A Kiss to Kill (3 page)

Thank God they were now dead and buried.

He rallied before a flashback beset him for the second time that day, and turned determinedly back to what Quinn was saying.

“—with the FBI?”

Which had apparently been addressed to him, because everyone at the table turned to gaze at him expectantly. Except for Kick, whose expression had frozen somewhere between horror and vast amusement.

WTF?

Alex cleared his throat and tried not to look like a complete idiot. “Um, what? Sorry, I was, uh—”

Everyone at the table carried his own share of personal demons, and Alex’s were no big secret.
Well, most of them
. Quinn breezed right over the momentary lapse. “I was just saying that Commander Bridger suggested we get with the FBI and Coast Guard on this ASAP.”

“The e-mail?” Alex clarified, momentarily puzzled as to why he’d been picked to deal with computer stuff. Had he missed something? “Isn’t that Darcy’s area of expertise?”

Quinn shifted in his seat. “Not the e-mail. The yacht.”

“Ah. Right,” Alex said, hastening to cover his inattention. “Sure, no problem,” he agreed.

Quinn blinked. Then he smiled. “Great. You leave first thing in the morning. Darcy’ll book you a seat on the—”

Whoa.
What?
Alex’s stomach sank on pure, raw instinct. “Leave?” He
had
missed something. Something important. “Leave for where?”

“The FBI’s field office on the Chesapeake Bay, of course. In Norfolk.”

Norfolk? As in Norfolk,
Virginia
?

Then it hit him right between the eyes. The FBI. Norfolk . . .

Oh, sweet baby Jesus.

Quinn wanted him to—

Alex lurched to his feet. “
Hell
, no. I can’t
pos
sibly—”

“
Some
body on the team has got to go down there and check out the yacht,” Commander Quinn refuted in a tone that brooked no argument. “The
Allah’s Paradise
could be our best lead yet.”

“Please don’t ask me to do th—”

“You know her best, Zane.” Quinn didn’t need to use her name; everyone at that table knew exactly which “her” he was referring to. He threw up his hands. “Hell, Alex, she was going to be a damn bridesmaid at your—”

Darcy’s elbow jabbed Quinn in the ribs and he halted mid-word. He glanced uncertainly at her, then rolled his eyes and turned back to Alex. “Look. I know she reminds you of a rough time in your life, but I trust you’re not some dewy-eyed virgin who needs to be tiptoed around. And if you are, you’ve got no place on my team. Or in STORM Corps, for that matter. Be in Norfolk by oh-nine-hundred, Zane, and that’s a goddamn order.” The commander’s eyes narrowed. “You got a problem with that?”

Alex swallowed down the tirade of protest he wanted to let loose. Goddamn
right
he had a goddamn problem with it.
Fuck
ing hell.

“No, sir,” he answered the team leader tightly, and dropped back onto his chair. “No problem at all.”

But behind his forced smile of concession, his innards were in free fall.

Rebel fucking Haywood
.

Please, God. Just fucking kill him now.

THREE

Washington, D.C. Later that night

METRO
Police Detective Sarah McPhee peered over the edge of a stinking back-alley Dumpster in northeast Washington, D.C., careful not to touch the foul metal container. The Dumpster was lit up like the Lincoln Memorial, the surrounding brick walls of the alley painted with a grotesque mosaic of distorted shadows and light caused by people moving around in the circle of illumination. Beyond that circle, the brightness quickly faded to midnight blackness.

Inside the Dumpster, sprawled on top of the rank contents, was the body of the vic, her long black hair spread around her head like a dark halo. Her once-olive complexion glowed pasty white in the harsh crime scene lights. The woman had once been really beautiful, Sarah noted. Nice clothes. Good body. Healthy skin. Definitely did not belong in this part of town.

Dump job, she thought. “Damn shame,” she murmured aloud before she could stop herself.

The conglomeration of uniforms, techs, and coroner staff working around the Dumpster studiously ignored her comment, continuing on with their respective pursuits. Clipped footsteps echoed through the alley, and newly promoted Lieutenant Gus Harding marched up, late as usual.

“What have we got here?” he demanded importantly of no one in particular. The LT was fond of TV crime shows and imitated the brusque demeanor of the prime-time actors whenever possible. Like it made him seem more qualified for the job, or tougher.
Or taller
.

Predictably, Jonesy—Detective Jonas Louden, whose nickname was Detective Loudmouth due to his annoying tendency to boom at the top of his lungs—jumped in to answer, flicking out his well-worn leather notepad before Sarah could even open her mouth to speak. “Female, twenty-five to thirty-five. With that black hair, prob’ly Italian,” Jonesy pronounced in a definitive statement.

“Or Hispanic, or Middle Eastern, or Indian . . .” Sarah mumbled. Or heck, any number of other nationalities or combination thereof. This was America, land of the melting pot. But Detective Jones was nearing retirement, and tended to dwell in a past when “ethnic” still meant Irish, Italian, or Jewish.

Lieutenant Harding flicked Sarah a dismissive glance. She was
not
close to retirement—for reasons of age anyhow, having recently tipped the scales at forty-five—but she had a good ten years on the rookie lieutenant. And that made him nervous. Like he knew
she
should be the one with the lieutenant’s shield. Which she should. Everyone knew it. And she would have had it, too, if not for that unfortunate incident . . .

But she wasn’t going there.

Harding turned back to Jonesy. “Any ID?”

Nope,” he said. “Nothing. No effects of any kind. Just the clothes on her back.”

Harding again glanced over the grody rim of the Dumpster, this time peering down at the assistant medical examiner, who’d donned a blue disposable jumpsuit and booties to keep his designer duds and elegant leather shoes clean as he went Dumpster-diving. To his credit, the man hadn’t uttered a peep of protest when he’d climbed in.

“COD?” Harding asked him.

“Nothing obvious,” the A.M.E., Dr. John Stroud said, looking up from the muck with youthful blue eyes. Gawd. He couldn’t be more than twelve. How was it everyone on the planet was suddenly younger than she was? “No blood. No wounds,” he reported. “No outward signs of internal trauma.”

Sarah forced her mind back on track. Okay,
that
was interesting. When a body was dumped like this, cause of death was usually pretty obvious. Gunshot. Knife wound. Beating. Rape.

“What about TOD?” the LT asked.

She averted her gaze back to the alley as Dr. Stroud pulled his temp instrument out of the vic’s liver, read it, and mentally calculated. “Recently. About two to four hours ago, I’d say preliminarily.”

Sarah twisted her wrist to look at her watch. 10:06 p.m. Which put TOD sometime between six and eight o’clock that evening.

The LT grunted. “When can you get me the autopsy report?”

“We’re a bit backed up,” Stroud said. “Tomorrow afternoon’s the earliest I can manage.”

Harding turned to Sarah and, arranging his rotund face in pleasant insincerity, said, “McPhee, I’d like you to attend.”

Nausea stroked through her stomach. It was a dare, she knew that. No. More like a nasty, condescending barb in the guise of a routine assignment. She shoved back the impulse to tell him no. Everyone around them was surreptitiously watching her. They could all go screw themselves.

“Sure,” she told him. “Meanwhile,” she added, keeping her voice even, “you should probably have CSI collect that.” She jabbed a finger at the grimy brick building behind the Dumpster. Specifically at the rotting sill of a broken window where the very corner of a small black cell phone stuck out, blending into the dirt and mottled shadows so well it was nearly invisible. Unless you were actually looking.

The CSIs all turned as one, scanning from the ground up to the lone window that no one had inspected yet. She knew someone would have gotten around to it eventually—the geek squad was nothing if not thorough, and the scene had not been released yet, after all—but it was gratifying to show them all she was still a damn good detective, despite recent evidence to the contrary.

The LT marched over and squinted at the cell phone, mouth thinning in irritation. He jetted a breath through his nose and barked at the closest tech to do his goddamn job, then spun and marched away again, right out of the alley.

Okay, then
. Sarah dug into her jacket pocket for her own notebook, and focused her attention on the clutch of seedy-looking individuals gathered on the other side of the yellow taped-off perimeter at the mouth of the alley.

“Guess I’ll go interview the witnesses,” she said to anyone who might give a damn.

“Hang on, McPhee,” Jonesy boomed loudly. “I’ll come with you.”

Sarah sighed. Oh, goodie.

Chesapeake Bay outside Norfolk, Virginia The next morning

FBI Special Agent Rebel Haywood stood in the prow of a United States Coast Guard RB-M response boat, enjoying the early morning calm before the storm of the coming operation. A cool spray of salt water misted her face, contrasting with the cozy warmth of the spring sun on her skin. It had been a while since she’d been out on the water, and she was loving every minute of it. Even under these circumstances.

“Approaching target vessel,” the voice in her headset comm squawked. “Take your positions, people.”

Just ahead, the object of the joint USCG/FBI operation, a small but elegant yacht called
Allah’s Paradise
, lay anchored in a picturesque inlet on the western shore of the Chesapeake Bay.

Rebel’s cell phone suddenly vibrated in her pocket. She did a mental wince, quickly pulling it out to check the screen. And almost groaned aloud.
Helena Middleton
. Figured. Helena
would
phone at the worst possible moment.

For a nanosecond, Rebel debated turning off the thing. But she was working, and her SAC needed to be able to get ahold of her at all times. He insisted on it. Especially this morning. This op was high profile and he wanted constant updates.

The phone vibrated again.

On the other hand, Captain Montgomery, the USCG operation commander, and ensigns Chet and Sampson, the two other über-macho Coast Guard mopes who rounded out today’s detail, were already disgusted enough that the FBI had sent a
girl
to do what they considered a man’s job. Best not to lower herself even further in their estimation by taking a personal call while on duty. She let it go to voice mail.

“Stand ready, people,” Captain Montgomery ordered over the comm.

The RB-M slowed. Overhead, the boat’s loudspeaker crackled. “This is the United States Coast Guard. Please prepare to be boarded for inspection,” Montgomery’s voice called.

Her cell vibrated again.
Bother
. Helena Middleton had the tenacity of a junkyard dog.

Seriously. No sane person would pick up right now. On the other hand, Rebel figured she had a good forty-five seconds until the real action started. If she answered now, at least she’d have a great excuse to hang up quickly and stop it from ringing at an even worse time.

With an impatient sigh, she muted her comm headset, made sure no one was looking, and tapped her discreet Bluetooth earpiece. “I’m in the middle of something, Helena.”

“Good lord, sweetie, about time you answered!” Helena’s sweet-as-honey South Carolina accent held just the slightest hint of rebuke. She and Rebel had been friends—well, their parents had been, anyway—growing up among the old-money, South-of-Broad Charleston aristocrats, then coincidentally both of them had moved to Manhattan four years ago, resulting in their being roommates for the first couple of years in New York. Their ultra-conservative Southern parents had been pleased neither girl had been subjected to the corrupting influence of a Yankee roommate. It was mortifying enough Rebel had joined the FBI instead of marrying a good old Southern boy from a good old Southern family.
That
had nearly killed them. As for Helena’s parents, well, God help her if they ever found out she’d quit that Cordon Bleu cooking school long ago.

The Coast Guard RB-M eased about to approach the yacht. Ensigns Chet and Sampson tossed lines across, securing the two vessels together for boarding.

Rebel tried to cut her phone call short. “I’m sorry, Helena, but I really have to—”

“Why, Rebel Haywood,” Helena scolded cheerfully. A perfect Southern belle, Helena did
every
thing cheerfully. Rebel could take lessons. “Do you have any earthly idea how many times I’ve tried calling you lately?”

Actually, she did. Fourteen. Fifteen, if you counted the last voice mail. Her relationship with Helena was . . . complicated. Which was why she’d been routinely ducking the other woman’s calls for the past month. Okay. Maybe two.

Montgomery strode past Rebel to the railing and yelled across the gap to the swarthy, bearded captain of
Allah’s Paradise
. “Captain Brett Montgomery, here. Permission to come aboard, sir?”

“Yes, sure. Come ahead,” the man answered in heavily accented English.

“Seriously, I can’t talk now,” Rebel told Helena under her breath, reaching up for the off button behind her ear.

“Keep weapons secured unless provoked, people.” Montgomery’s quiet order sounded over her comm headset. “On my order.”

“Oh, this’ll just take a second,” Helena’s drawl insisted stubbornly in the other ear. “I promise.”

Sweet goodnight.
“Talk fast. There may be gunplay,” Rebel warned dryly, giving up. Not that she really expected any, but one could always hope. It wasn’t Helena’s fault she was clueless and obstinate as the day was long. She’d been brought up that way. Her parents were even more myopic than Rebel’s. A difficult feat.

“Bless your heart,” her friend said with a perfectly modulated laugh.
Every
thing Helena did was always perfect. “Keeping the country safe as usual, I presume?”

At Montgomery’s signal, Chet and Sampson vaulted easily over the rail onto the other vessel and came to attention, followed by the captain, who flicked a withering look back at Rebel. Well, more precisely at her outfit.

She returned his smile through her teeth.

She’d drawn this assignment
after
arriving at NFO—the FBI’s Norfolk Field Office—for work this morning, and therefore had of necessity reported to the USCG dock located in the neighboring harbor of Portsmouth wearing a sea-foam green skirted linen suit and strappy heels.

Yeah.
That
had gone over well.

Montgomery had issued a long-suffering sigh, thrust a pair of chum-riddled puke-yellow sneaks two sizes too large at her, snorted at her inappropriate pencil skirt, and wordlessly led her onto the waiting Coast Guard RB-M response boat.

She now unhooked the latch of the gangway gate and swung it open, hiked her skirt up and jumped inelegantly across onto the rolling deck of the yacht. “What do you
need
, Helena?” she asked, fixing to hang up.

“Oh, it’s not me who needs you,” Helena said blithely. “It’s Alex.”

At the smug pronouncement, Rebel almost tripped over one too-big sneaker. She grabbed the rail for balance, missed, and nearly went down again as the gate smacked closed on her behind. “What?”

Until six weeks ago, Alex Zane had been Helena’s fiancé. He had also been Rebel’s best friend. Operative phrase:
had
been. Talk about complicated. She’d been ducking
his
calls even longer than two months. Including twice just last night. Seriously. Like she was going to talk to him before bedtime? So she could dream of him all night? Again? She might have it bad, but she wasn’t
that
nuts.

And oh, yeah. For the record? Her avoidance had
nothing
to do with that steamy almost-kiss she and Alex had shared in a very weak moment last December. Nor had her hasty move to Norfolk within days of that weak moment. Because of that weak moment.

She slammed her eyes shut. Okay, what. Ever. So maybe it had.

“What’s wrong with Alex?” she asked Helena, those two phone calls yesterday suddenly changing character. “Is he okay?”

All at once, the air was rent by machine-gun fire.

Whoa! Two men burst out from the bridge of the yacht, yelling in guttural Arabic as bullets sprayed the deck wildly. Instantly, Chet and Sampson returned fire. The swarthy yacht captain went down with a bloodcurdling scream.

“Take them, people!” Captain Montgomery yelled.

“Gotta go,” Rebel told Helena as she rolled for cover and whipped out her Glock 23. Bullets splintered the wooden deck where she’d stood just seconds before.

Another burst of gunfire had Ensign Sampson staggering backward, his pristine white uniform blossoming red. He fell with a crash. Rebel quickly ducked out from her cover, returning fire as she grabbed Sampson’s collar and dragged him behind a tubalike vent.

Pock-pock-pock
came Chet’s covering fire. Followed by a howl from one of the assailants. With an ugly sneer and an uglier curse, the third Arab shooter spun and ran straight toward Rebel.

“I don’t think so,” she muttered and took aim. But before she could pull the trigger, he screamed and grabbed his side. His gun skittered across the deck, along with streamers of blood. For a second, all was silent.

Montgomery ran and turned him onto his back. He appeared dead. Ensign Chet tackled the first man with a set of handcuffs. Rebel checked Sampson’s pulse. It was weak but steady, thank God.

After gingerly scooping up and pocketing the dead man’s gun in case he wasn’t as dead as he looked, she cautiously crept forward and glanced around. Something moved, a flash of black in her peripheral vision. She whirled.
Nothing there
. Was that a splash? Or just the slap of the waves trapped between the two vessels . . . ?

She crouch-ran to the yacht’s main salon door, which stood wide open, waving back and forth with the rise and fall of the ocean swells. Hmm. Maybe she
had
seen someone running past. She peeked into the salon.
Clear
. She ducked down and crept through the salon door, halting to listen carefully.

“Rebel?” Helena’s hesitant voice sounded in her ear.

She jumped, startled.
Sweet goodnight
. She had totally forgotten about the phone call. Heart pounding, she reached for her earpiece. “Not now, Helena.”

“Alex needs to speak with you,” the other woman said before she could hit the off button. “Right away.”

“He’s got my number,” Rebel bit out, hating that she couldn’t make herself just hang up on her friend. She squinted and peered deeper into the salon. Not that she and Helena had ever been genuinely close friends. Especially after she and Alex had become engaged. That had killed any chance of a real friendship.

“I have your number, too,” Helena returned with an edge of accusation. “You never answer either of our calls.”

A small thread of guilt tightened around Rebel’s heart, then twanged painfully. She
had
been close with Alex. But he was the one who’d ended their friendship when she’d attempted to move on by finding herself another man. Admittedly, she had not chosen wisely—the man being Wade Montana, her boss.
Former
boss. But that really wasn’t Alex’s concern. Or relevant at the moment.

She eased out a measured breath. “Fine. Tell Alex I’ll answer next time.”

“Tell him yourself,” Helena said. “He’s not really speaking to me.”

“Leaving a man at the altar will do that,” Rebel muttered, tilting her head at a strange sound.

But other than a huff on the phone, all she heard was the
tick tick ticking
of the door waving back and forth.

She frowned. Or was the ticking noise on her phone? It sounded more electronic than—It
was
coming from her phone. But—

“Rebel, there’s really something you should know about Alex and me—”

With a sudden start she recognized the sound.

Oh, no
. No, no,
no
.

She hit the off button for real this time, and sprinted out of the salon.

“Abandon ship!” she yelled, rushing toward Chet and Montgomery as they led the shooter who was still alive toward the Coast Guard vessel.
“Bomb!”

The two ensigns halted for a nanosecond, then sprang into action. They shoved the injured prisoner through the gate onto the RB-M, and Montgomery secured him to the rail with a Flexicuff. Rebel did a sliding dive to grab Sampson’s collar again, hauling him furiously toward the gangway opening.

Chet rushed to untie the lines while Montgomery made a dash for the RB-M’s bridge. Sampson groaned as the engines roared to life. Chet grabbed his torso, helping her hoist him over the final barrier.

“Everyone onboard?” Captain Montgomery yelled from behind the wheel.

“We’re good!” Chet yelled back. There was no time to go back for the two dead men. “Go!”

She and Chet both landed on their butts and collided hard with the injured Sampson as the boat shot forward with a jerk and a spinning turn to run full out. Water sprayed in a rooster tail, drenching everyone in the frigid wake. But they’d gotten away.

Not a moment too soon.

With a deep rumble,
Allah’s Paradise
lit up in a ball of flame and a deafening ka-
boom
.

Rebel covered her ears and threw herself over Sampson just as Chet did the same. She ended up sandwiched between the two men. A second explosion ripped through the air. Flaming debris rained down around them.

Then just as quickly, the early morning air went deathly still.

“Jesus on a freakin’ fork,” Chet swore after a few tense heartbeats.

“Language, ensign.”

He deftly lifted himself off her and Sampson. “Sorry, ma’am. You hurt?”

At least she was pretty sure that’s what he said. Her ears were ringing and her hearing was muffled like when she used to wear those fluffy earmuffs on ski trips to Switzerland as a kid. She gave him a wobbly smile. “Just my dignity,” she answered, then turned to Sampson to check on his injury. She peeled off her jacket and pressed it to his bleeding gunshot wound as Chet reeled off to check on the prisoner. “And my suit,” she added resignedly, meeting Ensign Sampson’s grateful eyes. “Donna Karan,” she told him philosophically. “My favorite.” Now covered in blood, guts, and black ash. At least it matched the rest of her. But Sampson was alive, and that’s all that really mattered.

“I’ll buy you . . . another damn suit,” the ensign wheezed out with a cough. Then he grinned painfully. “But with . . . a shorter skirt.”

She laughed and made a face at him. “In your dreams, sailor.”

“Oh . . . yeah.” His eyes fluttered closed.

She glanced back at the burning remains of the rapidly sinking yacht. They were lucky to be having any more dreams at all. If her Bluetooth hadn’t picked up the static from that bomb’s timing mechanism, they’d all be dead now. Blown to little, tiny bits.