Garrett had taken his time getting back to New York. He had justified the time by thinking he needed to clear his head, but in truth, he wasn’t sure how to do that. Getting over a woman like Alexa Marlowe wasn’t intended to be easy.
Riding in the back of a cab, he watched the blur of neon pass his window and barely paid attention to the streets as they went by. Seeing her as a brunette had surprised him. And she’d been fearless going in for Kinkaid, risking her life to save his. Garrett still hadn’t gotten used to wrapping up a mission and having her walk out of his life until the next time. Coming back to New York wasn’t the same, especially knowing she had taken a few days off to help Kinkaid heal.
The taxi pulled to the curb at the private entrance to his building. With a travel bag over his shoulder, Garrett paid the driver and headed inside. Before he got out his keycard to unlock the door, two men stopped him on the street as the cab pulled away.
“Donovan Cross wants to see you.” The man nudged his head toward the curb as a black sedan pulled up. “Now.”
One man stood in front of him, the other was at his back. And a third man emerged from the shadows to join them. From what he could tell, all of the men had weapons. And he knew the look. They were ex-military or covert ops. Cross had sent an invitation he wouldn’t be able to refuse.
“Lead the way, gentlemen.”
Before he got into the vehicle, they searched him for weapons and confiscated a Beretta that he carried in a holster under his suit jacket and the .380 Walther PPK/S that he had strapped to his ankle. Cross’s men were quick and efficient. After they’d tossed his bag in the trunk, they opened the back door of the sedan and got in both sides, leaving him in the middle.
Garrett had let his guard down. Alexa had warned him about Cross. He knew something was off, yet he did nothing about it. He thought he’d have time once he got back to home turf, but that wasn’t going to happen. For Cross to get this aggressive, he had to have a lot of confidence someone was backing his play. Whatever Donovan Cross was up to, Garrett was about to find out—and no one would have his back.
Garrett sat on a wooden chair under a harsh light. He hadn’t been blindfolded, and his hands hadn’t been tied. He was merely . . . waiting. He sat center stage in an empty warehouse that must have been near the docks. He smelled the faint odor of fuel that mixed with a heady stench coming off the East River.
The men who had taken him stood in the shadows beyond the light, making it hard for him to see them. Only the echo of their footsteps gave them away. And being good operatives, they hadn’t talked to him.
“I thought you said Cross would be here,” he called out.
When no one answered him, he squinted into the dark, looking for any means of escape, but before he found one, a door creaked open. He saw the shadow of a man in an overcoat eclipse a security light near a side entrance. And he heard the low murmurs of two men talking before one of them walked toward him. When the man came into the light, Garrett recognized him.
“Donovan Cross. I hear you’ve got ambitions and a touch of job envy,” he said.
When he tried to stand, Cross shook his head, and said, “Please . . . sit down.” And to the rest of his men, he yelled an order. “Give us privacy, gentlemen. I can take it from here.”
Without a word, the three men left them alone in the warehouse. The move for privacy really stumped Garrett. He had no idea what Donovan Cross was up to.
“Why all the secrecy? A little melodramatic, even for you. What do you want, Cross?”
“I don’t want anything from you, but I can’t speak for everyone. You’ve made enemies, Garrett. And unfortunately, I’m the messenger.”
“Ever hear of e-mail?”
Cross smiled. “You can’t walk away from this, I’m afraid.”
He looked at his watch and held it up to the light.
“It’s almost time.” Cross looked at Garrett. “For the record, I didn’t want it to come to this, but I don’t see any other way. I’m sorry.”
Donovan Cross walked out of the warehouse just in time. The blast nearly knocked him off his feet. He’d cut it close. A fireball mushroomed into the night sky, and a series of explosions rumbled through the old warehouse, grinding metal and toppling steel as it went.
Garrett Wheeler hadn’t been ready for his exit, but for the sake of the Sentinels, Cross had no other choice. While the building burned and sirens of emergency crews coming to the scene blared in the distance, Cross made a phone call.
“It’s done. You see it?”
He knew the man was watching from a safe distance, a bird’s-eye view.
“Yes, I do. And after you take over Wheeler’s job permanently, you can thank me later.”
The man ended the call, leaving Cross to watch the aftermath of what he had done. Now it was his turn to make his own enemies. And he had no doubt that Alexa Marlowe would top that list.
Instead of going back to New York after Mexico, Alexa traveled with Jackson to the place he called home. Years ago, he’d bought a small private island in the Caribbean, using the money he had stolen from the cartels over the years. Most of his cash had wound up in the hands of charities, like the missionary school in Haiti run by his good friend, Sister Kate, the woman he’d rescued in Cuba. Kate hadn’t known about his Robin Hood gig either. And as far as Alexa knew, the nun
Drug cartels made for dangerous victims, but they never reported Kinkaid’s outlandish and resourceful thefts because he was too good to get caught. And Kinkaid definitely knew how to keep a secret.
That’s what he’d been doing before she hooked up with him in Cuba. Back then, Alexa had thought he was only a mercenary who sold his services to the highest bidder, and he’d never told her the truth until he’d brought her to his home and shared his life with her for the first time.
Maybe Kinkaid’s coming clean meant he cared what she thought of him. She hoped she was right about that.
Jackson lived modestly. He had a dock with a boat to get around. And his home was a small place on the beach. He had all the basic amenities, but he didn’t live in a lavish style, considering what he did for a living. But as simple and beautiful as his home was, Kinkaid had secret storage under his floorboards and in walls where he kept his stash of weapons, money, fake IDs, and anything else he’d need to disappear in a hurry.
Some things never changed.
“We should change your dressing and check out your shoulder. How does it feel?” she asked. When he gestured for her to sit next to him in the sand, she did.
“I’m good.” He nodded. “It feels better.”
Kinkaid had been sitting alone on the beach in cutoff jeans, staring out toward the ocean. His long dark hair looked finger combed by the warm sea breeze. And even though his face was still bruised, the sun had colored his skin to a rich brown, masking the torture he had endured in Mexico. When Jackson had gotten up that morning, he had gone off alone without saying a word. After Alexa had awakened to an empty bed, she’d gone searching for him, to find out why.
“You’re awfully quiet this morning,” she said. Forcing a faint smile, she braced for the worst. “You want to talk about anything?”
When he didn’t answer right away, she replayed every moment she’d spent with him, alone on his island. The days they’d spent together, while he healed, had been quiet, peaceful ones, filled with the sounds of lapping waves, exotic birds flitting from branch to branch in the lush green canopy overhead, and moonlit walks on the beach.
The first time they’d made love, it had been filled with urgent need that they both shared. Flashes of that memory would always be with her. And she remembered crying when it was over. The rush of emotion had
