Safe Harbor (51 page)

Jonas boarded first, moving as soundlessly as possible, trying to puzzle out the implications of Karl Tarasov's execution. He gained the deck and lay flat, waiting for his heart to stop pounding as he oriented himself to the surroundings. Jackson slid into position beside him and they pulled their gear from their waterproof bags and readied themselves for war. Jackson fit the radio piece into his ear and gave Gray instructions for his men. Two guards patrolled the deck. They would take them out as quietly as possible to allow Gray to get his men onboard.

Jonas signaled Jackson forward and he moved in the opposite direction, circling around to get in position to take out the guard as he came back around. He drew his knife and waited, heart pounding, a bad taste in his mouth. This day would haunt him. He knew it had to be done, and he was more than willing to kill these men to keep the Drakes safe, but that wouldn't make killing any easier. He just wasn't wired that way. His mother—and the Drakes—had seen to that.

The guard loomed out of the fog, his footsteps muffled, merging with the sound of water slapping the sides of the yacht and the occasional cry of a bird overhead. Jonas let the man go past him and stepped in, arm whipping up fast, knife sinking deep. He let out his breath, holding the guard while the life drained out of him before easing him to the deck. He asked the universe for forgiveness even as he was making his way down to the next level, seeking Boris Tarasov with every intention of ending his life—and wasn't that irony? Sometimes he made himself sick.

Jonas heard Jackson whispering through the earpiece. "I'm looking at Karl Tarasov alive and well. He's talking to two of the guards in front of the master state room."

Jonas frowned. There was no doubt in his mind that Karl was anchored at the bottom of the sea. "Are you sure?"

"It's him. He just patted a guard on the back. They laughed together and he went into the stateroom. The guards definitely think it's him."

"One at the helm," Jonas said. "He's got a bird's eye view, Gray, get one of your best on him." He made his way slowly down the stairs, hugging the wall, careful to make no sound as he eased each foot forward.

Someone laughed as he passed the salon. Jonas crouched down, making himself small as he studied the layout. The rooms were spacious, but there weren't a lot of places to hide. Movement attracted his attention. Karl Tarasov came out of the master stateroom, clapped a hand on the guard's shoulder and gave him orders. The guard snapped to attention. Jonas studied the Russian captain. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His uniform jacket was immaculate, not a wrinkle, the same with his pressed trousers. The shoes were polished and every hair in place. He walked down the hall to the salon and disappeared inside. Only then did Jonas realize he was wearing thin black gloves over his hands.

Jonas swore under his breath and lifted the gun, silencer in place. Before he could pull the trigger, both guards went down almost simultaneously, a crimson hole blossoming in each forehead. Jackson moved past them, kicking the guns out of the way and reaching for the door.

"Damn it, Jackson." Jonas had no choice but to cover him.

Jackson slipped inside the master stateroom, Jonas right behind him. Boris Tarasov lay on the bed. His eyes were wide open, staring and glassy. The bed beneath him was soaked red and around his throat was an obscene smile.

"Son of a bitch," Jonas said, and then spoke into his radio. "Gray. Tarasov is dead. I repeat, dead. It looks like Karl Tarasov killed him before we got here. I saw him coming out of the room just before we entered." He hesitated a moment before tossing in the red herring. "I think we stumbled into a power play, a takeover, going on here."

Gray swore softly in his ear. "Ben reported seeing Karl go toward the salon where the Gadiyan brothers were last seen. Everyone be damn careful, and for God's sake, keep the son of a bitch alive. We need one of the major players talking."

Jonas shook his head. If that was the real Karl Tarasov, then who was in the water? And if it was Karl, he would never be taken alive, Gray should know that. He was handicapping his team, sending them against a lethal killer and ordering them not to fire. They moved in tandem, Jackson point man, clearing the hall, and Jonas sweeping each room as they passed, then guarding their backs. Gunfire erupted in the vicinity of the helm.

Jackson let out a sigh. "There goes any advantage we might have had."

More gunfire burst out on the deck, this time a volley answered by another volley.

The doors to the salon burst open and bullets sprayed the hall, slamming into the walls and shattering glass, tearing up everything in their path. Two men stood side by side, automatic weapons blasting as they hurtled themselves out of the salon toward the stairs. Gray's men returned fire. One agent screamed and lay writhing on the floor, another was flung backward into the wall.

Jonas felt the familiar rage welling up and forced it down, taking careful aim, taking his time, making the shot count. Yegor Gadiyan went down without a sound. Viktor Gadiyan reached with one hand to try to grab his brother's collar and drag him even as he continued to spray the hall in a systematic and very thorough sweep. The noise in the small confines of space was deafening as well as frightening. Jonas stayed crouched low in the tiny alcove, sweating, pinned down, and waiting for an angry bullet to strike him.

Off to his left, Jackson signaled him, putting three fingers up, one by one indicating in three seconds Jonas needed to draw Gadiyan's fire. Jonas closed his eyes and sent up a silent prayer. He counted to three and allowed the edge of his shoulder to show for half a second and jerked back into cover. Bullets thudded all around him, spitting splinters into his face and shoulders. He heard the single shot Jackson squeezed off followed by a heavy body hitting the floor and then absolute silence.

Jonas looked at the wall around him. Bullets had smashed into the wood in every conceivable spot without hitting him.

Some higher power was working to save him, but he didn't believe it could have been the Drakes this time. He allowed himself a moment to slump against the wall in relief. Viktor Gadiyan would have killed him given another few moments. He saluted Jackson, who was already checking the bodies.

Once more they began the dangerous task of clearing rooms. Overhead they could hear the firefight continue as Tarasov's men fought Gray's unit.

The earpiece erupted with a burst of chatter. "Karl Tarasov is trapped on the upper deck!"

Gray began snapping orders and both Jackson and Jonas took the stairs quickly, racing to try to intercept Gray's men. Jackson circled to the left and Jonas went right. Tarasov's back was to Jonas. The Russian snapped off an occasional shot to keep the agents away from him as he made his way to the railing. The agents were trying to surround him and take him alive. Jonas silently slipped into position behind him, cutting off his escape.

The fog thickened, swirling in and around the yacht, closing them into a gray, wet world, muffling sounds and cutting visibility nearly to zero. Karl Tarasov turned and ran right into Jonas.

The two locked wrists as Tarasov brought up a knife in one hand and a gun in the other. Jonas drove him back toward the railing as they thrashed around, his body between Tarasov and the agents, preventing them from a clear shot. Jackson twice brought up his weapon and dropped it, when Jonas was thrown into the line of fire, unable to see through the blurring action and the thick veil that shrouded the yacht.

Jonas slammed Tarasov hard against the rail, still struggling to control the weapons. The gun dropped into the sea. Tarasov, in a sudden burst of strength, threw Jonas back a step and smashed his fist hard into Jonas's jaw. Jonas staggered and the Russian turned and dove into the churning water. Duncan Gray ran to the edge of the railing and peered over.

"Damn it. Just damn it." He pounded the railing with his fist. The water was choppy and dark, the fog making it worse to see. "He can't survive in that. It's too cold. He doesn't have a wetsuit on and we're too far from shore for him to swim. Get out there and look for him. He's got to surface."

Jackson reached Jonas and whipped him around, examining him for injuries. He pulled his earpiece free. "You hurt? That had to be Prakenskii."

"I recognized his eyes," Jonas agreed as he pulled off his own radio and slipped it into his gear bag. He rubbed his jaw. "He enjoyed that just a little too much," he said. "I'm going to have a whale of a bruise."

"Quit belly-aching. Those women have made you go soft. Two minutes after you hit the front door, they'll be all over you." He pitched his voice higher. "Oh, Jonas, darling, does it hurt? Let me make it all better for you."

Jonas shot him a glare. "You're just jealous because they don't fuss over you."

Jackson watched the boats searching the water in a grid pattern. "He's long gone, Jonas, they'll never find him."

"That was always the point, wasn't it?" Jonas felt inexplicably tired, weariness setting in all the way to the bone.

Jackson surveyed the damage. "I'm just glad this is over. Let's get home."

"Sounds good to me." More than anything else, he wanted to be with Hannah, because wherever she was, that was home to him.

JONAS stood in his mother's bedroom and inhaled the faint scent of jasmine. He knew it grew just outside the window, climbing two stories on a trellis he'd put up himself when he was fourteen. He'd opened the window every day for years to allow the scent into the room because his mother had loved it, and now, smelling the fragrance gave him the illusion that she was there with him.

"Today's my wedding day, Mom," he said softly aloud. "I'm marrying the woman I always told you I would someday." He was silent a moment, listening to the echo of his voice in the room.

He'd read a thousand books here, even more poetry. He'd slept in a chair and later a small cot. There had been love in this room. Hannah was so right. It had been a tragedy for a young boy, but it hadn't been all bad, there had been wonderful times. Laughter and whispers of secrets—like marrying Hannah Drake. He told his mother often and she never told a soul, encouraging him to follow his dreams, and assuring him that young Hannah would grow up into a wonderful woman someday.

"You would love her if you knew her now, all grown up,
Mom. We both wanted the wedding here so you could be with us. If you look out the window, you'll be able to watch the ceremony and reception. The day turned out to be beautiful, although honestly, I don't know if the Drake sisters are keeping the fog and mist at bay, or whether it's natural." He ran his finger along the windowsill. "I wish you were here. You would love this. All these people. The clothes. Hannah made me dress up in this white zoot suit. We're doing a black-and-white-themed wedding. Nineteen twenties for you and Dad."

He stood for a few minutes again in silence. Voices drifted up from outside, where most of Sea Haven had gathered. There was no such thing as a small wedding, even if you were having a private, intimate gathering, not in Sea Haven. The Drake family alone comprised well over a hundred easily. Anyone growing up in Sea Haven had to invite everyone from the town, as they were considered more family than friends. He found himself smiling as laughter reached him from the lawns below.

"I did exactly what you said. I found a woman who will always be my best friend. She's so beautiful, Mom, and she overlooks those little flaws you were telling me about. She has a way of looking at me that makes me feel—makes me know—that I'm the luckiest man in the world."

He stood at the window taking in the semichaotic scene below. He'd always felt part of the Drake family, but now, when he was officially joining his life to Hannah's, he felt joy and an overwhelming happiness. "We're going to use this room as the nursery. I want our babies to feel your presence from the moment they're born. We plan on filling the house up with children and laughter, the way you always wanted it to be, and we're counting on you to help us look after them."

Jonas walked around the empty room. He'd long ago taken the bed out. He'd hated that bed, knowing his mother had felt a prisoner in it. Her things had been carefully packed, her most favorite possessions sentimentally kept in a glass cabinet in his den. He missed her, especially now, on this day, the one she'd so looked forward to.