and bare-chested, and I listened, striving to hear any telltale sound that would let me know who had invaded my sanctuary. It was possible tourists had boarded my boat, or kids from another vessel docked at the same pier. I had a
As my stomach tightened, I slipped through the narrow galley and into the carpeted lounge. There were several portholes with dark curtains in front of them. I had a wet bar, some chairs and a couch. It was comfortable, the most comfortable I’d been in four years. I’d “liberated” a hefty sum of cash to buy the boat outright. Each of my actions toward getting the money and buying the boat had no doubt collectively added up to a mistake.
I crouched by a chair, aiming my Browning at the door. Shop commandos could wear all the armor they wanted, but it wouldn’t help if I shot them in the face. I’d cover my eyes if the door crashed open. They’d toss in flash-bang grenades first, hoping to disorient me. They would be highly trained, at least as good as the Green Berets of my former A-team in Afghanistan. I’d always known this day would come. I was going to take down as many of those bastards as I could. If I could take them
A creak sounded by the door that led to the sheltered aft deck outside. My muscles tensed. Then I saw a blot of darkness under the door. It was nearly impossible keeping myself from emptying the magazine through the heavy plastic. I needed aimed shots, however, aimed shots at faces.
“Don’t let them take you alive,” I whispered to myself.
Someone tentatively tapped the outside of the door. Was that a trick? It had to be a trick.
“Gavin,” a woman called. “Gavin Kiel?”
My chest tightened. The person out there knew my name. They knew I lived here. I’d taken every precaution this time—
“Gavin,” the woman said, with a hint of desperation.
I scowled. The voice sounded familiar. How had this woman found me? I wasn’t going to find out crouched here. As I stood, I shook my head. They were playing me. The minute I opened the door, grenades would land at my feet, or they’d fire shock rounds into my chest, trying to knock me down so they could rush in and capture me.
I could send them a signal by firing a bullet through the door. I raised the gun, but hesitated. I thought I knew the voice from somewhere.
I crept to a porthole. Slowly, I pulled back a tiny portion of the heavy curtain. It was noon and the sunlight was nearly blinding. I vaguely made out the shape of a woman who looked as if she held something heavy. I mentally berated myself for leaving my sunglasses in my shirt down in the sleeping quarters.
She tapped at the door again, “Gavin. I need your help.”
I withdrew my finger from the curtain and ran a forearm across my lips. Was it possible she was alone? I hardly dared believe it. Was I going to have a chance to fix my mistake? Dear God, but I hoped that was true.
I cleared my throat, then took a combat-shooting stance before the door. “Who is it?” I said.
“Kay Durant,” she said. “Will you let me in?”
If commandos waited out there behind her, now was the moment for them to blast down the door. But if she was alone—this didn’t make sense. Kay had worked with
“You must run,” she’d told me. She’d given me five thousand euros and a Gerber combat knife. The laboratory had been in Italy outside of Milan.
I’d been running ever since. Now Kay was outside my door here in San Francisco, pleading for help. If she knew my whereabouts, others surely knew it, too.
I clicked open the lock, even knowing this could be a trap. I opened the door quickly. Sunlight poured around me, blinding my eyes, but I grabbed for where her wrist should be if she’d raised her hand for another knock. My fingers squeezed flesh, and I heard her say, “oh,” in surprise. It reminded me that I was too strong now. I eased pressure. I didn’t want to break any of her bones. I felt horribly exposed, and I expected shock rounds to thump against my chest.
I pulled, and Kay shot past me into the lounge, with her feet drumming on the carpet. Then I glided outside onto the sheltered aft section, with my Browning thrust before me like a spear. I squinted, trying to scan the deck. I’d pump rounds into anything dark, into anything that might indicate black uniforms. Blinding sunlight hammered my eyes. It put purple splotches of pain there and it made my frontal lobe throb as if steel needles stabbed brain tissue. There had been experiments done to me that had felt like this.
Throwing a forearm across my eyes, I stumbled back into the lounge, slamming the door shut.
With my head bent, I mastered the pain. Looking around in full sunlight without my sunglasses had been foolish. I knew better. I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. I did it again and sought for calm.
Something bumped against a chair, a knee maybe. I raised the Browning, aiming at the noise.
“Please don’t shoot me,” Kay said.
“Sit down,” I said.
I heard the rustle of fabric and remembered how Kay used to brush her hands behind her dress, behind her thighs, as she sat in a chair.
I opened my eyes. The purple color had drained from the spots in my vision. Those were blank areas now. The lounge—my sight filled in everything else around the spots. I tilted my head. Kay sat in a chair, with a small microwave-sized box beside her feet. She kept her feet pressed together and she wore dark slip-on shoes. I noticed they were heelless.
“Why are you here?” I asked, with my Browning aimed at her.
Her features were tight as she rubbed her left shoulder. She had long red hair and freckles across the bridge of her nose. Mascara tried to hide the darkness under her eyes. She was unable to conceal their puffiness.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Why aren’t you talking?”
She tested her left wrist, gingerly moving the fingers. “You nearly tore my arm out,” she said. “You shouldn’t have been able to do that.”
I stepped away from the door so if anyone blew it down she would be in the line of fire. I had to start thinking.
Kay was five-five and still slender as a model in her yellow sundress. She had to be in her upper thirties by now. Despite the wear of years, she was still pretty. Her legs were the best part, tanned, trim and smooth. The rest was too bony, highlighted by sharp cheekbones.
It didn’t look as if she carried any concealed weapons. Maybe she had a gun in the red purse on the box. Maybe she had a detonator in the purse and the box was a bomb, but I doubted it. As far as I knew, they wanted me alive. Besides, Kay didn’t seem hypnotized, drugged or nervous in a suicidal way. I’d dealt with suicide bombers in Afghanistan. If you knew what to look for, a bomber was easy to spot.
“Do I pass inspection?” Kay asked.
“Did the Chief send you?”
“What?” she asked. “No.”
“How did you find me?”
“Do you have to keep pointing that gun at me? I’m unarmed. I came here because I need your help.”
The box could contain tracking gear, unerringly guiding commandos to me. It was the size of a small microwave, with folded brown cardboard sides and loops of tape wrapping it. The tape was the clear type people used in a Post Office. It looked like it had been taped in a hurry, but that might have been done to give Kay a story.
She crossed her legs and sat back in the chair, watching me, with her gaze darting now and again to the Browning. Those were nice legs. My best friend Dave used to run his hands over them when we went to the beaches of Monte Carlo together. In those days, I’d been in Security. Well, I had been in Security after a fashion. That had all been before the accident that had changed me into what I am now.
“Maybe this is asking too much,” she said, “but how about a drink?”
I shifted onto the balls of my feet. A dash down the stairway to the sleeping quarters and I could have my
