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Authors: Dee Davis

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BOOK: Eye of the Storm
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"It doesn't matter. What is important is that I have not failed. Only been delayed. You must have a little faith."

"That's not as easy as you make it sound. If this falls apart, if word ever reaches Manuel that I have betrayed him with the Americans, then my life is worth nothing."

"You are not the only one taking a risk, little sister." Carlos's reminder only made her angrier. Angry that she was a woman and could not handle such things herself. Angry that her brother had failed at something so painfully simple.

"I am the one living a lie in the house of our enemy. He cannot know that I am helping you...." She trailed off again, staring at the closed door, assuring herself that she was still alone.

Manuel Ortega was the president of Nicaragua, and as such he was privy to information that was invaluable to her family's organization. So when he had shown an interest in her, it had made sense to capitalize on his infatuation. Let him believe he had tamed Hector Ramirez's daughter. She knew that he had not.

"It is a thin wire I am walking, Carlos. You know that."

"But it is more than worth it if it helps us to gain vengeance. And I tell you I will find the truth."

Isabella closed her eyes, reliving the horror of Sangre de Cristo. She'd only just turned ten, her childhood smashed in an instant of violence and blood, the man she loved most in the world brought down like an animal for slaughter.

Even though it had been almost ten years, the memory shriveled her heart, leaving her empty except for the bitter desire for vengeance. Her father's killer lived in her brain, taunting her with the act. Her father's blood flowed across her mind's eye, leaving her drowning in her pain.

Hector Ramirez had been betrayed, his legacy destroyed. And now, Isabella was left to hold his banner, to keep his dream alive. She was head of her family now. And as such, she must curtail her bloodlust. Allow her brother to pursue those who had dared to harm their family. Over the years, she'd found ways to make the others pay, but always the one who mattered most—her father's killer— eluded their grasp.

But now they were so close.

"I have given up much for you, Carlos. And for the family." She shuddered at the thought of Manuel's thick lips against her skin. "But it will all be worthwhile if you find the ones we seek and make certain that they pay."

As the oldest, Carlos should have been the head of the family. Should have been the one to continue the fight for her father's cause. But the murder of her father and mother had changed her brother forever, his hatred robbing him of any chance at leading his people.

So the job had fallen to her.

And she had risen to the challenge.

She alone protected her father's ideals. He had believed in his country, in his people. He had worked singlehandedly to overthrow the despots who tried to profit from their power, never seeing the people they destroyed in their quest

Her father's methods had not always been the most pure, but he did what had to be done to protect the rights of all Nicaraguans. It took money to mount resistance, and the fact that the money came from questionable sources was simply part of the cost of freedom.

She didn't have to justify it. Surely some evil was necessary in the fight for something so right?

The sound of the door opening had her swiveling to hide the phone, her fingers fumbling to disconnect.

Her heart stilled as she recognized Ramón Diego. The older man glanced behind him, satisfying himself that they were alone, and then stepped into the room. He was a swarthy man. Handsome in his youth, but thanks to a penchant for good wine, he had slid into the lassitude of age along with its accompanying paunch.

Ramón had been with her since her father's death. He had protected her and taught her, and ultimately helped her win her place at the head of her father's organization. Both politically and physically, Ramón was her right-hand man. He'd even gone so far as to secure a job at the palace directing the household staff so that he'd be in a position to protect her.

"Who were you talking to?" he asked, eyes narrowed. "No one," she lied. Even her second in command could not be told everything. Some things were better if they happened in a vacuum. "I was trying to reach Carlos, but I had no luck." She shrugged.

"Interesting that you should mention your brother. I just had a very disturbing conversation with Fermin Cortez." Fermin was a flunky of Manuel's. A man who desired more than he would ever achieve.

"What did he have to say?"

Ramón's expression darkened. "They know about your meeting with the American."

"That is impossible. I covered my trail well."

Ramón shrugged. "I am only telling you what Fermin told me. That Manuel was not happy to hear that you had been cavorting with the American CIA. Combining that with the fact that your brother is known to be in the States, the president cannot help but be worried."

"It was only a meeting, Ramón." She fisted her hands, wondering who it was that had turned traitor.

"You and I know that is not the truth. And if you are not careful, this house of cards you have built will come tumbling down."

"I know what I am doing."

"You are allowing your passion for revenge to color every decision you make. Your position here is important to the family, but it is tenuous at best. Manuel is a dangerous man, and you're playing with fire,
carita
. You know that." Ramón's frown was fierce, but she was not afraid.

"It was not planned to see this man. I simply took the opportunity when it arose." Another lie, but again the less Ramón knew, the better.

"And did you find out what you wanted to know?" It was a trick question. Ramón wanted her to admit that she was working with Carlos.

"No. The old man kept quiet. Even with my best efforts, there was nothing there to discover." The last of course was not the truth, either. There had been much to learn if she read between the lines. But she had promised Carlos she'd tell no one about what she had managed to put together.

"You cannot keep taking these kinds of chances, Isabella. It's too dangerous," Ramón scolded.

"Stop treating me like a child. I've lived with danger all of my life."

The old man's expression softened. "Yes, but to court it freely—to invite it willingly into your life—that is a different thing. Your father would not wish you to put everything he worked for into jeopardy just to avenge his murder."

"My father would want exactly that." She squared her shoulders, holding Ramón's gaze until he looked away.

"I want only what is best for this family. And I worry that you are walking a fine line with Ortega. I tell you he is suspicious. And if he believes even for a minute that you have done something to threaten his power, he will not hesitate to kill you."

"But he knows nothing. Only rumor. And I can handle that." She smiled at Ramón, praying in the name of all that was holy that she was right.

CHAPTER FOUR

REECE PULLED into the driveway and killed the motor, resisting the urge to park in the garage at the back of the house. No matter how much it felt like it, this was no longer home. Home was his new condo on Ocean Boulevard. Sterile and practical, it was the perfect environment for the beginning of his new life, an untested canvas ready for whatever came next.

What a load of bullshit.

Reece opened the door and slid out of the Jag. Since he'd been a small boy he'd felt the need for speed. It had started virtually with video games and Nintendo, and then moved into the real world when he'd discovered go-carts. From there he'd survived a motorcycle phase in high school, a Porsche 911S in college, and the ultimate defeat of an inner ear problem that kept him out of jet training. But old habits died hard, and he still had a penchant for all things built for speed.

Including his cruiser.

He shot a look in the direction of the boathouse, knowing his baby was berthed safely inside.

He smiled at the pun and headed for the front door. Maybe he'd talk Martin into going out in the boat later. His brother had missed the speed gene, motion sickness threatening almost every endeavor. But a little Dramamine went a long way, and with the patch, Martin could actually last a couple of hours. Not that he really enjoyed it.

Reece sighed, thinking of Simone. Whatever else lay between them, the woman loved fast rides. He could see her in his mind's eye, head thrown back, laughing as the wind whipped through her hair.

God, he was a sap.

Those days were long gone. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her smile, let alone laugh. Maybe he'd just imagined her happiness, adding fantasy to fact to justify what just might turn out to be the biggest mistake he'd ever made.

Pocketing his keys, he strode to the front door, bracing himself for an encounter with Simone. Next time Martin came to town, he was staying with Reece. No more crossing enemy lines.

He flinched at his use of the word enemy, wondering how it had all come down to this. He cleared his face, settling into the neutral expression he used when cross- examining a witness, and rang the doorbell. Seconds ticked by. He rang again. Nothing.

They'd probably gone out for dinner.

He started to leave, then changed his mind. Technically, it was still his house. At least until she signed the papers. No reason he couldn't go inside. Maybe have a drink. Wait for Martin.

He pulled the key ring out of his pocket and slid it into the lock, feeling an odd mix of elation and guilt. If marriage tethered a man, divorce cuckolded him. And in Reece's mind the latter was far worse than the former.

The door opened on a silent house. He stepped inside, letting the familiar smells of home surround him. They'd worked so hard to turn what had been an eyesore into a retreat. And despite the change in circumstances, there was no denying the remnants of their life.

Memory could be dangerous though, and so he pulled in a cleansing breath and forced away the sentiment. Maybe he'd skip the drink and just head out on his boat. Next week, he'd finalize the papers for a slip at the T-Heads. Only a few blocks from his condo, the new berth would be ideal. The yacht club wasn't particularly his cup of tea, but it was a better alternative than housing the
Antigua
with Simone.

He stopped in the foyer, automatically reaching for the pile of mail on the credenza. There was nothing but bills and catalogs, most of them in Simone's name. He tossed them back on the table, wondering why she'd left the bills. Simone was a stickler for paying things on time. She practically wrote a check the minute the bill came out of the envelope.

When they'd first married she'd insisted on paying for everything with cash. A nightmare when it came time to present receipts to their accountant, Fred. But she'd explained that she hadn't had a lot of money growing up and that her grandmother had insisted they always use cash. He'd finally managed to convince her that banks weren't the enemy, but she'd never truly relaxed into the concept, preferring instead to micromanage their accounting to the point that he'd finally had to fire Fred, despite the fact that the man had been his accountant for almost seven years.

Maybe she'd just been excited to see Martin.

The thought reminded him of Tim's comments about Martin and Simone, and he scowled as he made his way toward the kitchen. It was a ludicrous notion.  Although maybe from the outside looking in it seemed different.  Still, the idea that his friend would even think that made him angry.

At the door to the basement he almost tripped over Martin's laundry. One bag tipped over, spilling out onto the parquet floor. Again he frowned, unease niggling at the back of his brain. Surely Simone hadn't done a complete reversal in his absence and turned into a slob?

He bent and straightened the bag, stuffing the odd pair of underwear back inside, his attention now focused on the details of the house. Everything was quiet, and except for the laundry and the mail, seemingly normal.

But something felt off. Some indefinable thing that teased at his senses. Years as a prosecutor had hardened an already keen ability to cut through the facade to the heart of a situation, seeing it for what it was and not what it appeared to be.

"Simone?" he called out. "Martin? Anybody home?"

There was no answer except the methodic ticking of the grandfather clock in the den. He walked into the kitchen.

The room smelled of lemon and verbena, the open window by the table filling it with the scents of the garden. The dishes were neatly stacked in the sink. A broken old mop lay drunkenly against the yellow step stool. A plate on the table held the remnants of a peanut-butter sandwich. Testament to Martin's presence. Simone had always spoiled him. The baby brother she'd never had.

Or so she said.

She certainly hadn't grown up in Wilmont, Ohio. He remembered the night she'd volunteered the information like it was yesterday. He could see the restaurant, see his friends Connor and Jenny.  They'd flown in from New York for a visit and they'd all enjoyed a much-needed evening out.

It had started innocently enough. Jenny telling a story about her mother taking on a plumber in the small New York town she came from. The conversation had turned into "top that story" as was so often the case, with Connor and then Reece trotting out their own parental foibles. When Connor had turned to Simone, Reece had joined his friend's cajoling. And after a baited pause, she'd told them about growing up in Wilmont. He could still hear her telling her animated tale about the tiny town. Bringing the residents to life as if they'd sprung fresh from the pages of a book—or a magazine.

He'd thought it a breakthrough, the first time she'd ever opened up about her past. But later, when he'd come across the article about rural Ohio, he'd recognized the details.

Maybe if he'd gone to her then it would have ended differently, but he'd been hurt, and suspicious. So following his instincts, he'd dug deeper on his own. And when he had proof it was all a lie, then he'd confronted her, his actions widening the already cavernous gulf between them.

Maybe he'd pushed too hard, but damn it, surely he, of all people, had a right to know the truth.

Whatever it was.

Some things are better left buried.

The words echoed through his brain, a lame line from an old movie he'd seen recently. But perhaps the warning was an apt one. His curiosity had cost him everything that mattered most to him.

He shook his head, dispelling his melancholy thoughts. It was the house. It was drawing him in, bringing back things better left forgotten. It had been a mistake to come here. He started to turn back for the door. To hell with his boat, better to just go home and forget he'd been here.

But as he turned, the papers on the table grabbed his attention.

The divorce decree.

With a morbid sense of curiosity, he crossed over to look at them, flipping to the last page, his stomach twisting at the sight of her spidery signature.

It was over.

Finito
.

Kaput.

Damn it all to hell.

He fingered the papers, tracing the signature line with his thumb. It was tempting to take them. To...

God, he didn't know what he wanted to do with them exactly. Emotion roiled in him, churning his gut. He just wanted it over. Wanted it behind him. Like cutting out a tumor or something. He wanted to be healthy again—whole again.

With a sigh, he tossed the papers back on the table, for the first time seeing Simone's wallet and phone. The niggling feeling was back, but this time it was full-blown worry. She never went anywhere without her phone. Not even the bathroom.

He picked it up and, in doing so, revealed her keys. They'd slid under the wallet, only the silver heart visible. He'd given her that heart for her birthday one year. From Tiffany's. So many little things that made up a marriage—and destroyed it.

He dropped the phone and headed for the back door. Maybe she was out there with Martin. That wouldn't completely explain the wallet and keys, but it would go a long way.

He crossed the driveway, stopping to right a pot of bougainvillea, and then headed into the garage. "Simone?" Again he called her name, trying not to give in to his rising sense of urgency. "Martin?" There was no answer, and he took the stairs two at a time.

The apartment was empty. The window curtain swayed lazily in the evening breeze and except for his growing sense of unease, everything looked placidly normal.

He turned in a circle, trying to find something—anything—that looked out of place. There was a T-shirt wadded up in the corner by the wing chair, and Martin's boom box on the table by the window.

And no sign of either Martin or Simone.

He moved to the window, scanning the yard for signs of life. The Honda sat in the driveway and Martin's beat-up old Volkswagen was parked in the garage. He'd seen them both on his way up the stairs.

So where the hell were they?

Suddenly a light went off. The boat.

They'd taken his boat.

It didn't make a bit of sense, but it was the only option remaining. The only one he was willing to consider. He dashed down the stairs again, this time turning to the boathouse door. Yanking it open, he ran inside, then skidded to a stop.

The boat was gone.

He pivoted back toward the door, anger threatening to consume him. It was his boat. And his brother. How dare, she take them both without so much as a by-your-leave? He knew his thinking was irrational, but he'd been so worried. Afraid that something had happened to them. And the discovery they were merely out cruising the bay left him with adrenaline to spare.

He stopped by the door, pulling in cleansing breaths. No need to lose it over something as stupid as a boat ride. Simone would be careful. She knew how much the
Antigua
meant to him. And it wasn't as if she hadn't taken the boat out before.

He leaned a hand on the door, then pulled it away with a frown. The door was pockmarked. The paint marred in a couple of places as if it'd been struck by hailstones. Which was, of course, impossible. He rubbed one of the indentations with his index finger, wondering what the hell had happened.

The door wasn't new. But as far as he could remember it had been unblemished. And based on the rough edges of the paint, he'd say whatever had caused the marks had happened recently.

He lifted his finger to his nose, the smell of metal and paint mixing with something tantalizingly familiar.

He bent to retrieve a piece of cotton caught on the hinge, and as his eyes took in the brownish stain on the material, he knew what it was he'd smelled.

Sulfur.

Gun powder residue.

He turned back to the open boathouse doors and the channel beyond. There was no sign of Simone or Martin.  But his gut was screaming now. He headed back toward the house, seeing it all from a new perspective. The tipped plant, the broken mop. The half-eaten sandwich. The forgotten laundry, mail and keys. Simone and Martin had left in a hurry. She hadn't taken the boat out for pleasure, she'd been trying to escape.

He grabbed his cellphone, punching in numbers as he headed for the car.  He had friends on the CCPD. He'd let them deal with the house. Look for trace. Something to confirm what he already suspected.

Simone and Martin were in trouble. 

And there was only one place he could think of that they might have gone. He slid into his car as the call connected.  "This is Reece Sheridan," he barked, as the jag roared away from the curb.  "Get me Detective Mike Iagos."

 

*****

 

SIMONE STOOD in the shaded alleyway beside the clinic. Port Aransas was overflowing with people, spring break in full swing. All the better to blend in. And fortunately, the clinic was already closed for the day, the parking lot empty, the traffic on Alister fairly light.

She'd already cased the clinic and there were no signs of occupation. There'd probably be a cleaning crew later on, but for the moment she seemed to have the place to herself, which was exactly what she needed.

BOOK: Eye of the Storm
9.33Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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