Make Mine a Marine (71 page)

Friends or not, hearing their talk incensed her. With a shortage of rest and patience to control her anger, she lashed out. "How dare you treat him like that." She spun around and advanced on the startled group, chastising them with each and every step. "Drew's not the enemy. He's uncovered every connection to Jonathan we have so far. He's the man I hired to bring him home. As far as I'm concerned, you either listen to him—or you go home yourselves."

Brodie put up his hands in surrender, pressing at the air in an attempt to placate her. "Em, how much do you really know about this guy?"

"I know enough."

"He has this bizarre idea that Jonathan and Moriarty are the same person."

"That's enough! He's just impersonating him to escape." She stopped advancing only when BJ stepped in front of her husband.

"Emma," she cautioned, a voice of reason in a fog of fatigue and twisted feelings of love for two men. "We're all here to help Jonathan."

Emma stopped and glanced around at the sympathetic glances. Good God. Didn't anyone understand how hard this was for her?

One man did.

She shut her eyes and pictured Drew's compassionate grin. With a conscious effort, she pushed his image aside and recalled Jonathan's beaming smile on their wedding day. Then she snapped her eyes open and accused them all.

"What's wrong with you? Are you worried about my loyalty to Jonathan? Well, don't question it. Ever."

The answering silence was filled with the heartbeat of each man in the room. Properly chastened like a group of errant teenage boys, instead of the savvy former Marines they were, they moved past her defense of Drew, as well as their own doubts, and went to work.

* * *

Forty-eight hours later, Drew hunched over the map Kel Murphy had scrounged for him, marking the armed patrols, electrified fences, and watchtower of Moriarty's compound, all according to Hawk's reconnaissance report. Four of them sat in a nest created of broken palm fronds, ammunition, and high-tech equipment, while Brodie patrolled the area.

The tropical heat beaded sweat through the black and green camouflage paint streaked across Drew's face. Kel had "borrowed" a yacht from a friend, along with the map, and they had anchored it a couple of miles offshore and rafted in to what Rafe had jokingly dubbed Hell's Island.

If Drew had brought a camera, he'd take a snapshot and send it in to illustrate the cover of the next Drew Gallagher adventure. Only, Gallagher's fictitious world had suddenly taken on a very real, very dangerous edge.

"Two dogs and their handlers patrol the grounds at any one time, it looks like," said Hawk. "The rest of the security is in the guard tower or inside the villa itself."

Drew listened to the Indian's quiet voice and was again struck by an odd sensation of familiarity. Just as it had two days ago in Emma's office when those dark eyes had studied him so intently. He'd seen those eyes before. He knew his voice. Somewhere, in another place, another time, he'd looked into those eyes and made a request.

For what? When? Where? The tiny knife-point of a headache pricked him behind his eyes. He pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger and breathed deeply. The timing couldn't be worse for a blocked memory to try and show itself.

"Gallagher." He snapped his eyes open and looked into Kel's face. "You with us?"

Drew nodded, filed away that hint of recognition to be studied another day, and resumed the briefing. "What kind of tech do they have?" he asked.

Hawk pointed to the map. "There's a heliport here. The fences and radar are controlled in the tower. Munitions are back here in what probably used to be servants' quarters."

Rafe, already tinkering with some little black box gizmo in his hands, leaned forward. "I'll take out the tower and work my way to the heliport. We might need a quicker way to escape than on foot."

"Right," said Drew. "If Brodie puts the guards out of commission, that leaves Hawk, Kel, and me to get into the house and find the colonel."

Kel shook his head. "I'd slow you down." He slapped his right leg. Drew had noticed the man's perpetual limp, but had discarded it as any real handicap.  The man had a commanding demeanor that kept Rafe in line and the rest of them focused on the task at hand. He'd already proven to be an invaluable resource by procuring equipment, transportation, and travel papers within a twenty-four-hour time frame. He was a real right-hand man.

"All right," Drew said. Kel gave him a curt nod. Of thanks? Or was it just the okay to continue? Drew took the hint. "You get back to the ship. Do what you can to keep any other boats from leaving the island."

"Done. What do you want us to do if we run into Moriarty? Arrest him? Kill him?"

"I don't think there is a James Moriarty."

"You’re not still on about Moriarty and the colonel being the same person, are you?"

Now was not the time to explain his suspicions about the elaborate ruse of Moriarty's true identity. He'd get Jonathan home first, and then pray he was wrong—for Emma's sake.

"Let's say it's just a feeling I have." Drew looked to the others. After brief consideration, they accepted his explanation and awaited the rest of their instructions. "That leaves Hawk and me. We'll get inside as soon as we can to locate the colonel. We'll radio in if we come up empty-handed."

"The second floor has keyhole windows," added Hawk. "Too skinny for a man to get in or out of."

Drew folded up the map. "Unless we find a jail cell proper, that's where we'll start our search."

He looked around at each man, even Brodie standing at a distance. This felt right. Familiar. Maybe because it was the best thing he could do for Emma and Kerry. Maybe just because it felt good to see the grudging gleam of respect in their eyes.

"Let's do it, then," he ordered. "The fireworks should begin at nineteen hundred hours."

* * *

Drew lay on his belly in the mud, trying to picture Emma with her long, long legs that looked too sexy for a corporate executive in those sensible above-the-knee skirts. He pictured her sweet, calming smile and the clear intelligence in her eyes. He concentrated harder on the image of her dressed in a clingy, cuddly robe, leaning over her dark-haired little girl and brushing a kiss across that tiny angel's cheek.

He tried to remember all the mental snapshots of Emma and Kerry he'd made over the past few days, in an effort to thrust aside the mind-numbing visions that threatened to overtake him.

Lying in wait in the jungle, breathing in the perfume and humidity of tropical air, holding a rifle in his hands, all reminded him of something awful. A terrifying pursuit. A kill-or-be-killed mentality.

He turned on his side and curled into a ball, racking his entire body with the need to make those memories recede. He needed Emma with him now. A simple word. A gentle touch. A smile across the room. She made the nightmares disappear. He could hold on to his sanity because of her. He had a reason to live and find his way home because of her.

"Emma." He breathed her name on a prayer.

She hears you. She knows.

That soft voice entered his brain once more.

Drew swore violently and sat up, jerking himself into clear consciousness. "Leave me alone. Do you hear me?"

Knowing the futility of fighting madness, he calmed his temper. He closed his eyes and spoke in hushed tones for nobody but the jungle and the voice inside his head to hear. "I love her. You know that?"

I know.

It made sense that the voice should answer.

"She needs her husband, though. And Kerry needs a real daddy. I promised."

A mango sailed through the air and thunked him on the side of the head.

He shifted to his haunches with his rifle aimed to fire. But peering into the trees and ferns, he saw nothing. No one. He glanced up. The nearest mango tree was a good twenty feet away. Even if the fruit had fallen it wouldn't have carried that far. It seemed as if someone had thrown it at him.

"Trying to knock sense into my head." He scanned the tree line, looking for a mischievous monkey or a clumsy sloth. Someone was with him, watching him. Yet he didn't sense any real threat. More of a sense of…  "Frustration?" he asked quietly.

There was no answer this time.

"I really am losing it." He shook his head and checked his watch, chiding himself for diverting his focus from the mission. Nineteen hundred hours.

Right on cue, the guard house exploded, lighting the early night sky with flaming debris. It triggered a chain reaction of miniature lightning bolts along the chain link fence, blowing out electronic relay stations like popping light bulbs around the perimeter.

"Go, Rafe." He praised his compatriot, then shouldered his rifle to scale and drop over the neutralized fence.

He crouched low to the ground to get his bearings in the compound. He saw a flash of green uniform racing from shadow to shadow at the back of the house, and knew Brodie was well on his way to subduing the guards.

Drew pushed aside everything but the idea of finding Jonathan Ramsey and getting him out of there in one piece. He'd done plenty of odd jobs in his work as a private investigator, but he'd never been part of a strike team like this one. Yet he fell into the role as easily as if he'd been playing it his whole life. He dodged from cover to cover, kicked in a side door, and entered the kitchen of Moriarty's villa.

A big, burly cook pulled a knife on him, but Drew subdued him easily. He kicked the knife away and left the unconscious man on the floor. Now he could hear the whistles and explosions of a firefight in the compound, and wondered how much resistance Rafe and Brodie had encountered outside.

"I'm in," he radioed over his microphone to Hawk. The Indian was already on the second floor, combing the villa, room to room.

Drew rounded the corner to the stairs and encountered two more guards. The bulky men, dressed in tropic-weight suits, provided little resistance to Drew's rifle. True, he had surprised them, but one of the two men should have gotten the drop on him, and neither man fired his weapon.

He ignored the nagging, half-formed suspicion that sprang to mind, and ascended the stairs without a sound. Hawk had the east wing, so Drew headed west. Hugging the wall, he pushed open the doors, one by one.

The fourth door was wrenched from his hand, pulling him off balance. A fist with a knife swung down, catching him on the wrist and knocking his rifle to the floor. He ignored the fiery stream of pain in his arm and barreled into his attacker. The man should have been downed, but his solid build deflected the brunt of the blow, and he merely stumbled back a few steps. Drew crouched low, caught the arm with the knife the second time it descended, twisted, and flipped the man onto his back. A quick blow to the man's chin left him unconscious.

Drew knelt over him. In the fight, the man's jacket had ripped. Drew picked up the knife and cut the cloth further, revealing a bulletproof vest. Were Moriarty's men always this prepared? On a secluded tropical island not known to standardized maps, did they get many armed attacks? Or…

"Are you expecting us?" Drew whispered the query out loud.

A really bad feeling churned in his gut. Was this all a setup?

He'd gone through this before. Meeting a man who never showed. Being set up. A chase through the jungle. Seeing a man's face for one instant in time before a grenade pin sailed through the air…

"No." He clenched his teeth so tight his jaw ached. He would not succumb to that nightmare now.

Any pause now could mean the failure of their mission. He would not let his past get in the way of Emma's future.

Climbing to his feet, he grabbed his rifle and kicked in the next door. It was an empty room. He swung around and kicked in the next.

Cigar smoke hung in the air. He entered, gun first, angling back and forth to check every corner for another guard. He saw only one man in the room, sitting in an office chair in front of the narrow window. He studied the back of the man's dark head as he slowly closed in on him. He sat so still. If this was Jonathan, and he’d been injured or killed in the raid, Emma would have his head. Hell, he'd hand it to her on a silver platter himself if he screwed this up for her.

He almost laughed out loud at that weird thought. Coming around the side of the desk, he could see that the man's arms had been tied to the chair. With his rifle aimed at the man's head, Drew spoke. "Jonathan Ramsey?"

With some effort, the man swiveled the chair around. The prisoner had a black eye and a bloody lip, but when he lifted his face, Drew nearly came undone. The hair color and cut were darker and shorter, the eye color was different, the angles on the other man’s face were broader, sharper, than his own—yet Drew had the sensation of looking into a mirror.

He could only stare. He could scarcely breathe. The captive's good eye rounded in shock. He stared right back.

"My God," he whispered through parched lips. "Did Emma send you?"

Drew blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the image before his eyes, trying to make sense of the image in his brain.

"Are you here to take me home?" The man spoke again, but the sound barely registered.