Going Overboard (11 page)

“That looks adequate.”

“Maybe you need to help me out.” He tossed the bottle back to Carly “Just to be sure I get the details right.”

Gritting her teeth, Carly tapped out some oil and

pressed it against the center of his chest. “That should do it.”

“Feels like you missed a spot.” Because it annoyed her, McKay took her hand and slid it across his chest. If she was irritated enough, he figured, she couldn't obsess about the shoot.

“That's it,” she snapped. “You can let go of my hand.”

McKay scanned the cliffs, relieved to see Izzy on a path high up in the trees with a camera case over his shoulder. There was more than camera equipment inside it.

“Guess you're right.” He turned, satisfied with his appraisal, which had also revealed St. John in a Jeep parked beyond the road. “Why don't we get started.”

Somewhere a bird cried, shooting through the foliage.

McKay froze, staring up the hillside, then bit off a curse as he reached for the canvas bag at his feet.

“What's wrong?” Carly demanded.

He gestured to Daphne, who jumped down from a nearby rock. “Get down,” he growled. “Both of you. Now.”

“I don't understand,” Carly said. “Why—”

He lunged toward the edge of the pool. As he shoved Carly and Daphne down onto the cool moss, noise exploded around them.

B
ullets screamed from everywhere at once, snapping branches and ringing off the rocks.

McKay opened the canvas bag and pulled out a gun. A swimsuit wouldn't conceal his Browning automatic, at least not the suit Carly had given him.

A bullet slammed past his head and he rolled into a crouch, his Browning level along his leg. “Are you two hurt?”

“No,” Carly rasped huddled beside her friend. Her eyes widened at the sight of the Browning.

“Keep down, both of you.” Crawling toward the edge of the pool, he peered around the waterfall.

Someone shouted. Hank was huddled over a tripod his headset clutched to his chest. The prop woman was frozen behind a rock.

Despite their danger, McKay knew his duty lay here, protecting Carly and Daphne. Izzy couldn't break his cover and would be doing what he could in the background. St. John had to be aware of the attack by now and would be moving in with his men. Meanwhile, McKay had to buy the police officer some time.

He crawled toward a pile of props and equipment, searching until he found what he needed.

Sandbags.

Electrical tape.

Heavy steel wire.

A fair start for a SEAL trained to improvise.

Bullets cracked off the rocks, splintering nearby branches. McKay looked back at Carly and Daphne and realized they were still exposed to the sniper fire coming from the trees just south of the road. He crossed toward them in a low crouch and pointed up the cliff. “Climb beneath that overhang, both of you. Stay low.”

“But who—”

“Do it,” he ordered, already uncoiling the wire and pulling it over the ground. He tethered the first line near the base of the falls, wound around two boulders at ankle height. No one could pass through the water without crossing the wire. He tugged the second wire into place close to the women's hiding place, positioning it five feet high, stretched between two trees.

The first line would trip an attacker. With any luck the second would do some serious damage as the body was catapulted forward into a fall.

His first task done, McKay grabbed the heavy tape and wrapped the smaller sandbag in position at his chest. It didn't come close to tactical Kevlar, but the packed sand would afford some protection against a bullet. He had to stay alive to keep the women alive. To do that, he had to even the odds.

He crouched near the ground and listened to the gunfire, picking out the distinctive burst of an automatic weapon. By counting bursts, he calculated that close to twenty rounds had been fired. The sudden silence meant an empty magazine, which would give him a short break between cycles so he could move if he had to.

“Is my crew safe?” Carly rasped behind him.

“No casualties when I looked.” Not that he'd had time for details. Damn, where were St. John and his backup?

Water jetted, then suddenly sprayed backward. A man slammed through the waterfall, hit the first row of wire, and went down hard before he could get off a shot.

McKay knocked him out with a slashing stab from the

side of his hand, making certain he was removed from action.

Carly stared at him, her face colorless.

A burst of machine-gun fire exploded off the cliff, raining chips of granite as another man broke through the waterfall. McKay tackled him hard.

Across the bank, Carly watched the men grappling. Their images seemed blurred like old film flickering on a bad screen.

Only it wasn't film.

The danger was terrifying and real. Either the attack was a random robbery or these men were after Daphne. The daughter of the governor of Santa Marina would be worth a fortune to the right people, Carly knew, and even as a girl, Daphne had been coached in security procedures by her father's staff.

The man on the ground coughed struggling to sit up. McKay was busy grappling with the second attacker as the first surged to his feet, looking for his fallen weapon. Blind instinct sent Carly plunging down the rocky slope to get the gun first.

“Carly, stop,” Daphne hissed.

“Stay back,” she snapped. Stumbling, the attacker made for the weapon glinting in the sunlight. He smiled as he lunged forward not far from the rock where Daphne was hidden. The smile fled as Daphne hurled a champagne bottle at his face, and Carly swung up a metal pipe from the prop pile, toppling him to his knees.

Daphne closed in and hit him on the head with a sandbag to finish the job, while Carly gripped the pipe protectively, ready to help if necessary.

Something whined through the waterfall behind her, sending up a spray of glittering silver. The world seemed to tip, pain exploding through her side.

Her knees buckled. Around her, water flashed like smoke, and her vision blurred. She tried to ask if her crew was safe, but the words came out jumbled. She looked for McKay, desperate when she couldn't find him.

“Daphne?” The word was a mere breath of sound, swallowed by the savage burning at her side as she fell.

“Carly, can you hear me?”

McKay clamped a towel over Carly's side. Beneath the welling blood, he saw the ragged path a bullet had torn through her skin.

He cursed when she didn't answer. The sight of blood spreading over Carly's blue shirt had stunned him. Then his training kicked in and he scrambled to stabilize her, controlling the blood loss.

Daphne knelt beside him, her face white but determined as she fought down panic. In the distance came the sound of frightened questions. Otherwise all was quiet.

“How bad is it?” Daphne whispered.

“She hit her head when she fell. She probably has serious blood loss combined with a head injury,” he said grimly as Carly began to twist in his arms.

He managed to hold her still as he heard the distant two-note whine of sirens. “About damned time,” he said savagely. Even as he spoke, Inspector St. John seemed to melt out of the trees, flanked by three armed men. They had cuffed two attackers between them, and McKay was glad to see that being gentle wasn't high on St. John's list of priorities.

“Are any of you hit?” The officer rounded the waterfall, and his gaze swept down, hardening as it settled on Carly.

“She took a bullet. Possible trauma to the head when she fell.”

“We've got an ambulance en route.”

“Damn it, en route isn't good enough.” McKay snapped. Despite his steady pressure at her side, she was losing blood fast.

Daphne looked up with an audible intake of breath. “Inspector St. John, what are you doing here?” Her face

lost its last hint of color. “Did my father send you?” She swallowed pushing out the words. “You think this was meant for me?”

“No way to know, Miss Daphne,” the police officer said gently. “Not until we question these men.”

McKay saw her shudder, just once, before she clamped down on her fear. “Do something for Carly. My God if she doesn't—” She was blinking hard.

“She will,” McKay vowed. “I'll see she gets through this.” He was already replaying the attack, searching for clues to motive and source, cursing the fact that Carly hadn't stayed where she was supposed to stay.

But the blame was his. He should have been faster. He should be the one lying hurt, not Carly. Pain was part of his job description, right next to danger, no private life, and risk of life and limb. Carly was a civilian, and his job was to keep her safe.

He'd failed and because of that Carly was wearing the blood right now.

McKay couldn't shake the cold weight of that knowledge as he looked down at her strained face. He barely noticed when Daphne touched his hand. The siren wail was very close now, but time seemed to stretch out, measured in eternities before three men in white jackets scrambled up the rocks carrying medical kits and oxygen equipment. Inspector St. John pulled him away from Carly as the medics went to work.

Nikolai Vronski chose a peach and studied it carefully. “Report.”

“The work is being done at this moment.”

“The details were made clear?”

“All of it arranged by phone, as you required.” His subordinate, a former champion weight lifter with buzz-cut blond hair, put a cellular phone on Vronski's granite coffee table. “They will phone me when the work is finished.”

Work.
As if they were writing a report or building a dam. At another time Vronski might have found it amusing.

He slit a wedge of skin gently from the peach. “And the payment was accepted?”

His subordinate permitted himself a slight smile. “With no problems. I thought it wise to haggle about the price at the last.”

Vronski stared at the tender, peeled peach. “So they wouldn't think we gave too much, too easily. Very thoughtful, Sergei.” He fingered the neat piles of hundred-dollar bills stacked near his right hand, more money than he could once have imagined. It was pleasant to riffle through the bills, watching the ugly face of the American president gleam in the tropical sunlight. But something continued to bother him. “It might have gone badly today.”

“The threats had to be carried out. You had no choice.”

Something moved in the depths of Vronski's eyes. Regret, or perhaps simply weariness. “A man always has a choice. You forget that at your peril, Sergei.”

“Of course, sir.” The athlete nodded, silent and respectful.

“That is all. Go below and check on Yoshida.”

In the quiet that followed, Vronski's hands closed on the neat pile of bills. He raised his face to the sunlight and closed his eyes. “So it begins,” he whispered.

She tried to make sense of the voices. She needed to tell McKay that something was on fire, maybe her side, but the sound wouldn't come.

Someone kept shaking her, the movement like metal teeth dragged across her burning skin. She asked if Daphne was safe, if her crew was unharmed. She asked again and again.

No one seemed to hear.

B
lackness blurred into gray. Weight pressed down on Carly's chest.

Can't breathe.

Light burned into her eyes. An eternity came and went, followed by silence that faded rising into muffled sounds. Someone was talking, touching her forehead. McKay…

No.

Disappointment fell with crushing force. Where was he? Where were Daphne and the crew?

She blinked as a woman in a white coat held a light before her eyes, every movement making Carly's head ache. She wanted to tell her to stop, but the woman's voice was too gentle. Her espresso-colored skin was smooth when she took Carly's pulse.

“Daphne?” Carly winced at the effort to speak, her throat painfully dry. “Where's Daphne?”

The woman put down her light and laughed. “She's pacing right outside your door. You two appear to be quite a team.”

“A regular Laurel and Hardy.” Carly's fingers tensed. “She's not hurt, is she?”

“She's as healthy as anyone can be with three gallons of coffee racing through her system. How do you feel?”