The Right Kind of Trouble (39 page)

He grinned as he said it.

Gideon blew out a harsh breath between his teeth before nodding.

A few moments later, the pontoon moved away with a slow, easy purr as Gideon shot Zeke a narrow look. “You really think we'll get anywhere near that island without being noticed? On this?”

“Hell, yeah. Seems to me that Hurst fellow knew exactly where he was going. That means he's been out here before. So he's seen Marvin. Chances are, Marvin's just invisible to him.”

Gideon set his jaw and fisted a hand in Frost's thick fur.

Please … please …

*   *   *

Infuriated and freezing, Charles followed one of the footpaths, looking for some sign of Moira.

It was hard to tell if anybody had been on it recently and he could have kicked his own bloody arse for not having a pair of shoes for her. Shoes left more-obvious tracks. He could look back and see where he'd walked just now easily enough.

Bare feet, though … not quite so easy.

A noise caught his ears and he swore, rushing east and following the trail up the hill until it crested. It was that crazy old garbage collector. The sight of him made Charles curl his lip, but he couldn't just ignore the old goat this time. He had to make sure Moira wasn't anywhere along the Louisiana side of the island. Easing his way down, he kept his gaze on the old black man, watching as he puttered around on the boat.

When he shouted out, Charles jerked as if he'd been jabbed with a hot poker.

“Hey up there!”

Charles looked around.

It took a moment to realize the miserable old duffer was talking to him. After a moment, he lifted a hand in greeting then retreated deeper in to the shadows. There was a quicker way across the middle of the island. He trotted back up the incline and cut through the woods until he found the path. The overgrowth was heavier for much of the way, but once he reached the top, it was rather clear and he could see down. He glanced over, trying to see the boat, but the trees along the northern edge blocked his line of sight.

Swearing, he continued along the path.

Another shot rang out.

The man on the boat yelped, his high-pitched scream almost exactly like a woman's. “What the sweet hell is that … did you hear that?”

Charles ignored him as he crouched on the ground. Would have been nice if a stray bullet had caught the man, saved him the trouble of worrying about him. Although … frowning, he shot a look toward the Louisiana banks. Hadn't they seen the garbage boat? Why were they still firing?

The old man was still swearing and raising hell—enough noise to draw Moira to him, too.

He didn't have time to worry about the old goat. “Barmy old codger.” He reached inside his wet coat and pulled out the Desert Eagle he'd bought. He'd already ejected the cartridge and put in another. Water had gushed out and he'd taken a practice shot across the river to make sure it would still fire.

While it wasn't as accurate a shot as he'd like, mostly all he needed to do was keep the buffoons across the river off his arse—and then maybe use the weapon on one or two others, after he'd taken care of things with Moira.

She was stubborn, his lovely ex-wife.

But she was also intelligent.

She wouldn't chose death over some misguided loyalty to a dead man and it wasn't like she didn't have enough money without Paddy McKay's fucking treasure. She wouldn't choose death over protecting
that
.

Movement off to the side caught his attention and he looked to the south, following the sound.

A flash of something tan and dull caught his eye.

It was over almost as quick as it had appeared, but in that space there everything else was shades of green or the dead of winter brown … and still.

Moira had been wearing a tan hoodie from her brother's idiotic pub and he'd seen that bit of tan inching away before it disappeared behind a tree.

With a smile curling his lips, he rose and started toward the stand of trees.

There was another shot, this one tearing into the dirt not even ten feet from him.

*   *   *

“You need to get on that island.”

Gideon bit back the sarcastic response that practically leapt to his lips.

Really?

Instead, he said calmly to White, “We're doing that.”

“Cordell is laying down fire, Marshall, but your vic is less than twenty feet from the perp. Again, you need to get on that island. Both were last seen on the southern side.”

“Fuck.” Gideon dragged a hand down his face while the tension in his gut twisted higher and higher.

Frost sat at the edge of the boat, growling low in her throat.

“Coming up on the dock, boys. Get ready to disembark.” There was little humor in Marvin's voice now.

“Can you get us closer to the southern side?” Gideon demanded.

“No can do.” The old man turned his head. “And you better be careful—and fast. There's a mama gator down near that end. This time of day, her little spot gets some sun, too.”

Gideon felt his belly clench as he lifted his head and focused on the southern spot.

“Son of a
bitch
.” He narrowed his eyes on the old man. “Are you positive?”

“Yep. She got pissed at me just a few months ago. You can see the parting gift she gave me on the back of the boat if you wanna take a look-see.” Marvin's face was grim.

“Aw, hell,” he whispered.

“No doubt.” Marvin nodded as another shot shattered the silence of the air. It came from high and to the south, maybe twenty yards down. Marvin gave an ear-piercing scream, but his face was neutral.

The man was one hell of an actor.

“If he's where he can see me, I can't give you any cover,” Marvin said, shaking his head. “But I don't think you can wait.”

The radio chirped and White's voice crackled out. “There's a hill on the island. He's running south along it. I think he's seen your vic again, but we lost sight of her. Your best chance. Move.”

They moved. Frost leapt after them, a low growl rumbling in her throat as she burst ahead of them.

*   *   *

Her lungs burned as she burst between a couple of trees standing close together. She'd seen them some yards back, thought there might be some place to hide.

But the moment she shoved past their odd growth, she'd realized her mistake.

Coming to a halt, she stood, oddly frozen.

She was in the middle of what looked like a … well, a circle.

Only it had been crafted by nature. By God. No man's hand had done this. The trees rose all around her, creating a living barrier to everything outside this strange little area, their branches stretching so far overhead that little light penetrated.

Little, yes. But not none.

Still, nothing grew in that circle. No grass. No leaves. No young saplings with thin branches straining overhead to seek the sun.

Nothing.

Something cracked behind her and she whirled.

Her heart leapt into her throat and she wanted to scream when she saw Charles emerge from the trees. “Ah … I should have known you would find it without me. After all, I had no trouble discovering it for myself. I think it calls to us, Moira.”

Idiot. Fool.
She barely heard his words, too busy yelling at herself for not running.

Charles paced a little closer, but instead coming to her, he began to circle around her.

“Do you know where we are?” Charles came to a stop in front of her, less than five feet away.

In his right hand, he held the gun, but it was lowered to his side, the muzzle pointing straight to the earth.

Moira dared to let herself breathe a little easier at the sight.

“My version of hell on earth?” she suggested. “It wasn't so bad being trapped on an island with you when the island was Fiji, but I think this is a little much.”

He clicked his tongue. “You want to be nice to me right now, Moira.” Waving his hand around, he said, “After all, you
are
trapped on an island with me and I have this.”

Now he lifted the gun, pointing it at her.

The sight of the massive handgun would have been laughable if he hadn't had it pointed directly at her face. Just went to show that she knew more than she thought she did about weapons—she knew that gun. It was a Desert Eagle and thanks to Brannon's love for weapons, she knew a thing or two about it. It was one of the most sought after weapons
and
plenty of people who got one bought it without knowing much about it. It was too big for Charles' one-handed grip and she knew it would kick when he fired.

Yes, it might have been laughable, except for how close he was. Whether he could fire at a target twenty yards away didn't matter when she was just a few
feet
away.

Still, she kept her voice relatively calmly as she said, “The next time you want a weapon, have Brannon take you out shopping. That thing won't kill what you point it at—it will
pulverize
it. There won't be enough to put into a body bag at this range. So if you're trying to terrify me into silence”—she let fear bleed into her voice—“go ahead, keep swinging it. But if you actually have some bragging or questions that you want to address, you might want to get that done first.”

To her surprise, Charles cocked his head to the side and then nodded. He lowered the gun but he didn't put it away.

“You didn't answer me, love.” He waggled his left finger in her face. “Do you know where we are?”

“I did. It's my version of hell. A small island … alone. With you.”

A tic pulsed in his cheek and his eyes flashed. Moira didn't let herself jump when he took a step toward her. She knew Charles. Maybe she didn't know him as well as she thought, because clearly she hadn't seen the crazy in him, but she knew him well enough to understand what was going on. He might try to kill her—and while that thought was enough to loosen her bowels—he wasn't going to do it yet.

He wanted to brag about something. One of the things she'd come to hate about him was how he loved to lord his intelligence over others. And he had that glint in his eye again.

“No, my darling,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “This is Paddy's Point, Moira.”

She stared at him.

“What … don't you know about Paddy's Point?”

When she didn't respond, Charles took another step toward her, lifting his weapon hand and using the muzzle of the mammoth handgun to nudge her tangled hair back. “It was here where he waited, along with George Whitehall, Jonathan Steele, and some of his own men. The pirates had to go through a gauntlet and they didn't even know. Half of the men were on this side, half on the riverbank, just a little farther south so they wouldn't get hit by friendly fire. Your sainted ancestor was quite the strategist. They slaughtered the pirates, boarded the ships, and made off with gold and jewels and goods.”

“You don't know this is the place,” Moira said, withdrawing from the cold, matte surface of the gun he stroked down her cheek.

“But I do. See, Paddy kept journals, didn't he? So did George.”

His eyes were all but blind now, blind and fervent.

“George.”

“Yes.” He lowered his head, whispered softly. “He kept journals … he drew pictures. The geography of the river hasn't changed
that
much, my love.”

“You…” The feel of his lips against her ear made her want to retch, but she didn't want to jerk or tense away when he had the gun so close to her. No, she was almost positive he wouldn't kill her yet, but she wasn't going to be stupid and push her luck. “Do you have journals that belong to Whitehall? How did you get your hands on those?”

“Hmmm…” He turned his face into her hair.

She tried not to shudder.

He pulled back and smiled down at her. “Pet … don't play dumb. I was watching the feed, you know. I'm certain by now that the bobbies, inept as they are, have found them and let your precious Gideon know about them. You all were closing in, I had to do something.”

He shoved a hand into her hair and fisted it, jerking her head back so hard, it brought tears to her eyes.

Moira bit her lip to keep from crying out, glaring up at him.

“Tell me, Moira … how much do you know?”

Trying to breathe past the pain in her scalp, she smiled up at him. “Well, a bit of this. A bit … of that. Starting with the fact that you're a crazy-ass bastard. Should I go on?”

He let go so suddenly, she swayed caught off-balance.

A moment later, she was on the ground breathless while Charles stood over her. He calmly holstered his gun before squatting down in front of her. “Moira, my dear. We really do need to talk. Acting like that is not going to help your situation at all.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“Bad angle,” Zeke breathed out, his words barely a whisper. “Can't get past him at all. Got to move … or make him move.”

Gideon expelled his breath and rose.

Zeke grabbed his arm. “Boy…”

“You're the one who said we gotta make him move.”

He emerged from the trees. It wasn't until he'd done it that he realized his mistake. Frost was right at his knee. He hadn't told her to stay. She was whining low in her throat now and when Charles whirled around, hefting Moira up with an arm around her waist, those whines turned into outright growls.

They were deep, low in her chest, and tension rolled off the dog in waves.

Gideon could only see one eye peering at him over Moira's shoulder. Charles had both arms wrapped around her struggling torso now, making her a very effective body shield.

Frost slunk low to the ground, ears flattening to her skull.

Her tail wasn't wagging now.

This was no longer a game.