Three other vessels like this had been seized in international waters by Interpol. What had led Nolan to this particular ship was not only the Americans who were brutally murdered, but that prior to being delivered to Miami for the bride and groom, the ship had docked to be serviced in China and boarded by officials. The Chinese weren’t willing to share their dirty laundry with the U.S.—the murder being after the fact and having no consequence to the Chinese—but Nolan was still working on what had led them there. The other seized boats had made port on China’s coast as well.
To him, it felt staged. The other boats were boarded and confiscated, so why risk another? Why try to sink it? The owner of the yacht was just that, the owner. Some software tycoon who rented it out through a broker to anyone who wanted to pay the ridiculous price to ride on the high seas in ultimate comfort. The ship carried people, and the cargo manifest was food and supplies for the honeymoon trip. It looked like a simple pirate attack, but the brutal murder and the bomb said otherwise. Pirates didn’t hang around that long.
Interpol learned that pleasure boats were used to transport black market weapons and narcotics, but seizing the ships had given them nothing solid, except legal issues. Whoever was using the ships was off-loading cargo somewhere along the way.
He swung his leg over the twisted rail and dropped lightly to the deck.
Two men looked up, frowning, and Nolan showed his badge and turned away, snapping on latex gloves. One man handed him a pair of booties for his shoes, and he arched a brow.
“It’s a mess down there, sir.”
Nolan slipped them on. “What have you collected so far?”
“Bomb fragments. It was a big one, designed to sink it, but because the fuel was dumped prior to detonation, it stayed afloat. If your buddy hadn’t been looking for it, it would have gone up in flames and sunk.”
“They wanted no evidence at all.”
“We have enough to know the rig and trigger.” He showed him an alarm clock still in near-perfect condition, but because of the fire the wiring from the back had been reduced to a jellylike mass.
Nolan knew Logan Chambliss had been on this ship just before the explosion and why. In fact, he knew everything there was about Cassandra Furman-Layton, her groom and their connection to his college friend. They were all at the wrong place at the wrong time. He needed to learn something that would explain why.
Because nothing had been stolen—except lives.
Venezuela
Two things were hot buttons for her. Tell her what to do, then force her to do it. Tessa had let herself be used once before. She swore she never would again.
Yet, here she was.
Guilt was a nasty thing, she thought, and instead of pushing her anger aside, she kept it close, reveled in the outrage of someone blackmailing her for help. She relied on every smidge of it to propel herself as she bolted across the manicured grounds. Rapidly approaching the building, she used her speed as she jumped. Arms outstretched, Tessa sailed through the air like a black dart and gripped the decorative ledge above the first-floor window. Instantly, she snapped down her muscles, forcing herself to stop and not plow through the glass. She drew her legs up to slow her rocking, then hung straight to catch her breath.
She was dead center of the summer residence in the darkest section. It had windows straight to the top. Hanging like a rag, she glanced left and right for the patrols. They had precise movements, changing the guard every hour. She’d watched their predictability for a couple days with a group of reporters on the lawn across the street. It wasn’t a government building, so no tours, no open house. The uninvited couldn’t get past the door. And lately, no one came out.
The least the bastard could do was be seen so she could learn exactly where he was. He never called back and had blocked the number. He’d given her quick, short details to get to him, but he was a lying bastard, and could be setting her up. What Ramos was doing in the Vice President’s summer residence opened a thousand questions and she didn’t want to know the answers. Whatever he wanted, she had to do it. Being pulled back into her past to help a man who’d threatened to ruin her had so many double edges to the sword, she wanted it over with. But there were only two ways inside: hers and on the arm of someone powerful, but that brought attention to her. She wasn’t going to come out of this stinking, so the cat burglar route was her only choice. Without rope and harness, it was a real pain.
With a chin-up, she drew herself up enough for leverage, then swung her leg to catch the ledge to stand. The hooded cat suit made movement easy. She gripped the ironwork, putting her toes in the carvings around the windows to scale higher. Below her, guards paced the circumference in a measured march. She bit back the urge to hum and kept moving past the second floor. If he was on the inside, he was in trouble and completely abandoned, or he wouldn’t have contacted her. She wasn’t useful anymore. There was so much going on here, she couldn’t pin down which really made her more furious—that he threatened to expose her or that he was drawing her into something bigger. He was inside the Vice President’s private residence, for pity sake. Just knowing what the U.S. was doing with this minor player was trouble.
I’m so getting fired for this.
The NGS didn’t authorize her entrance into Venezuela and while backup was always good, she refused to bring anyone into a chapter of her life she wanted closed, and quickly. She’d thought it was closed. She neared the top, glancing down for the guards, then up to the open window she expected to be open. It was the only reason she went forward. Curiosity had nothing to do with it. Ending this pact with the Devil did.
She maneuvered to grasp the windowsill, then slipped neatly inside. She kept her back to the cool wall, with the curtains around her, then gently pushed them aside. There was a faint light from a few yards away on the right, and she edged the room, found the exits, then advanced. Encased in black, she blended and moved in short darts from darkness to the pithy black of the massive room. In a dance to avoid a shadow, she moved closer, then stopped, tucked near the drapes.
The light spilled from a small lamp on the desk and silhouetted the man sitting before it, his back to her.
“Very good, Tessa.”
She cringed at the sound of his voice, the Latin accent odd when she remembered a southwestern drawl. He turned in the chair, and she frowned, refusing to come out of the shadows. The light was near him. He’d have trouble seeing her, but she could see him.
Who is this man? Because it sure as hell wasn’t Paul Ramos. The man she knew was cover-model material, around forty by now. This guy was closer to sixty, his cheeks scarred from bad skin.
“A shock, I know.” He swept his fingers under a chin that was more square than she remembered. “Too many near-misses to be useful anymore, but all courtesy of our government. Certainly not a reward,” he said, fingering the remaining scars. “A promotion.”
To the CIA, she thought, noticing his accent fade with each word. “What is the company doing here?” The sound of her voice startled him, and he smiled. That’s when she recognized the man beneath another’s face. In the shape of his mouth, the chillingly dark eyes and the heavy brows over them.
“A long story you don’t need to know.”
No, she didn’t. But he had to know she didn’t have Intel resources anymore. It was pointless. “You’re a perfect idiot, you know that?” The consequences of him being here, masquerading, were too big a political disaster for her to comprehend, and she didn’t care. She’d trained herself not to or she could never have left so cleanly. “This won’t work.”
“It must.” He looked her over with a feral threat. “We haven’t much time.” He held out a folded leather pouch. “Take this.”
“Hell no. Come on, let’s go.” She tossed her thumbs toward the window. “Now.”
“I’m not leaving.”