Going Overboard (36 page)

McKay's face was carefully guarded. Carly knew that he agreed completely.

At any moment she expected the two men to pat her on the head and give her another doughnut.

They needed her badly enough to shanghai her there and detain her for hours before telling her the truth. Now that they had what they wanted they planned to brush her off like some kind of dimwit?

She hid a smile, a plan forming in her mind. If they wanted a retiring female who knew her place, that's exactly what they would get.

“Of course,” she said quietly. “That's probably the best idea.” She smiled demurely.

But not too demurely. McKay was no fool. “It's been a long day, what with being kidnapped and all,” she added.

“Excellent.” Grace looked relieved. “You enjoy your rest tonight and we'll talk again tomorrow. Meanwhile, leave it to us to decide what's best for your friends in Santa Marina.”

Carly didn't consider resting, not for a second. By eight the next morning she was strapped into the passenger
seat of a private plane flying over the Caribbean with Santa Marina dead ahead.

“Excellent visibility, Ms. Sullivan.” The pilot pointed to the speck of land growing on the horizon. “You want me to set you down at the main dock?”

“No.” Carly scanned the horizon with a pair of binoculars lifted from the base before she'd slipped out. “I'm looking for a yacht called
Daphne s Choice.
It's usually moored just off Sunrise Point. You can set me down in the water about a half mile out to sea, and I'll take the inflatable boat in from there.”

“But—”

“Don't worry. I know these waters, and the weather's perfect. No storms are expected.”
Except the storm that hits when I arrive.

She couldn't let McKay and his team go in without updated information, and no one was more familiar with Sunrise Point than she was. As an old friend, she could pay an unannounced visit to the Brandon yacht without raising the slightest suspicion. If she found nothing amiss, she would notify McKay, then head for the Brandon estate.

The plane banked and she watched the white granite walls of Santa Marina's government house glow in the sun, all the while reviewing her plan one more time.

“What do you mean, she's gone?” McKay towered over a crestfallen MP “When did you last check?”

“Five minutes ago, sir,” the officer explained in a thick Georgia accent. “I was told to get the lady some breakfast from the mess. I wasn't gone long, sir. When I returned, she didn't answer the door, so I went inside and—”

“And she was gone,” McKay said in disgust. “Did anyone actually see her go into her room at the barracks last night?”

“Yes, sir. Took her in myself, sir.”

“And have you seen her since?” he demanded.

The soldier flinched, yet remained at attention. “Sir, no sir. She said she was tired and was going straight to bed. I believed her, sir. We never expected that she would—”

“When I want excuses, I'll ask for them, soldier.” McKay picked up the telephone on the worn desk. “Get me the gatehouse,” he said gruffly. “This is Commander McKay.”

The line clicked, then was answered by a deep bass voice. “Sergeant Riley here. How can I help you, sir?”

“I'm looking for Ms. Sullivan. Have you seen her?”

“Affirmative, sir. I called her a taxi myself at 0500 hours.” Papers ruffled. “She said she had to go to Miami for some photos and tapes you required for today's briefing.”

“I don't suppose anyone considered phoning me for verification,” McKay said as he rubbed his forehead.

“No, sir. Ms. Sullivan was not on my ‘detain’ list. I checked just to be sure.”

No, of course she wasn't
, McKay thought sourly. No one had expected her to sneak off right under their dumb, unsuspecting noses. The lady had done a number on all of them, him most of all. She'd had no intention of staying behind while her friends were in danger, and by now she was probably halfway to Santa Marina.

The thought chilled him to the bone.

“We'll discuss operating procedures later, Sergeant,” McKay grumbled. He hung up, then dialed the CO, already working out an alternate plan. With Carly in the field headed toward a hostile force, they would have to push the drop schedule forward. If she wasn't careful, she could tip off Vronski that an action was imminent. Meanwhile, there was no way in hell he would allow the irritating woman to get herself hurt.

They were going in.

T
he sea was blessedly calm when the pilot launched an inflatable boat from the sea plane and Carly wriggled inside. He had given her water, a compass, and careful directions on how to start the outboard.

Now he watched anxiously while she yanked the motor cord. On her third try the engine growled to life, and Carly waved checked her compass, then sliced through the water toward the Brandon yacht, moored a half mile due west.

Her costume, as she thought of it, was artful yet simple. A scanty string bikini hugged her beneath a gauze shirt, which she would dump when she got close to the yacht. Her small, glittery bag held sunscreen, a bottle of designer water, a miniature camera, and a cell phone.

At her feet lay a bottle of excellent Russian vodka to be used as a prop, should she require it.

As she bumped along through the water, Carly fought down her anxiety. Panic was out of the question or she'd fall on her face.

With the white bow of
Daphne s Choice
rising before her, she pulled on a floppy hat and surveyed the deck discreetly. Two men with crew cuts and huge arms were standing near the stern. They were dressed casually in loose, flowing shirts.

No one Carly recognized and she knew all of the Brandon staff.

Which meant that
these
were the bad guys.

One of the men turned. Carly saw him point toward her while his companion raised a set of binoculars. Quickly she slipped off her gauze shirt, then began to wave wildly.

Keep it light
, she told herself. She was a woman on vacation traveling in search of an old friend no more. Nothing to raise suspicion. By sheer determination she kept a big smile in place as she pulled up beside the gleaming yacht. One of the big men sprinted along the railing above her.

Her heart pitched when she saw his gun leveled at her face.

McKay was making a final predeparture check of satellite photos of the Caribbean when his second glanced up.

“Sir, I think you'd better take this call. It might be Ms. Sullivan. She sounds funny—”

McKay snatched up an extension before the man had finished speaking. “Who is this?” he demanded.

The connection was tinny, broken by occasional bursts of static. A cell phone, McKay thought, or maybe a marine connection.

“This is Carly calling for Ford. That's you, isn't it, dearheart?”

Dearheart?

“This is McKay. Is something wrong?”

Her laugh echoed over the line, but there was something forced about it. “Oh, everything's fine down here in Santa Marina, dear. Sun and fun and lots of lovely things to drink.”

Ford heard the clink of ice cubes and then a brittle laugh from Carly. “Oops. I just spilled another drink. Maybe I've had one too many.”

Her giggles sounded as if she were halfway to Margaritaville.

“Carly, what the hell—”

“I'm here on
Daphne s Choice
and I miss you terribly. It wasn't at all nice of you to choose your job over a week of partying on the yacht. There are at least fifteen men here that I don't know. Doesn't that make you jealous?”

McKay's nerves snapped to full alert. “Fifteen men,” he repeated, understanding that Carly was feeding him clues. “Russians?”

“Mad and bad ones, I'd say. They are all so … big and masterful.”

“They're heavily armed?”

“Mmm. There are two of them right here, and I just know they think I'm a crazy redhead.”

“You're crazy, all right,” McKay muttered, a shaft of ice slicing deep into his chest at the thought of Carly surrounded by Vronski's thugs.

“I'm lonely without you, too, dearheart. Now hush and listen to me. I have to watch the minutes here.” She gave a loud, dramatic sigh. “I think you should bring your work down here right now. You've had enough time to look at old videos and relax. Round up some of your friends and bring them along, too. I'll make you real glad you came. Know what I mean?” She gave another drunken giggle, which he knew was forced. Carly seldom drank—and never giggled.

He tried to match her light tone. “Better watch that drinking, honey lips. Whiskey goes right to your head, remember.”

There was a pause, and then Carly chuckled. “That's me, old honey lips.” She made a string of loud kissing sounds. “Better hurry up because it's getting pretty wild here with Carnival. Lots of noisy strangers.” Her voice tightened. “Even some big truck thingies with turrets in the streets.”

“I hear you,” McKay said curtly.

“You want to talk to Daphne?” Once again ice cubes clinked near the receiver, as if Carly was waving a glass. “I don't know where she went. Daphne!” she called, her

words slurred. “Where did you go? Uncle Nigel? Too bad. I guess someone took them away in that big silver boat with all the radar. And things were just starting to get fun. Hey—”

McKay heard a man's voice and rustling, as if there was a struggle going on. The cry of seabirds rose in counterpoint to a man's voice speaking Russian. Furious Russian.

“No way I'm not done yet,” Carly said breathlessly. “I want to say goodbye to my friend. Why, you big—”

There was another burst of angry Russian, then the line went dead.

McKay gripped the phone, his jaw clenched. Carly was in deadly trouble. Evidently her guards thought she was making a frivolous call to her boyfriend, thanks to her clever performance, but she'd been caught. The two men would be shark bait for allowing her to make any kind of communication. Whoever the new arrival was, he hadn't bought her story and he wouldn't let her out of sight again.

McKay stood rigidly in the center of the briefing room and stared at a fixed point, marshaling his panic and summoning up the cold professionalism on which his life and the lives of others depended.

Carly's life, too.

He couldn't afford to make any mistakes in a reckless rush to find her.

Review the message
, he told himself.
Assess. Plan.
Implement.
Get Carly the hell out of there.

Then he would lock her up to keep her from ever pulling a crazy stunt like this again. But first he swore he'd kiss her senseless for being so damned smart and providing him with such excellent intel, at the risk of her life.

He'd read her message loud and clear: There were strangers, probably hostile, everywhere on the island and fifteen men positioned on the yacht, where Carly was

currently being held. She'd also managed to warn him that Daphne and her father had been taken from the yacht to a vessel equipped with lots of radar, and that there were “truck thingies with turrets in the streets.” Tanks?

All in all, it was excellent intel. McKay and his team would act on it immediately, once he relayed the information along the chain of command.

Striding from the room to alert his team, he barked out an order to his second. “Get me a printout of that call immediately, then run it for translation. Someone was speaking Russian and I want to know exactly what he said, even if he's only ordering another case of cold Stoli from the galley.”

But McKay knew the Russian was issuing far more serious orders. He prayed desperately that they didn't include harming Carly.

S
he was going to throw up, Carly thought.

   She was curled on a dirty cement floor, her hands and feet bound by heavy industrial wire that cut into her skin every time she moved. Her stitches ached and her forehead throbbed from the blow she'd taken from one of the goons aboard the yacht.

After that, everything slid into a blur.

She had awakened in darkness with a shattering pain at her temple and imminent nausea. Through the wall she heard the low rumble of machinery and an occasional burst of voices, but no one had come to check on her.