into the trailer—Aaron saw only glimpses as Ian pulled him away. They ran, full out, back toward the surveillance van, which was backing up, engine whining as it worked to put distance between itself and the truck.

And the bomb.

The team of commandos had shields that were already up and in place to protect them from the blast.

As Aaron looked back, he caught a glimpse of heavily armored men in black carrying a child—limply dangling little legs—and all he could think was Holy f*ck. The sheer cojones that it had to take, to run toward a bomb that was set to blow in sixty seconds or less …

He knew he should have been counting seconds, but he wasn’t. He relied on Ian to know exactly when to dive for cover in that ditch.

And Ian did.

Ian tackled him, covering him, protecting him as he always did, as the bomb went off with a roar.

* * *

Phoebe and Georg Vanderzee were talking movies as Hitler Junior drove them south on the highway, toward the dock.

Phoebe had discovered, back during a college trip to Europe, that most people, regardless of where they came from, had watched at least a few Hollywood films. She’d also learned that there were few males over the age of eleven, who’d spent even just a short amount of time in the West, who hadn’t seen Star Wars.

And nearly every one of them had an opinion both about the ewoks and Jar Jar Binks.

Georg Vanderzee, in fact, had quite a bit to say. But he broke off midsentence, looking at his phone.

Phoebe couldn’t see his face—he was looking down—but when he spoke to the driver, it was in another language, and his voice sounded guttural.

The driver responded, and Vanderzee answered sharply.

Phoebe sat forward. “Is everything all right?”

But the driver turned suddenly—hard—to the left, with a squeal of tires, and Phoebe was thrown back into her seat, as the car slipped—barely—through an almost nonexistent opening in the concrete construction dividers.

She let out a squeak as the tail of the car noisily scraped the concrete, and then gave a full inadvertent scream as they blasted across two lanes of oncoming traffic, horns blaring. The driver somehow kept them from flipping, using the far shoulder of the highway to regain their equilibrium before merging into the lanes of cars heading north. Back into the city.

Something was wrong. Something was terribly, horribly wrong.

Phoebe resisted the urge to dig into her pocket for her headset cell phone, because there was really no one to call. Who could get here, to help her, in a moving car on the highway?

Not even Ian could do that.

And maybe if the Dutchman forgot that she was carrying a phone, Sheldon or Yashi could use it to trace her.

Or her body.

She played it as innocent. “Did you forget something back at the house, Georg?” She intentionally used his given name. “I do that all the time.…”

But Vanderzee unfastened his seat belt, and when turned toward her, his face was hard and his eyes were lit with anger.

And he was holding a gun.

He raised it, but instead of aiming and firing, he used it as a cudgel. Phoebe held up her arm to try to protect her head, but she couldn’t.

And when he hit her again, the world went black.

* * *

Ian rolled off his brother to watch the flames and smoke roiling up into the brilliant blue of the sky.

Phoebe was dead. Or if she wasn’t yet, she would be soon. Vanderzee would make sure of that.

He could see Aaron from the corner of his eye—his brother was shouting something. The blast had temporarily taken out Ian’s hearing, and sure enough, when he put his hand to the side of his face, there was blood dripping out of his ear.

Aaron was trying to get him to stand—as if there was a reason to hurry now. He pointed and gestured and soundlessly talked, and Ian obediently turned and looked. And there was the van.

Deb and Yashi had gotten out. Deb was talking—her body language that of pure fury—to one of the men in the black body armor. Yashi was coming toward them at a run, and he helped Aaron with Ian—as if he’d merely been injured instead of killed.

If Phoebe was dead, then Ian was dead, too. God, he didn’t want to live without her.…

As his ears buzzed and roared, as his hearing began to return, he heard snippets.

Yashi: “… get him into the van.”

Aaron: “I think he … hit his head. Or … impact of the blast. Either way … out of it.”

Slowly, he was improving, and when Deb came over, grimly earnest, to tell Ian, “This wasn’t me. This wasn’t the FBI. This was Covert Ops, taking things into their own hands,” he heard it all.

Aaron: “They couldn’t wait? Forty f*cking minutes for us to get to the dock?”

Deb: “I tried. I did. I’m so sorry.”

Yashi: “The kids are safe. Both of ’em. Although I suspect that’s just a bonus outcome for these guys.”

As Ian looked up, he realized they’d gotten him into the van. And somehow Deb had been given permission for them to leave the scene. She was already behind the wheel, pulling away—back toward …

Miami.

Ian knew what that meant. Vanderzee surely had some sort of alert system in place. He had to know already that the bomb had been detonated. And so he was no longer heading for the dock.

Phoebe was dead. Or she would be soon.

No way was the Dutchman going to let her live.

The only question that remained was, Would he kill her fast or slow?

And just like that, Ian sat up. The fog and the buzzing and the blur shifted and the world came back into pure, sharp focus.

Motherf*cker was going to kill her slowly. He knew it. He knew it.

And that meant Phoebe wasn’t dead. Not yet.

Ian popped his ears—Jesus, he could hear his eardrum buzzing and flapping—as he asked, “Francine?” He couldn’t get his headset to work—or maybe it was just that one particular ear that was problematic, so he took it off and turned it around. Tried it with his other ear.

Still, while he did that, he could see from Yashi’s eyes that he was going to hate whatever it was that Francine was going to tell him.

Aaron summed it up. “They lost ’em.”

Ian clarified. “The car with Phoebe.” The news just kept getting worse.

“Yeah, the Dutchman pulled a youie, in one of those breaks between concrete dividers. You know, those places they set up when there’s construction on the highway, so that police cars and emergency vehicles can turn around?”

Ian knew.

“France,” he said.

“I am so f*cking sorry,” she told him over the headset. “He made the turn so fast, we couldn’t follow, and then we were stuck on the highway until the next exit—”


“Apologize later,” Ian said. “Have you turned around yet?”

“Yes,” she said. “We’re now heading north. And I hope you don’t hate this, but I called Berto. For backup. He lives relatively close to the K-stani consulate—”

“Which is where Vanderzee would take her,” Ian finished for her. Of course. That would put them back into the dreaded FBI-can’t-kick-down-the-doors scenario.

“That’s where we’re heading now,” Deb chimed in.

Yashi added, “We’ve tracked the GPS signal from Phoebe’s headset. It cut out several miles after Vanderzee’s car pulled the youie—as if he suddenly realized she had it on her, found it, and killed it. Threw it out the window or whatever. As far as we can theorize, the consulate appears to be where they’re heading.”

“Deb’s been calling in favors,” Aaron told him, “making sure that the FBI surveillance positioned around the K-stani consulate stays live and operational.”

Ian’s team had done everything he would’ve done.

“Okay,” he told them. It was too early for him to say good job. “We’re going to have to stop Vanderzee before he gets into the consulate. Once he’s inside …”

They were back to toothless and helpless.

Francine’s voice came over Ian’s headset. “Berto just called Martell. Besides himself, he’s got six men in four cars searching for Vanderzee’s vehicle. They have a description of the make and model, plus the plates, and we got a ding. Not far from the consulate. Berto’s heading over there now himself.”

Ian could see and feel the anticipation, not just from Deb, Yashi, and Aaron, who were in the van, but from Francine, and everyone in Martell’s car, too.

They expected him to give the order—to stop Vanderzee from entering the consulate by any means necessary. Ram his car, shoot the motherf*cker, do whatever it took to stop him.

But Ian suddenly realized that, if trapped, the Dutchman would kill Phoebe on the spot.

If Berto’s men or the FBI or anyone else tried to stop him, she was dead.

“Let’s let him get inside,” Ian said, as a plan appeared, fully formed in his head—as all of his best plans did. “Let him go. But let’s make sure he doesn’t leave.”

He could see Deb and Aaron’s confusion. Yashi was too zen to react in any obvious way, but he was clearly curious, too.

Deb said what they all were thinking. “Once the Dutchman goes inside the consulate, we can’t go in after him. Even going into the parking lot next to the building is too much.”

“You can’t go inside,” Ian pointed out. “But I can. And you can go in, to assist, if the consulate comes under attack. Francine!”

“I’m here.”

“If you get there before me—”

“I’m pretty sure we will.”

“—cowboy up and wait in the lobby. Shel!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Use whatever equipment you’ve got to scan the building. Let’s try to figure out exactly where Phoebe’s being held. Once we’re inside, we’ll need to get to her, fast.” Ian then turned to Deb. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do.…”