Unintended Target (Unintended Series Book 1) (18 page)

TWENTY-SEVEN

A lopsided wave smacked into the hull, sending spray over the railing and generously spritzing Chloe. She licked the salt from her lips and ran a hand over her damp hair, or at least what was left of it. A deck hand moved industriously around her, working the forty-foot trawler, never making eye contact. The captain, presently perched above her in the cockpit, would smile at her occasionally, but that was the extent of their interaction. Jack had instructed them to leave her alone. He trusted Manny, but the men in his employ were a different matter. It seemed to have worked. They were a day into the two-and-a-half-day trip from St. Gideon to Puerto Rico, and not one of them had bothered her in the least.

Jack strode over from a spot on the opposite side of the bow and cupped a hand over her ear. “We’re hitting a bit of a rough patch,” he said, his shirt flapping wildly in the breeze just as it had on the beach the day they met. The boat listed unpredictably, and Jack steadied himself with a hand on the rail.

“We okay?” Chloe asked, growing concerned about the darkening clouds.

Jack nodded. “We checked the radar. It looks like a tiny system. Shouldn’t amount to much, but you’d probably be better off in the cabin.”

Despite the looming trouble, she swore he was nearly grinning. He’d spent most of the their time on the craft playing captain to the actual captain, overseeing the cockpit, barking directions to the deck hands, checking and rechecking their plotted course. He was clearly no stranger to extended sailing. Knowing he was on top of things, especially out here on the water, made her feel safer.
I couldn’t have picked a better partner in crime if I’d planned it.

She left him on the deck and moved below to the cabin they occupied at the far aft. It was exceedingly small, with a bed barely larger than a twin and an airplane style bathroom just large enough for her to squeeze into. She had no idea how Jack managed it. A sudden pitch to the left threw her off balance, and she stumbled, landing awkwardly on the bed. Rolling over, she stared at the low ceiling as the rocking picked up, trying to distract herself from the growing storm by making sense of the mildew stains that formed shapes like clouds. Before long her thoughts had drifted again to the journey that lay ahead.

According to Jack, they’d land in San Juan sometime late the next night. They’d chosen Puerto Rico because it was a U.S. territory. If they did run into trouble using their passports, at least they’d be on U.S. soil with a better chance of being heard out and not sent back to St. Gideon. If all went well, the morning after arriving they’d fly out of San Juan to Orlando, rent a car, and head south to Miami, where they’d walk into Herb Rohrstadt’s law office and finally get some answers. Or at least that was the plan.

The boat leaned hard to the left, and for the first time since they’d sailed from St. Gideon, Chloe felt nauseated. She closed her eyes. Despite the lurching, it wasn’t long before Chloe slipped into a light sleep, hazy and warm. She was aware of nothing else until Jack finally returned to the cabin and clicked on the single-bulb sconce, casting a dim sixty-watt glow about the tiny room.

“What time is it?” she asked, slowly sitting up and rubbing reality back into her eyes.

“Six.”

“How’s the weather?” she asked groggily.

“Better.” As he said it, she noticed that the boat wasn’t rocking quite as violently anymore.

Jack sat on the foot of the bed and patted her leg in an ‘atta-boy’ fashion. “You slept through the worst like a pro. Even snored a bit.”

Chloe smiled and caught the scent of something wonderful. Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning. “Whatch’ya got there?”

Jack held a plate out to her. “Freshly caught this afternoon. Broiled it myself. Sorry the rice is plain, but we ate the last of the potatoes yesterday.”

The grouper, drizzled with butter, melted in her mouth. “This is amazing, Jack.” She held the fork out to him.

He shook his head. “Had mine already, thanks.”

“Well,” she said, her mouth half full, “this could definitely be a second career for you.”

He smiled. “I was working on my second when you came along.”

She rolled her eyes and favored him with a smile. “At least we know you’ll never take a turn as a hairdresser.”

He snorted. “You’re one to talk,” he said, running a hand over his head, reclining on the bed so that he was stretched out on his back beside her.

The hair might be different, but the smile was the same as the one she’d first seen on the beach. And just as endearing.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

His eyes narrowed quizzically, “Um, sure,” he said uncertainly.

She grinned. “How many times before me had you used that ‘football to the head’ pick-up act?”

He flipped onto his left side and propped his head up on one elbow. “I admit that was
really
bad. And, for the record, I did not tell him to actually hit you with the ball. But,” he said, his voice softening, “can you blame me?”

Her heart hummed as his gaze held her, drawing her in. The distance between them seemed to close without either one moving, until, finally, he
was
moving towards her. And then, suddenly, he wasn’t.

Pressing his eyes shut, he let out a controlled, exasperated breath and pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. She sat there, unmoved. When he turned back, he gave a sympathetic half-smile. “You said friends, right? You swore off the entire male race. And here I go taking advantage.”

Take advantage, already.

“Forgive me?” he asked hopefully, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Wouldn’t want to frighten you off now when you need a friend the most.” He raised his hand, configured in the Boy Scout’s sign of honor. “I promise to remain harmless for the duration.” He closed his eyes. “Pooped and harmless.”

“Yeah, sure,” she eked out, her breath having finally found its way back to her lungs. “No problem. Totally forgiven.”

“So,” he said, “It’s been kind of a long day. Would you mind if I took a quick shower and turned in for the night? Or do you need me to keep you company?”

She shook her head. “Nah. Go on. You’ve got a long day of playing sailor ahead of you tomorrow.”

After a very quick shower in what he described as trying to wash in a shoebox, Jack fell soundly asleep, his chest rising and falling in an even, peaceful pattern.
He really is a good guy,
she thought, watching him intently
. He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be mixed up in this.
Guilt mingled with anger mounted, with anger steadily overtaking. Some of it was directed at herself for losing the flash drive and for being so gullible when it came to her brother. But the greater share was reserved for Tate.

Tate, the only man she’d ever truly trusted, had let her down in the worst way possible. Jack, a complete stranger, had proven himself to be the closest thing to a savior she’d ever known. The irony pinched her spirit as she reached over to pull the blanket up over Jack’s shoulder and waited for morning to come.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Chloe had no idea how long she’d been asleep, but when she woke Jack was asleep next to her, his arm thrown protectively over her. She blinked a few times and yawned drowsily. She was restless, ready to stretch her legs, but she quashed the instinct, afraid that the slightest movement would wake him. And he was so tired. She forced herself to relax and simply wait for him to stir so she could slip out from under him, unnoticed. But he slept like the dead, and, ten minutes later, he hadn’t even twitched.

I have got to get up.
But despite what her brain said, another part of her had to admit it did feel nice. Very nice. And safe.
But I would get up if I could. Did almost. Will get up, as soon as he moves.
But it was so warm. And comforting. She sighed contentedly, and he grunted, then rocked away from her. Chloe hesitated, momentarily considering not moving at all, then slid off the lumpy mattress and tip-toed to the bathroom a few feet away.

Calling it closet-sized would be too generous. When she drew shut the accordion panel that served as a door, she had only enough room to stand in that spot, or to sit, but nothing else. The tiny shower by the toilet was just a two-foot square shower pan surrounded by a worn navy curtain on an angled rod.

“How did you even fit in there, Jack?” she mumbled, eyeing the shower before leaning over the narrow metal sink and peering into the mirror. She placed her hands on either side of her face and pulled her cheeks taut, then released them. Her skin seemed limp, worn out. Why shouldn’t it be? Every other part of her was. Grey circles underscored her eyes, the whites feathered with strands of red. And then there was the hair.
Hopeless.

“I thought short styles were supposed to be low maintenance,” she grumbled, turning on the chrome-plated faucet and wetting her fingers. She ran them through the matted mess, taming the worst of the stragglers.
Not much better.
Deciding she might feel better after washing her face, she grabbed what used to be a white bar of soap in a cup attached to the wall. She went to wet it, but smacked her elbow on the countertop. Her funny bone zinging, she dropped the soap, which rolled under the metal sink unit. She gritted her teeth, waiting out the pain and trying not to groan, afraid she’d wake Jack. Once the pain subsided, she got down on her knees and peered under the sink, looking for the soap. It had rolled as far back as possible, stopping against a wrinkled envelope that was folded in half.
Must’ve slid under there during one of the boat’s constant lurches,
she thought, grabbing them both. She stood back up, replaced the soap and unfolded the envelope.

The first thing she pulled out of it was a passport. She flipped it open to the inside cover and chuckled. “Nice beard, Jack,” she said, eyeing a photo of him that must’ve been taken a while back, judging by the facial hair and the little bit of extra weight he was carrying.
Gotta be more careful with your things, though,
she thought, realizing he must have somehow lost the envelope when he showered earlier. Then she noticed the name typed below his picture.

Michael Jonathon Bartholomew
.

Nails fired in her stomach in all directions, her heart galloping in her chest as she stood there, shaking. Staring at those words.
No. It can’t be,
she told herself.
But then . . . what is this?

The truth was, she knew. Deep down inside, she knew. She flipped through the other things. A New York driver’s license for Michael J. Bartholomew. A couple of credit cards in that name. A checkbook.

It can’t be. It just can’t be
. Her knees buckled and she dropped to sit on the toilet lid, competing voices screaming in her head.

This doesn’t make any sense.

Another voice countered.
Oh, yes it does. It makes horrible, awful, perfect sense.

All the little things that had given her pause about Jack at one time or another, all the things she had dismissed because she had wanted to, needed to, started to add up. Why would anyone care about a stranger as much as he seemed to care about her? Why would anyone follow her this far, put themselves in this kind of danger? They wouldn’t. Not unless they had a reason to. And then there were the other things. Like how he had bested the intruder in her cottage. Overpowering two armed assailants on his boat. His relationship with a drug dealer. Not to mention his familiarity with guns—

The guns.
They were both in the bedroom with him. She returned the items to the envelope and tucked it in her back pocket. After flicking off the overhead light, she gingerly pulled the door open. It squeaked, but Jack’s form remained motionless on the bed. She tiptoed over to a low shelf built into the wall beside it. Traces of moonlight filtering through the porthole outlined a spare blanket stuffed into the shelf. She reached a timid hand up, groped beneath the blanket, and felt the gun she knew was hidden there. Gently, she slid it off the ledge. Jack didn’t budge.

She didn’t have to look for the second gun. The night before he’d slept with it under his pillow, easily within his reach. She wouldn’t give him the chance to get to it. Moving to the foot of the bed, she aimed the gun at Jack’s chest, then released the safety.

TWENTY-NINE

Korrigan sat rigidly in his seat on the private jet, just an hour out from the Miami Regional Airport. His head was slightly tilted back, his eyes shut as if resting, though in actuality he was fully alert. Across the aisle from him, Vargas finished tapping on his phone and set it down.

“Sir?”

“Yes?” Korrigan answered, his thin lips barely moving.

“You said you wanted an update if anything changed.”

Korrigan’s eyes flicked open. “And?”

“We’ve got him.”

“Collings? Where?”

“No, sir, not physically. I mean we’ve identified him.”

Korrigan raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“It’s what we thought. He’s ex-military. The dangerous kind.”

* * * * *

Jack’s eyes flew open when he heard the click of the safety.

“Chloe, what—”

“Who are you,” she interrupted in a steady, firm voice. Her stare was riveted on him, her amber eyes narrow and dark.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, pushing himself up.

“Don’t!” Chloe shouted, jabbing the gun in his direction.

“Chloe, don’t point that thing at me!”

“I mean it, Jack! I found the passport.
Michael Bartholomew’s
passport.”

His face dropped tellingly. “Look,” he cautioned, motioning downward, “just be careful.”

“Start explaining or I’ll shoot just to be on the safe side.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“And what do I think, Jack? That you’re a liar? That you aren’t who you say you are? What part of that isn’t true?”

Jack spoke slowly. “You have to know I wasn’t—I’m not—”

“You’ve got ten seconds.”

He sighed in surrender. “Michael Bartholomew is me. Michael
Jonathon
Bartholomew. Jack is short for Jonathon.”

“Then who’s Jack Collings?” she demanded.

“That’s me, too.” He watched her closely. She hadn’t moved but the gun had begun shaking. “It’s just an alias. A name I’ve been using to avoid . . . people.”

“You’re
in
on this aren’t you?”

“No! See that’s exactly—”

“You’re working for them!”

“Working for them? They
shot
me, Chloe!”

“I don’t know who shot you! For all I know you shot yourself to make it look good,” she stammered. “You set me up on the beach didn’t you? It was all just a ploy to get close.”

“Meeting you on the beach was a total fluke, Chloe. I did
not
set that up,” he countered emphatically. “And I am not working for anybody! I tripped into this thing just like you.”

She ignored him and barreled on. “Maybe you’re working for yourself. Maybe you knew Tate from Miami. Did he tell you about this, this, scheme, or whatever it is? Did you decide to go after the money yourself—”

“Chloe, will you shut up and listen to me? I don’t know anything about the money and I’m not out to get it or you.”

“Who recruited you?” she persisted.

“Are you listening to me? It’s just a coincidence.”

“You want me to believe that right before this insanity starts I coincidentally meet the one person who
happens
to perfectly fit the bill for the position of white knight? Your average unarmed person can’t hold off two armed men, Jack—no wonder you’ve been so rock steady. And, let’s not forget,” she added, her voice bordering on hysterical as she gestured with her free hand at the boat, “who also happens to have
access to the perfect getaway vehicle
!”

“I know how it looks, but you have to believe me.” His voice leveled and his eyes took her in as if trying to will her into believing him. “All of it—the combat skills, the composure under pressure—it’s my military training.”

She stared at him blankly. “What military training? You never said anything about being in the military.”

“I was a Navy SEAL, Chloe.”

She laughed maniacally. “A Navy SEAL? Are you seriously going with that? And you want me to believe
that’s
a coincidence? That I just happened across the only Navy SEAL on all of St. Gideon?”

“No.” His flat answer surprised her, and her expression showed it. “I know it seems too coincidental to be true. But that doesn’t mean I’m lying. Maybe there’s just a bigger plan going on here—”

“The only plan going on here is yours and Sampson’s!” She held up the passport. “Normal people don’t use aliases, Jack!”

“They do if they’re hiding from someone,” he shot back, then held his hands up, begging her off. “Just bear with me for a minute, okay? Hear me out.”

She raised an eyebrow and with one hand gestured impatiently for him to continue.

“I told you that I came here right after my divorce as a sort of . . . escape from it. But what you have to understand is that it wasn’t your typical divorce.” He hesitated briefly, then plunged in. “Chloe, have you ever seen a movie called
Battlezone Zero
? Or heard about it at least?”

She stared at him blankly. He tried again. “Have you seen it?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Chloe, did you see it or not?’

“Yeah, I saw it. The one with that Scottish actor.” 

He nodded. “That was my team.”

“
Your
team?” she asked. “The one stranded in . . . what, Afghanistan?” Chloe’s eyes widened disbelievingly. “You’re asking me to believe that was
your
SEAL team? As in you were
on
that mission?”

“I know how it sounds, but it’s true. After I left the service, a publisher approached me and a buddy of mine—he thought my English background would help—and asked if we’d consider co-writing a book about it. It took some convincing, but, eventually, we did it. The book did well, and when they ended up making it into a movie, I was the consultant on it. It’s easy to check, if you don’t believe me. Anyway, I made connections with some people in the industry, and it sort of turned into a regular thing—consulting on movies, books even, when there’s a military angle—just behind the scenes, really—”

“What exactly are you saying?”

He sighed. “I really am an English professor. I finished my master’s degree while in the service and got my doctorate right after leaving. But the thing is, well,” he paused, looking embarrassed, “it just
sounds
so boring. So, back before Lila, I used the Hollywood thing to be, well, more interesting. You know, when I’d . . . meet women and . . . it was stupid, I know. And when I met Lila, she was working to be an actress, so being a ‘consultant’ on movies and knowing a few people really got her attention. It didn’t hurt when she realized I was worth a little bit, too.”

When Chloe looked confused, he clarified, a sad mix of embarrassment and distaste glossing his face. “Family money. Anyway I guess between the two she figured it was a good idea to marry me. Unfortunately, when my connections didn’t pan out, she got tired of me and moved on.”

He searched Chloe’s face, as if looking for some sign that she believed him, then continued. “But she didn’t want to move on from the money. For the last two years, I’ve had one sleazy private investigator or another constantly following me.
Everywhere.
Some places you wouldn’t even believe. And this woman that I loved—that I thought loved me
for me
—did it so she could bleed me for all I’m worth, trying to dig up something she could use to blackmail me into a bigger settlement.”

He rubbed his eyes, as if disgusted by his own story. “In the end Lila got her settlement, but it wasn’t anything like what she was hoping for. She threatened to keep the heat on me, and I just couldn’t take it anymore. So I left and came down here. I holed up in a hotel and just tried to forget.

“I hadn’t been there a week, when I met this girl at one of the fishing piers—you know, the ones downtown near the wharf? Anyway, she seemed nice enough, and we sort of hung out that afternoon. She gave me her number and even though there weren’t any fireworks, I figured, why not, can’t hurt to make a few friends down here, right? But when she shows up at dinner the next night, she’s got this weird glow about her. Almost buzzing. That’s when she tells me she’s Googled me. Knows all about me. Can’t believe her luck.”

Jack snorted and shook his head. “I’m not even sure I said anything to her. I just remember getting up and walking out. Cleared out of my hotel that night and by the next day was living on a rented boat, walking around as Jack Collings.”

He paused, letting all of it sink in for a few moments. “There were just too many strings attached to being me. I didn’t want Lila to find me, and I didn’t want anyone else to want to be around me for the reasons she had. And the only way to be sure that didn’t happen was to
not
be me.”

“So why didn’t you tell me?”

“And when would I have done that, Chloe? When we first met? That would’ve been a charming opening. ‘Hi, my name’s Jack Collings, only that’s not my real name. It’s an alias I’m using to hide from my ex-wife while I escape from my life for a while.’ And then all this started happening. You were already suspicious and scared. I was afraid if I told you the truth you’d think I was in on it. Or at the very least not trust me.”

For several moments she held her quivering stance, judging his story, weighing his alibis. Finally, she rendered her verdict. “I don’t believe you,” she insisted stubbornly, her visibly trembling hand still poised to shoot.

“Chloe,” he urged gently, “come on. Do you really think that if I was going to lie to you
this
is the explanation I’d come up with?”

Wet drops pooled in the corners of her eyes. “I don’t know what to think,” she mumbled distrustfully.

“Well, I don’t know what else to say to convince you. I just—” He cut himself off, his expression brightening. “I can prove it. You can check—” he said, stepping towards her.

“Hey!” Chloe shouted, jabbing the gun at him.

He froze, holding up his hands again. “I just—look, grab one of the phones Manny got for us. Mine’s right over there,” he said, nodding his head towards another built-in shelf. “Just Google me. You can see for yourself that I’m telling the truth.”

He wasn’t lying. It only took a second for her to use the boat's Wi-Fi to pull up a handful of sites referencing Michael J. “Jack” Bartholomew, the former Navy SEAL, now a published N.Y.U. English professor and, sometimes, behind-the-scenes movie consultant. There were photos, too, and though they showed someone a little heavier and much paler, and most with that ridiculous hair and goatee, it was clearly Jack. A short but vitriolic post from some low-grade online gossip rag outlined the terms of the ugly ending of his divorce. It was just as he’d said.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice was noticeably unsteady.

“I told you why,” he said gently, and crossed to her. As he neared, she lowered the gun and he took it from her, tossing it onto the bed. He stood there waiting for what seemed like an eternity, their eyes searching one another out, until finally she gave in, letting him gather her up amidst her fierce sobs.

* * * * *

Once she managed to calm down, she slept. He held her tightly, promising safety, if only the little bit that was within his arms reach. For both of them, consciousness came and went with the lullaby-like rhythm of the ocean as the night spent itself. As dawn approached, her mind began spinning again.

“Tell me something, Jack,” she whispered, the feeble light of morning slipping through the porthole, painting the room a pinkish-gray.

“Mmmm?” he mumbled drowsily.

“Why English?”

Jack twisted towards her. “What?”

“English. The English thing? Just—why English?”

He sniffed and stretched his neck, giving the impression he was working on waking up. “I just, always liked it. Ever since I was a kid, I’d read anything I could get my hands on. When we had to settle on a major it just seemed like a natural fit.”

“It just seems an odd choice for somebody with your—skills.”

He pulled a face, and with an air of the dramatic, recited, “
Oh, to be all that I am and to not be forsaken. To be held high, a banner of my own, in splendor and grace and to not be judged, and the words—oh the words—that they would be light and airy and full of promise—”

“Okay, you need to stop now.”

“I’m just saying,” he quipped. “Know who wrote it?”

“Umm . . . that poet that starts with an ‘S’—oh, what’s his name—”

“Okay, now you stop,” he sighed, pretending disgust. “Not even the right century. You really weren’t kidding about being bad in that class.”