Once a Marine (7 page)

They changed into their new evening wear in a private room at Ferragamo. Shari sent all the boxes and bags back to her villa by limo and instructed the driver to pick them up at La Mer at ten thirty.

The dining room captain greeted Shari by name. Heads turned when he led them to their table overlooking Waikiki Beach.

An unobstructed view of Diamond Head in the sunset took BD’s breath away. She blinked to reassure herself it was real.

The captain placed a napkin on BD’s lap and left. “He didn’t leave a menu.”

Shari dismissed her comment with a wave of her hand. “When I come here, they know I always ask for whatever the chef recommends for the evening. They have yet to disappoint me. You’ll love it, trust me.”

BD leaned close to Shari. “That couple over there is staring at you.” She tilted her head ever so slightly so Shari would know which table she meant.

Shari flashed a smile and a little finger wave at them. “They’re old friends of my parent’s. They’re not staring at me—they’re staring at you, probably trying to figure out if you’re a new Grayson model or maybe my date for the evening.”

BD snorted. “Me, a Grayson model? I don’t think so. I don’t fit the mold.”

“You mean the Shari mold?” Her eyebrows went up as amusement flashed across her face. “About time we broke that mold. A curly-haired brunette would be a welcome change, don’t you think?”

“Not interested. You have two models who wear blonde wigs. Jaycie and Delphi know the drill, and they’d be happy to play themselves for a change instead of Shari clones. Anyway, at five-foot-three, I’m too short to play with the big girls.”

Shari was quiet for several moments. “Hmm, you may have hit on something there.”

“Yeah, I don’t see myself growing any taller.”

“No, not that.” She shook her head. “Grayson is in a rut. Why should all our models be tall, skinny blondes? We make our clothing in sizes and colors that have broad appeal. Why not show them in our ads with a variety of women?”

Ideas began to bloom in BD’s mind.

* * *

BD walked to the edge of the pool and sat down with her feet dangling in the tepid water. “Hey, remember that conversation we had at dinner last night?”

Shari floated on a pool noodle and paddled her way in BD’s direction. “What part?”

“Where you said maybe Grayson should show a variety of different women in the print ads?”

“I do.”

“Have you given it any more thought?”

She sniffed and tossed her blonde head. “I’m not sure I’m still employed by Grayson.”

“Oh, of course you are. Your parents know very well that you’re the public face of the company. Their stock would go in the tank if word got out there’d been a big shake-up and you were no longer there.” She slid into the water and pulled another noodle off the deck. “You could start your own competing company for that matter.”

The two of them bobbed silently for several minutes. BD waited, pretty sure Shari was considering several courses of action. They’d have to return to LA sometime. They couldn’t stay away much longer without raising speculation in the rag press.

Shari shook her head, her lips pressed in a tight line. After a moment she paddled the to the tile wall separating the pool and spa, slipped over, and turned on the jets.

“I’d never go into competition with them. Even after what they did to me, I couldn’t do that. They’re my parents.”

BD joined her, gingerly sliding into the hot roils. “I’m not suggesting you start your own company, I’m just saying you could if you wanted to, and Whitney and Norah know that. You could use the possibility as leverage to move into another area of Grayson.”

“Like what?”

“I’ve always thought you’d be better heading the design department than the old relic who runs it now. You have to admit that even though some Grayson creations are classic and timeless, a lot of it is just plain boring.”

Shari tilted her head, and a deep line appeared between her blue eyes.

BD placed a thumb on the line above Shari’s sunglasses. “Don’t do that. You’ll need Botox again.” She grabbed an old straw hat off the deck and jammed it on Shari’s head.

Shari grinned. “You know something? I think that’s the best idea you’ve ever had.”

“While I’m on a roll, I think you should hire the cute Italian designer who interned at the factory last summer. He’s young, and he has some good ideas that would appeal to a younger clientele. Your boomer customers aren’t going to be buying Grayson forever, you know.”

“Enzo? What a wolf that little squirt is. He doesn’t come up to my chin, yet he forever told me, in a not so roundabout way, how much I’d missed by not sleeping with him.”

BD laughed. “Maybe he’s right. He’s Italian. What did you expect? He hit on every woman under sixty-five in the company.”

Shari nodded. “And, I suspect he hit a home run with more than a couple of them.”

They giggled, remembering Enzo’s lively antics. A true lover of women, he made sure nobody got left out. He flirted boldly with any female within the walls of Grayson. Even some of the older seamstresses in the finishing room were targeted for his special brand of brio. He was sorely missed when he returned home to Italy to finish his education.

“Do you think he’d be interested?”

“Does Matthew McConaughey make you drool?”

That evening when Datu informed Shari her mother was on the phone, she took the call. Instead of going into the conservatory she asked Datu to bring the phone out to the lanai where she and BD were finishing dinner.

“Hello, Mother.” She gave BD a smirk and an eye roll. “Yes, I’m fine. Uh-huh. The weather is perfect. I’m having a much-needed rest. BD? She’s here. I brought her with me after the show. You thought I fired her? Why would I do that? Since I’m not running the company I’m not sure I have authority to hire or fire anyone.” She made a face and stuck her tongue out at the phone.

BD sipped ice-cold white wine, listening to Shari play cat to Norah’s mouse. They were two peas in a pod, Norah and Shari.

“Look, Mother. If you don’t want to authorize the recent purchases on my company credit card, fine. Don’t. I’ll pay out of my own funds. I was under the impression I was still employed by Grayson, although in what capacity I’m not sure.”

Shari placed a finger on the phone and mimicked firing a gun. “I am calm, Mother. You’re the one who’s agitated. Maybe you and Father need a vacation after all your behind-the-scenes high jinks to elevate Judd into what was to be my position in the company. You promised that job to me, if you recall.”

Shari sighed and listened to Norah for several moments. “No, I don’t want to talk to Father.” She dropped her head back and groaned. “Hello, Father. Actually you called right in the middle of dinner, and I have guests. You’ll have to excuse me. Bye.”

She clicked off the phone and placed it next to her plate and then picked up her glass and winked at BD before taking a sip. “Let them stew.”

Chapter Five

The cargo jet carrying the covert extraction team touched down at Zamboanga in the dead of night and taxied to a dimly lit hangar. Rafi and the others made one last search of their gear to ensure there would be absolute identity denial if captured or killed.

A local affiliate of the air freight company unloaded the legitimate cargo while Joe’s men exited the aircraft. Crouched, they stealthily crept along the shadows between the hangars to find the unmarked van waiting for their trip to the coast.

Their driver didn’t speak a word during the short drive to the rendezvous point. He stopped the van, pointed to a boat. The five men hopped out of his vehicle, and the man left within seconds.

The dark craft bobbing at anchor about five yards offshore showed no lights. Joe, Rafael, and the others blackened their faces and pulled dark knitted caps over their heads before stepping into the water. They waded to the boat, holding their gear and weapons above their heads to keep them dry, tossed their equipment into the bottom of the boat, and then hauled themselves aboard the inflatable vessel. Joe engaged the electric trolling motor. The boat slid silently into deeper water. Once far enough away from shore he fired up the outboard and turned south toward the strait between Malamawi Island and Isabella City, on Basilan. If all went as planned the trip would take less than two hours.

“Joe!” Rafi’s rasping whisper sounded overly loud in the moonless night. He gestured toward patrol boat lights approaching from the east.

Joe cut the motor and the men ducked, barely breathing. They listened for the retreating sound of the engine as it churned through the water, passing them breathtakingly close.

After several precious minutes of silence, Joe reengaged the trolling motor and steered south. The quiet electric motor pushed the boat with excruciating slowness. At this rate, they might miss their local contact on Basilan.

Once within earshot of Isabella City Joe cut the motor, and the men paddled to the warehouse dock. Their guide stepped from a shadow and directed them to tie up next to a fishing trawler. Again, no words were spoken.

Their contact was an executive with a major international tire company. A frequent visitor to Basilan, he bought rubber for their local manufacturing facility, perfect cover for his clandestine activities. Using his many contacts, he got a fix on the location where Abu Sayyaf separatists held the prisoners Joe’s team had come to rescue.

This local tire company exec risked his life and lived in constant danger of kidnap for ransom himself. He handed the men paper-wrapped packets of locally prepared food, which they tucked into their packs.

Rafi knew the man and acknowledged him with a curt nod, but didn’t speak.

It was safer for everyone that way.

The team followed the man in silence for about three quarters of a mile. A Filipino boy of about twelve materialized out of the darkness and stood before them. He reached inside the neck of his shirt and pulled out a gold cross that glinted on a dirty string and quickly hid it again.

The tire executive made a priest-like sign of the cross, exchanging the unspoken password with the boy. The man nodded and faded into the bushes. Joe’s team followed the child through a coffee plantation.

After nearly a mile the boy stopped. He pointed to a distant hill, knelt in the moonlight, and drew a rough map showing an approach around the left side. He marked an X in the dirt.

Joe studied the map with a shielded flashlight and nodded.

The boy stood and used his foot to erase all signs of their presence. He slipped into the darkness and disappeared.

They could make their way to the base of the hill before sunup, and then they’d hunker down to hide until dark again before continuing through the increasingly thick vegetation to the place where the Muslim rebels held the hostage family. If they’d moved the prisoners in the meantime there was no telling how long it would take to track them.

At the base of the hill shortly before dawn, they cut branches and made a crude shelter in anticipation of a long day of rest and preparation. They ate in silence. Then in their prearranged order, some men kept watch while others slept.

On first watch, Rafi stationed himself toward the open side of the shelter. Another man watched the front. It would be hours before any of them spoke above a whisper. Hand signals and touches were the exclusive means of communication.

Thoughts of BD intruded on Rafi’s concentration. Closing his eyes for a split second he felt a physical buzz at the memory of her in the outdoor shower on Oahu. He shook his head and mentally cursed the interference. Not now, later. His life and the lives of the other men depended on his absolute attention to the mission. This wasn’t the time or place for memories of their sensuous time together.

He did a mental inventory of his weapons and their exact location. He checked his rifle and the sharpness of his blade for the hundredth time, and stared out through the branches, hyper-alert to any sound or movement. When he detected the beginning of a snore from one of the sleeping men he kicked his foot. Trained to catch what little sleep they could, whenever possible, the man rolled over and slept with no noticeable change in his breathing.

The eat-sleep-watch shifts changed every two hours. Dusk crept in like the silent padding of a panther. The sky transitioned from pale azure to amber, casting a saffron glow on the landscape.

One by one Joe woke the sleeping men. They gathered around, watching intently the orders he wrote in the dirt. Confirming they understood the plan he pulled a branch and swept away the signs.

At full darkness they dismantled the rough shelter and erased all evidence of their camp. In single file the men made their way in the direction of the last known location of the rebel encampment. Their line stretched a quarter mile between the five of them. Each wore night-vision goggles, trained his eyes on the man ahead, and frequently confirmed the location of the team member following behind.

On the move for over three hours, Joe ordered his men to halt and close ranks. It was time to rest and refresh.

Joe signaled Rafael to scout the area ahead.

After a few minutes Rafi heard voices. He dropped and flattened himself to the ground, slithering back against vegetation, straining to determine from which direction the sound came. Speaking Tagalog, the ragtag group of men came into view, heavily armed, wearing jungle camouflage fatigues and Abu Sayyaf head scarves.

The language of most residents of Basilan, Muslim and Christian alike, was Zamboangueño Chavacano. Even though fluent in both dialects, the distance made it impossible for Rafi to pick up more than scraps of the conversation. The band moved away.

Rafi crept back to the rest of the covert team. He signed to inform them what he’d discovered, his gleaming grin frightening in his blackened face.

Joe whispered, “Hoorah,” and gestured for them to sit and wait.

When Joe decided it was time to move, the stealthy team tightened ranks and advanced at a snail’s pace.