“It’s time to go,” the suited man ordered her in a genteel British accent, as if inviting her to a party.
She refused to move-couldn’t move.
The Brit sighed and motioned to his companion.
He came forward, roughly grabbed her elbow, and dragged her out the door. The Brit followed them across the short passageway and up the ladder to the stern deck.
There, she found only more horror and chaos.
The captain and his two crewmates, along with a pair of the assailants, lay sprawled in pools of blood. The attackers had been shot; the yacht’s crew hacked, dismembered by the sheer force of the brutality.
The surviving assailants gathered atop the deck or off in a scarred boat tied to the starboard rail. A handful scoured the yacht, hauling out cases of wine, bagfuls of supplies, stripping anything of value. They were all black- skinned, some bearing tribal scarring, many no older than boys. Weapons bristled among them: rusty machetes, antique-looking automatic rifles, and countless pistols.
Pirates.
Under the moonlight, freshened by the evening’s southeasterly trade winds, her mind cleared enough to allow despair and bitter guilt to creep in. Out here in the Seychelles, she had thought they were far enough away from the Horn of Africa to be safe from the modern-day pirates who hunted those waters.
A dreadful mistake.
She was shoved toward the moored boat, accompanied by the Brit. She had read somewhere in her father’s briefings about how a few European expatriates had taken to aiding and financing the profitable new industry of piracy.
She stared at the British man, wondering how he had managed to avoid getting a single drop of blood on his pristine suit amid all this carnage.
He must have noted her attention and turned to her as they reached the starboard rail.
“What do you want with me?” she asked, fixing him with a hard stare, suddenly glad that all the papers aboard hid her true identity. “I’m nobody.”
The Brit’s gaze lowered from her steely resolve-but not out of shame or remorse. “It is not
7:00 P.M. EST
Takoma Park, Maryland
Balancing a bag of groceries on his hip, Gray pulled open the screened back door to his family’s home. The smell of a baking pie, rich in cinnamon, struck him first. On his way back from the gym, he got a text from Kenny to fetch some French vanilla ice cream and a few other odds and ends needed for tonight’s dinner-the first family dinner since the tragic loss of their mother.
A glance at the stove revealed a large pot of bubbling Bolognese sauce; by the sink, a drying bowl of spaghetti in a strainer. A hissing pop drew his gaze back to the pot. Only now did he note the vigorous boil to the sauce. Unattended and forgotten, red sauce roiled over the lip, dribbled down the sides, and sizzled into the gas burner.
Something was wrong.
That was confirmed when a loud bellow erupted from the next room:
Gray dropped the groceries on the counter, turned off the stovetop, and headed to the living room.
Passing through the dining room, Gray joined the fracas in the living room. Overstuffed furniture was positioned around a central stone hearth, cold and dark at the moment. His father looked skeletal in the recliner by the picture window. He’d once filled that same seat, commanding the room. Now he was a frail shadow of his former self.
Still, he remained strong. He attempted to push out of the chair, but Kenny held down his shoulders. He was assisted by a petite woman with a brownish-gray bob, dressed in blue scrubs. Down on one knee, she held his father’s hand and urged him to be calm.
Mary Benning was an R.N. at the hospital’s memory-care unit. During his stay there, his father had taken a shine to her. Gray was able to hire her away, to serve as a night nurse here at the house, to be on hand when his father had the most trouble. The plan had been for Kenny to keep an eye on Dad during the day, until Gray and Mary could interview and hire a day nurse to cover a full twenty-four-hour shift. It would be expensive, but Director Crowe had arranged adequate compensation, a death benefit, to help cover the costs and keep Gray’s father in his own house.
“Harriet! let me go!” His father yanked his hand free of Mary’s, coming close to elbowing Kenny in the nose.
The nurse kept a hand on his knee and gave it a squeeze of reassurance. “Jack, it’s me. Mary.”
His eyes found hers, a confused look passed over his face, then he sagged as memory washed back over him.
Mary glanced at Gray. “Your father caught you pulling up with the groceries. Saw the Thunderbird. Just got a little panicked and confused. He’ll be fine.”
Kenny straightened, a stricken look on his face. He’d not really seen Dad get like this before. Shook up, he stumbled away.
The motion drew his father’s attention. His eyes got huge. “Kenny, what’re you doing here?”
Kenny didn’t know what to say, still stunned by the Swiss cheese that was his father’s memory.
Mary covered for him, not hiding the truth, only patting his knee. “Jack, he’s been here all day.”
His father searched their faces, then leaned back in his chair. “Oh, yeah, that’s right… I remember…”
But did he? Or was he only acquiescing in an attempt to feign normalcy?
Kenny shared a glance with Gray, glassy with shock.
“I’d better get back to finishing your dinner,” Mary said, standing and dusting off her knee.
“And I’d better finish unpacking,” Kenny said, seeking a hasty retreat.
“Good idea and wash up,” his father ordered with an echo of his former bluster. “Your room’s up-”
“I haven’t forgotten where it is,” Kenny cut him off, blind to the callousness of such a remark to someone suffering from Alzheimer’s.
But his dad merely nodded, satisfied.
As Kenny stepped away, his father finally seemed to notice Gray standing there. The confusion on his face faded, but a stab of old anger took its place. It had taken his father almost two weeks to finally acknowledge and ultimately remember the death of his wife, so, to his mind, the wound was still raw. He also knew the source of that loss.
A knock at the door startled them all. Gray tensed, expecting the worst.
Kenny, already headed to the front stairs, opened the door.
A lithe figure stood out on the porch, dressed in black leather and a loose motorcycle jacket over a maroon blouse. She carried a helmet under one arm.
The gloominess of the day lifted at the sight of her as Gray headed to the door. “Seichan, what are you doing here?”
His father interrupted. “Don’t leave the lady standing on the stoop, Kenny!” He waved the visitor inside. He might be losing his memory, but he knew a handsome woman when one landed on his doorstep.
“Thank you, Mr. Pierce.” Seichan entered, slipping inside, moving with the leonine grace of a jungle cat, all sinew, muscles, and long curves. She cast an appraising glance toward Kenny as she stepped past him-whatever she saw there, she found lacking.
Her eyes found Gray’s face next and visibly hardened-not in anger, more like protection. They’d barely spoken since they’d shared a kiss and a promise three weeks ago. The pledge was not a romantic one, only the assurance that she’d work alongside him to expose those who had a hand in his mother’s murder.
Still, Gray remembered the softening of those lips.
Was there more to that promise, something yet unspoken?
Before he could dwell on it further, his father pointed to the table. “We’re just about to sit down to dinner. Why
