Zero Escape Page 10

  His expression washed with confusion. “You’re correct.”

  “In that case, I trust you to charge me the going rate.”

  “Hmm. That price is one way. I assume you want a return trip?”

  Strangling the silver owl in her fist, she broke eye contact. Charlene hadn’t thought that far ahead. But the answer was obvious. “Of course, I want a return trip.”

  “Okay then. When?”

  “When?”

  “Yes, when exactly did you want to return?”

  His question had her nerves fraying, and she glanced away, silently debating a suitable response. A crescendo of raucous laughter sounded behind her, and she spun to watch a group of three young couples stagger onto the main wharf. Grateful for the interruption, she stepped aside for them to pass and systematically contemplated a suitable answer to his question. She wouldn’t leave Cuba until she had her answers. But she didn’t want to stay even a day longer than she needed to.

  Once the noisy group had faded into the shadows, she finally met Marshall’s gaze, and his expression signaled he’d been waiting her response.

  But she was taken off guard by his emerald-green eyes. They were flecked with copper that shimmered in the surrounding yachts’ twinkling lights. But it was something else she saw in them that had her breath catching in her throat. Honesty. Integrity. Loyalty. But, most of all, security. She hadn’t felt safe in months, yet within a couple of minutes in Marshall’s company, she already felt like he’d protect her with his own life. It was an overpowering sensation.

  He lowered his gaze first. “Look.” He rubbed his hands together, emitting a rough sandpaper sound. “Let’s get going, and you can fill me in on the finer details once we’re underway.” He grabbed her case without asking, turned on his heel, and strode down the wharf, with the suitcase wheels making enough noise to wake anyone lucky enough to be sleeping in the opulent yachts around them.

  After a moment of bewilderment, she dashed after him.

  The marina was much bigger than she’d initially thought, and the boats gradually became smaller with each berth they passed. It was several minutes before he stepped onto a side wharf. He finally stopped at a boat that for some reason seemed to perfectly suit him. It wasn’t ostentatious like many of the boats they’d passed. Its shiny chrome proved that he looked after it, and it seemed efficient and practical, much like her first impressions of Marshall.

  She glanced at the name. “Miss B Hayve?”

  He cocked his head at her. “Yeah. You have a problem with that?”

  His tart response had her wondering if she’d hit a nerve. “Not at all.”

  “Good. Follow me.” He stepped onboard with her bag in hand and headed down a set of steps.

  Charlene followed him down the polished wooden steps, holding the railing as she went. The room below was bigger than she’d thought it would be and was decorated in honey-colored wood, stainless steel, and navy-blue fabric. His military training could well be the driver behind the immaculate condition everything was in. He carried her case to the far end and plonked it on a bed that must’ve been custom-made to fit the triangular space.

  He turned to her and seemed to be much taller in the enclosed space. Broader too. “What do you know about boats?”

  After a second’s pondering, she decided to give him one of her father’s favorite sayings. “I don’t know what I don’t know.”

  The muscles along his jawline bulged. “Right then. Come and give me a hand.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  He shuffled past her to climb the steps. “Captain. Not boss.”

  “Yes, sir.” She giggled, plonked her handbag onto her suitcase, and then followed him up the stairs.

  She stood at a central position on the lower back deck, while he pulled in the gangplank and nestled it alongside the rail. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Can you unhook the bowline?” He didn’t elaborate by pointing out what he meant, and she assumed this was a test. Aware that he was watching, Charlene climbed a set of three stairs and edged along the narrow ledge toward the front of the cabin cruiser. She knelt down at a rope dangling over the side and tugged on it to edge the boat closer and provide some slack. At the perfect moment, she flicked it from the T-shaped cleat on the wharf, and when the loop holding the boat in position released, she flipped it up to catch it and then looped the length of rope into position.

  When she stood and turned to where she’d last seen Marshall, his gaze perfectly depicted a man impressed. Her intentions were complete. “What next?”

  “Come on back, and we’ll get underway.”

  She retraced her steps and met him on the small lower deck. Behind him, she spied a smaller boat elevated in a secure position at the back. It was wrapped in white canvas that showed zero signs of aging. Just like the rest of the cruiser.

  “Ladies first.” He indicated the set of steep stairs that led to the upper flybridge.

  As she climbed up, she tried not to picture him looking at her butt. Men were like that, though. Her years of waitressing had taught her to ignore the ogling. Most of the time. When it became too creepy, she was known to spill the odd drink or two on the culprit. Twice she’d had men that didn’t get the hint, and both times she’d applied enough pressure to the nerve below their collarbones to have them on their knees long before the security guards caught onto the situation.

  She’d always thought Peter’s insistence that she learn martial arts was because of the nature of the “cheap-labor” jobs she’d held. But maybe he’d had a grander plan. Maybe he always knew that his secrets would eventually be revealed. And maybe, all along, he was preparing her for this mission.

  That was a lot of maybes. Too many.

  She turned her attention back to her current situation.

  The flybridge at the top of the stairs was fully contained, giving them an elevated view while protecting them from the elements.

  “Take a seat.” Marshall’s gruff voice showed his no-nonsense attitude, and she instantly scrubbed the potential for small talk from her unwritten agenda.

  On the front console, the steering wheel was positioned in the center, so she sat on the right-hand side of the white leather seat, allowing plenty of room for Marshall. He plonked himself at her side and flicked a couple of switches, triggering the engines.

  Within a few minutes, they left the berth and were navigating their way out of the marina. Marshall remained silent, so she did too. Over the years, she’d learned that some people were just wired that way, and if Marshall didn’t want to talk, that was fine with her.

  In the distance, the ocean was as black as the sky, and the only lights were the red and green markers highlighting the shipping channel. As they passed the last set of berths, Marshall pointed toward the last boat tied up alongside the wharf. In the dimmed marina lights, it appeared to be a dirty mustard color, and the canopy over the bulkhead was tilted at a precarious angle. “That’s Warren’s boat.”

  She assumed he was seeking recognition for saving her, so she turned to him and met his gaze. “Thank you.” She contemplated elaborating, but decided that he didn’t seem to need nor want that.

  “You’re welcome.” He pushed the throttle forward, and the boat quickly gained speed.

  He waited until the marina lights were barely a few dots behind them on the horizon before he cleared his throat. “You can head downstairs and sleep if you want.”

  “Oh no, no. I’m not tired, thanks.”

  “Hmm.” Silence again.

  It was a further ten or so minutes before he adjusted in his seat. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

  “Neither do you. I figured you weren’t the conversational type.”

  “You told me not to ask questions.”

  “Not true.” She gave in to a smug smile. “I asked you not to ask too many questions.”

  “Right.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask for your money?”

  “You’ll pay me.”
He said it with a confident smirk.

  She half giggled, half huffed. “Oh, I will, will I?”

  “Yep. Or else you’ll be living on Cuban soil for a very long time.”

  He had her there. She had no intention of staying any longer than she needed to. Not that she had anything to come home to. She didn’t even have a home. Charlene should be used to that. There’d been many times in her life when she didn’t have a home. But now—now that she was homeless and alone—it seemed so much sadder.

  “So, you know what we’re doing is illegal, right?” As his cast-iron glare captured her eyes, she decided that he must’ve held a high rank in the military.

  “Yes. I’m aware of that.”

  “Are you going to tell me why you have to get to Cuba in a hurry?”

  She angled her head up at him and decided to reply using one of her father’s tricks. “Army, navy, or air force?”

  “Hmm, that’d be a no then.” He shifted his eyes back out to the blackness surrounding them. “Navy. How’d you guess?”

  “I’ve seen my share of military personnel.”

  “Yeah, how so?”

  “I spent a bit of time in Charleston, South Carolina.”

  “Huh. What’d you do there?”

  She shrugged her shoulder. “Waitressing.”

  “Is that where you learned your boating skills?”

  Although she’d barely shown him anything yet, she liked that he was impressed enough to call them skills. “No, we spent a bit of time on a houseboat in Austin, Texas.”

  “Texas. You get around a bit, huh?”

  “You could say that.” After her experience with Detective Chapel, she had no intention of trying to explain her nomadic life to anyone ever again.

  “Right then.” He rolled his eyes at her. “Change subject.”

  “Why did you leave the navy?” She decided to take charge of the conversation.

  “I didn’t leave.”

  As much as she wanted to bite, she remained silent instead. Miss B Hayve ploughed through a wave that Charlene hadn’t spotted, and as she clutched at a chrome rail to stop from hurling forward, water washed up over the windshield.

  “I was medically discharged.”

  He showed no concern over the height of the wave that’d just engulfed them, so Charlene tried to quell the anguish welling up inside her. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Color blindness.”

  She huffed. “That’s very unfortunate. How long were you enlisted?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “Wow, you must’ve joined up young.”

  “Thank you. Yes, sixteen.”

  For the first time since they’d met, he smiled, and the transformation was stunning. It changed him from a man who seemed to be going through the motions of life to a young man, eager to please. She liked what she saw. It showed another layer to Marshall that she hoped to see more of. “That’s so young. I had no idea what I wanted to do when I was sixteen.”

  “So, what did you do?”

  She huffed. “Everything. And nothing.”

  “Cryptic.”

  “Waitressing. Bar work. Whatever paid the bills.” Before he could ask another question, she added, “So are you married, have kids?”

  “Nope. I was engaged once. To a Cuban woman. No kids.”

  “Really? How did you meet her?”

  “I was stationed at Guantánamo Bay for a while. I thought it was love, she thought it was her ticket out of Cuba. Not that I blame her. It was pretty rough for a woman back then. Still is, I guess. I still see her from time to time.”

  Charlene’s ears pricked up as she realized Marshall’s knowledge of Cuba might be able to help her with more than just a trip across the ocean. “So, you cross over to Cuba often?”

  He cocked his head at her, his lips drawn into a wry grin. “I’ll answer that when you tell me why you’re going to Cuba.” Then he leaned forward and flicked a switch, plummeting them into absolute darkness.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The instrument panel offered enough light for Marshall to see Charlene’s wide eyes and clenched jaw, yet he was impressed that she didn’t completely wig out.

  Her grip on the chrome rail made her knuckles white, and she glared up at him, her eyes ablaze with fury. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Hiding from the Coast Guard.” He pushed the throttle to maximum speed, and his baby responded with a deeper rumble and an elevated bow.

  Her eyes skipped from him to the blackness ahead and back again. “What if we hit something?”

  “If we hit something, we’re in deep shit.”

  “Well, that’s comforting.”

  “Just telling the truth. Now hang on, while I get us through this.” The quicker they crossed into international waters, the better.

  Miss B Hayve ploughed through wave after wave, skimming over the liquid black ocean like a dream. Lack of moonlight made it impossible to see the waves. Their first knowledge of when they’d hit one was with the boom of the water breaking the bow, followed by the water over the windshield. He tried not to look at Charlene’s eyes or her white knuckles clutching the railing. His focus needed to be on the water. If he did see something, he’d likely be right on top of it, with little time to react. He just prayed it wasn’t a shipping container. Or worse . . . a boatload of refugees.

  The only good thing about the lack of moonlight was that a Coast Guard patrol would stand out like a dog’s balls, and conversely, they’d have little hope of spotting Miss B Hayve.

  To chance even one spotlight would put their freedom in jeopardy. And although he’d taken this very risk several times before, for some reason, having Charlene in the firing line had his brain rubber-banding from “We can get through this” to “We’re fucking stupid.”

  He’d been on many lifesaving missions. He’d also completed thirty-one missions that’d put his men front and center in life-threatening territory. But they were trained for it. Some even begged for it. Him included. The thrill of being in jeopardy became as necessary as oxygen. They also knew the ultimate cost. There was not a chance in hell Charlene knew the consequences of what they were doing. And it was going to be even more dangerous once they hit the other side.

  Even once Miss B Hayve crossed that imaginary line that put them in international waters without a hitch, hope and trepidation still filled his mind. He cut the speed back a fraction to give him a couple more seconds of reaction time.

  Charlene’s ability to remain silent was both a refreshing change and annoying, to the point where he was beginning to feel stupid for not asking more questions. But rather than shoot the herd of elephants in the room, he decided on a different approach. “You hungry?”

  “Umm, just a bit.”

  “Good. Me too. Down in the galley you’ll find ham-and-cheese sandwiches already made up in the fridge. I hope you’re not one of those vegan, gluten-free types?”

  She giggled and backed that up with a smile that was stunning. “No, I eat anything.”

  “Great, me too. We’re going to get along just fine. There’s a sandwich toaster down there if you want to heat it up.”

  A sudden look of sorrow engulfed her, making him wonder if she was about to burst into tears. But before he had time to question it, she slipped off the chair and disappeared down the steps. Her floral scent lingered, though, and he admonished himself for liking it so much.

  Other than Red, Marshall hadn’t had decent company in a long time. The closest thing he had to a companion was the stray dog who’d taken to sleeping on his front porch. He hadn’t had the heart to shoo the three-legged mutt away, so he’d named him Hoppa and started tossing him his dinner scraps. Despite himself, Marshall liked having the scrawny mongrel for company.

  And that there made him a sad sack of shit.

  The instant his mind went to considering Charlene as nice company, he clenched his jaw, eased forward on his chair, and attempted to concentrate on the blackness around him
. But the empty void ahead had his thoughts bouncing right back. Charlene was young and beautiful and didn’t need a has-been like him ruining her future. Nope. The second she was done with his unique skills, she’d be off like a rocket. And he wouldn’t blame her one bit.

  The intercom button on his panel buzzed, triggering a smirk as he pressed it. “Yes.”

  “Would the captain like a drink?” Her voice sounded cheeky, and he imagined that beautiful smile he’d seen brightening her face.

  “A Coke, please.”

  “Coming right up.”

  He couldn’t recall anyone else thinking to use the intercom to talk to him on the flybridge. Every other person who’d wanted his attention called from the bottom of the stairs. Her resourcefulness put her way ahead of most of the people he’d had on Miss B Hayve. It also showed confidence and initiative. Charlene was already on his most-interesting-person list, but the more he learned about her, the more he wanted to know. Getting her to open up was the challenge.

  Her footsteps announced her approach, and he had to resist glancing around to watch her arrival. “There you go.” She placed a can of Coke and a plated sandwich on the ledge beside him.

  “Thanks. You not having any?”

  “Yes. I took you up on your offer to toast it. I’ll be back up in a sec.”

  She left to return downstairs, and he decided to wait for her before he started eating. A couple of minutes and a few huge waves later, she returned with her meal and a bottle of water and slipped into her seat.

  “Smells good,” he nodded at the sandwich.

  “Oh, do you want me to toast yours?”

  “Nah, it’s all good.”

  “It’s no trouble, only takes a minute.”

  “No. I’m good. Love a good toasted sandwich, though, don’t you?”

  She spun to him, a frown wobbling across her forehead.

  “What?”

  “It’s just . . . my father and I, well, we made toasted sandwiches into an art form. We’d compete over the title of best sandwich maker.”

  “Ha, that’s right up my alley. Your father still around?”

  She snapped her eyes away. “No, he, umm, passed away a few months ago.”