Secret Assignment (8 page)

She could smell the warm, buttery aroma of the croissants now, eclipsing even the tang of gun oil. “Would you like one?”

“I’ve already eaten, thanks.”

She retrieved a flaky, cheesy bun and put it on one of the small stoneware plates sitting next to the stove. There were also a couple of clean tumblers sitting by the refrigerator; she grabbed one and poured a cup of milk as well.

She returned to the table with her breakfast, cocking her head to one side as Gideon looked up and viewed her approach with a thoughtful look.

“What?” she asked as she sat across from him once more.

“Milk,” he said, his lips curving slightly.

“Yes, it is,” she said carefully, feeling as if she were the butt of a joke she couldn’t understand.

“Wholesome choice.” Dimples formed in his cheeks, even as he was trying not to smile.

Now she knew she was the butt of a joke. “Clearly, you find something about that funny.”

“How old are you, twenty-two? Twenty-three?”

“Twenty-six,” she answered, beginning to see where his thoughts had gone. “Yes, I’m young. Is there something wrong with that?”

He shook his head. “Not a thing.”

“You’re not exactly old,” she muttered, picking at the edge of the cheese croissant.

“I’m thirty-four.”

“Oh.” She slapped her hand across her chest, feigning shock. “Sorry, I was wrong. You’re ancient.”

“It’s not just your age,” he said with a gentleness that did more to irritate than soothe her. “You have this look about you that tells me you were sheltered most of your life. You’re the baby of the family, right? Older brothers and sisters who protected you, tried to keep you from experiencing the bad things in life. Parents who doted on you, adored you—”

“Parent,” she corrected flatly. “I had a father who doted on me. My mother left when I was practically a baby. Didn’t want to be a mother or a live-in wife, so she went to follow her own dreams.”

He winced. “Sorry.”

She shrugged. “I barely knew her anyway. She drops by now and then with nice presents. Could be worse.”

“My dad killed my mom when I was fifteen,” he said grimly.

And that would be worse,
she thought. “I’m sorry.”

He acknowledged her sympathy with a nod. “My point is—”

“Your point is that you’ve decided I should go home so you don’t have two helpless women to protect instead of just one.”

“My point is, no matter how prepared you might think you are to handle whatever it is that’s happening here, you’re probably not. Those were seriously bad guys. I’m pretty sure they were armed and ready to do bodily harm if challenged.”

“They must know who you are, or at least what you are,” she pointed out. “They tried to keep you out of the game by sabotaging the
Lorelei
’s engine. You’d pose a pretty big challenge to whatever they came here to do.”

“But when it didn’t work, they came back anyway. Ready to take the chance of dealing with me.”

“Did the harbor patrol find anything out there last night?” Gideon had told her about the military-style raft and his theory about a boat anchored farther offshore.

“Nothing,” he answered, “but by the time they got here and got the story about what was going on, the other boat could have been halfway to Waveland, Mississippi, for all we know.”

“I don’t think they’re taking off from that far away,” she said thoughtfully. “And they do seem to be working on the premise that they’d rather not deal with you if they can arrange things that way.”

He didn’t look convinced. “They didn’t have any problem dealing with me last night. They came ready for a fight.”

“But they apparently sneaked here night before last and tampered with the boat, right? They would have preferred to keep you completely out of the mix.” She looked across the table, took in his broad shoulders, powerful arms and hard-jawed look of determination, and understood that preference completely. “They’d rather deal with a frail old lady—”

Gideon snorted, making her smile.

“Well, what they think is a frail old lady,” she amended.

“Glad you clarified,” Lydia said drily, entering the kitchen carrying a large plastic container in which she’d placed a couple of smaller cardboard boxes. Gideon, finished with his reassembly of the Walther, laid the pistol on the table and rose to unburden her.

She thanked him and sat in the chair by Shannon. “I’ve brought you some of the general’s letters,” she said. “And one of the boxes your brother requested I purchase for transporting Edward’s papers.”

“It’s perfect,” she said with a smile. “But I’d have been happy to do the work in the general’s study.”

Lydia exchanged a look with Gideon, who picked up the Walther’s magazine from where it lay on the table and slid it into the chamber.

“What am I missing?” Shannon asked.

“Apparently nothing,” Gideon murmured. Sliding the Walther into a compact holster, he stood to clip the holster to his jeans and grabbed the cotton button-up shirt hanging on the back of his chair. He shrugged it on over his T-shirt to hide the pistol from view and rolled up the sleeves.

“Gideon is taking the
Lorelei
and heading back to the mainland for a few hours,” Lydia said. “To get the fuel system serviced.”

“By yourself?” Shannon looked up at him, an uneasy feeling curling in the middle of her gut.

“You’re worried about being here alone?” he asked.

“No,” she answered, although she was, a little. But her greater concern was his going to town alone. He was the obvious target for the men who’d invaded the island the night before. If they could find a way to take him out, getting past what resistance Shannon and Lydia could offer would be that much easier.

He was in far graver danger at the moment than she or Lydia.

“I’ve called a few friends of mine in the area who have fishing charters. They’re going to bring their clients fishing off the island today.”

She couldn’t hold back an admiring smile. “Is the fishing good off the island?”

“Good enough.” He flashed his dimples at her. “You should be okay with so many boats out on the water around the island today. I’ll try not to be long.” He started toward the front door.

Shannon followed him out to the porch. “Where are you really going?”

“I’m just going to take a look around. Ask some questions.”

“Have you checked the boat to make sure it’s even minimally seaworthy?”

He gave her a pointed look. “Of course.”

“What if they placed a bomb under the keel?”

“I checked that out, too, while you were sleeping.” He grimaced and started down the porch steps. “Believe it or not, I do know what I’m doing most of the time.”

Feeling like an idiot, she trotted down the stairs after him. He turned at the foot of the steps, giving her a quizzical look.

“Be careful,” she said, unable to think of anything she could say that would change his mind.

“I will. You take care, too.” He bent his head toward her, and for a crazy moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. But he just lowered his voice and added, “Take care of Mrs. Ross. She’s tougher than she looks, but not nearly as tough as she thinks.”

Then, before she could blink, he’d turned and gone, heading down the path to the boathouse.

She watched him go, listening with worry to the sound of the engine as he backed the
Lorelei
out of the boathouse and turned it around, heading into open water. Long after the Hatteras Convertible was out of sight, she stayed where she stood and watched the water with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, unable to shake the feeling that he was heading straight into the heart of danger with no one to watch his back.

Chapter Six

Terrebonne Marina, despite the name, was not Terrebonne’s primary marina. That honor belonged to Bay Pointe, an eighty-slip marina on the western shore of Terrebonne Bay. Most of the larger yachts and pleasure craft preferred Bay Pointe’s upscale accommodations, but Gideon had convinced General Ross to stick to the smaller, family-run marina on the eastern shore, appealing to the old soldier’s inculcated suspicion of strangers.

Even before this most recent invasion, there had always been danger involved in living in such an isolated, unprotected place. Drug runners, pirates, even the possibility of terrorists seeking a less difficult point of entry to the United States for their destructive schemes—all theoretically posed potential peril for the Rosses and Nightshade Island.

At Terrebonne Marina, at least, Gideon knew all his fellow slip mates by name and their boats by sight. Wandering around Bay Pointe to find a boat he’d never seen, his only clue the fact that somewhere on board there’d be a Zodiac Bayrunner, was one of his less inspired ideas.

The marina office receptionist had been little help. “Many of the larger vessels have lifeboats,” she’d told him with a harried air, clearly up to her elbows in paperwork. “If your friends are here, maybe you could just look around and see if you spot them.”

He didn’t bother explaining that the only time he’d seen his “friends,” they’d been wearing black masks and sneaking around a private island, clearly intending to commit a crime.

But he thought he might recognize the Bayrunner again. For one thing, thanks to its larger size, it wasn’t likely to be the preferred choice of inflatable for the average yachter. And he’d noticed a bright green patch on the rear of the port buoyancy tube. All he had to do was visit every one of the Bay Pointe slips to see if any of the boats had that Bayrunner on board.

His lack of sleep was starting to catch up with him, aided by the August heat and humidity. By ten-fifteen, he’d begun to regret bringing his Walther along, as its presence prevented him from shedding the extra shirt he’d worn to cover his holster.

He stopped halfway down the pier at a small waterside bistro and ordered the least appalling iced coffee choice they offered. The barista, a lean, tanned blonde woman in her early thirties, handed over the iced coffee with a flirtatious smile. “New to Bay Pointe?” she asked.

“Something like that,” he answered, dispensing with the straw and gulping down the coffee, willing the caffeine to do its job.

“Which boat is yours?” she asked curiously, wiping the already clean bar in front of him.

“The one with the huge black Zodiac Bayrunner hanging from the back davits,” he answered wryly.

“Nice yacht,” she said with approval.

His gaze snapped up to hers. Her eyes widened and she took a half step back from him, as if she saw something in his face that scared her.

He forced his expression back to neutral friendliness. “Yeah? What do you think of the color? Too much?”

She relaxed a little, shrugging. “Blue and white is a pretty standard color pattern, isn’t it?” She smiled at him, the flirtatiousness back. “One time, some guy rented a slip for the winter with the most hellacious yellow-and-orange Viking—” She shuddered dramatically. “You made a good choice with the Azimut. Though don’t you think that Bayrunner’s a little big? Should have opted for one of the smaller RIBs, maybe a Zoom.”

“You know your watercraft,” he said with a smile, noting her use of RIB, the acronym for rigid inflatable boat.

“My ex used to be a boat pilot for hire.” She grimaced. “Until he ran off to Barbados with some rich guy’s daughter.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

She flashed him a smile. “Better off without him. You going to be docked here long?”

“Remains to be seen,” he said vaguely. “I’d better shove off. Thanks for the coffee.” He pulled out his billfold and started to place a five on the counter before he realized he was playing the role of a yacht owner. He made it a twenty. “And the conversation.”

He could tell she’d like to extend the conversation, but he didn’t have the time nor, to his surprise, the inclination. His thoughts were occupied already by the women he’d left behind him, unguarded, on Nightshade Island.

He walked out of the open-air bistro and headed to his right, thinking about everything the young bartender had told him about the Azimut. Blue and white—standard color pattern, she’d called it, which meant it was probably mostly white with blue trim work or detailing.

Behind him, the barista called out, “Did you get turned around? Your slip’s back that way.”

He turned to look at her, pasting on what he hoped looked like a sheepish smile. “New marina,” he said with apology and reversed course, heading back toward the southern end of the marina.

He passed the entry pier, where he’d been already, and started looking for an Azimut. He could hardly have asked her for size specifications, but he imagined it would have to be fairly large for the barista to call it a nice yacht. Eighty-feet long or larger.

He spotted a likely prospect in one of the outer slips. Tugging his baseball cap lower over his eyes, he walked unhurriedly down the pier toward the yacht. It was a ninety-footer, probably twenty years old but still in good shape. White with navy trim and, more to the point, a Zodiac Bayrunner suspended from davits at the back of the boat.

Walking past the blue-and-white motor yacht slowly, he searched for signs of occupancy without being obvious about it. He saw no one on deck, but there was a lot of yacht not visible from the outside.

He glanced idly at the back of the boat. Plain blue letters spelled out
Ahab’s Folly,
and beneath that in smaller letters,
Galveston, Texas.
The letters all looked new, as if the boat’s name had been recently changed.

There was a green patch on the Zodiac’s port buoyancy tube. He tamped down a smile of triumph.

If there was anything he knew how to do, it was reconnaissance. And sometimes, that meant hunkering down for a while and just watching to see what developed. Three slips down, there was another small pier-side shop, this one a video arcade with an attached soft drink bar. He entered, noting there were almost no teenagers inside, as there would have been when he was a kid. Kids today all had smartphones with the games built in. Instead, most of the dozen or so game players thumbing the buttons on the video games were men and a few women in their late twenties and early thirties, reliving their youth with each digital explosion and high-pitched beep and chirp.