Zero Escape Page 11

  “Sorry to hear that. Sounds like you were close.” Despite the limited light, he didn’t miss the turmoil on her face.

  “Yeah, we were.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “I haven’t seen her since I was six.” She nibbled on the corner of her sandwich.

  “Oh, sorry about that.”

  She shrugged. “No need to be.”

  He lifted his Coke, and as he sipped, he stewed over how to get her talking. It was an unusual conundrum. Most women he’d met didn’t shut up. His thoughts bounced to some of his darker days in the navy. The times when he’d stepped very close to the edge in order to get a man talking. He’d heard some pretty horrible stories over the years, and more often than not, he wasn’t surprised about who the story implicated. It took a certain type of man to do certain kinds of torture. One particular man, Captain Ithica Randsome, had dark, soulless eyes that’d scare the crap out of most sane men. If Marshall had ever been on the wrong side of Randsome’s radar, he would’ve been tempted to jump overboard.

  Marshall reflected that the kind of techniques that Randsome used to make people talk probably wouldn’t work on Charlene anyway. He’d already pegged her as a woman who had nothing to lose.

  Then again, that was blatantly obvious given her radical plans.

  So he couldn’t go with the what-has-she-got-to-lose angle. He decided to try “what did she have to gain.” The answer was easy . . . knowledge.

  He waited until she’d finished most of her meal before he spoke. “I’ve made this trip seventeen times in three years. Most of those times, my customer was on Cuban soil for a duration of approximately two, maximum three hours.” He huffed. “Though I did have four dipshits who got themselves so doped up they missed the scheduled departure time and spent an extra day shitting their pants in a Havana gutter.”

  Her eyes were on him, her mouth curled into a curious smile, and she seemed to be listening to every word like he was teaching her CPR or something. When she didn’t speak, he continued. “The reason why they had such short times on Cuban soil were threefold. One was because I helped them get what they wanted. Two was because I have no intention of hovering around with the Cuban coast guard up my ass. And three was I never leave a man behind. Or woman.”

  He watched her process this information and waited for her response. Her eyes flicked from the instruments on the panel to the blackness ahead of them. With each passing second, it grew clearer that she was in more trouble than she was letting on.

  Her refusal to open up was beginning to piss him off. “Look, I’m risking a hell of a lot doing this. Don’t suppose you’d like to tell me what mess you’ve gotten yourself into?”

  Her jaw dropped. “Mess? Why do you think it’s a mess?”

  He waggled his head. “Beautiful young woman with her life ahead of her wants to risk it all by doing something that could ruin her life forever. I’m guessing it’s not by choice.”

  Her blinking eyes confirmed her battle with a response. “Well, you’re guessing wrong. This is my choice.”

  “Really, huh. This’s your first time to Cuba, right?”

  Her momentary debate had him fuming over her secrecy. Most of his midnight-run customers were young guys wanting to add a stupid notch to their ego. Usually they were chasing rum, cigars, or women. Occasionally, it’d be a gun or drugs, but he mostly stayed away from those. Unless money was so tight that he had no choice.

  Charlene, though, ticked none of those boxes, and that had all his curiosity sensors bristling. She was in over her head; that was a given. But what she was drowning in was the question.

  “Yes, it is.” She finally answered.

  “What’s your plan when we hit land?”

  Her eyes looked up at him, yet she seemed to be looking through him. She appeared conflicted. Like telling him was breaking some kind of sacred vow. She wiped her hand across the back of her mouth, collecting the tiny crumb that he’d wanted to thumb away himself. Placing her drink down, she turned to him. “Do you know Legendarios del Guajirito?”

  As much as her question was progress, it was also a step backward. “The dance show? In Havana?”

  “Yes, do you know it?”

  “Uh huh.” He showed her the skepticism her question deserved.

  “I want to go there.”

  “You’re doing an illegal trip to Cuba to see a stupid dance show.”

  She nodded.

  “Okay then.” He huffed at the absurdity. She was either nuts or making shit up. Either way, she was a grown woman, so if this was the game she wanted to play, then who was he to stop her? “Right then. What’s your plan to get around Havana? Do you even speak Spanish?”

  When her shoulders deflated, he figured he’d hit a home run. Which made him certain that by the time they set foot on Cuban soil, she’d be asking for his help. It was time for him to shut up and wait for her to arrive at the same conclusion. She adjusted her seating, and just as he thought she was loosening up, a glimmer of light on the horizon caught his eye. And then it was gone.

  Two seconds later, it was back.

  As they ploughed through one wave after the next, he maintained his visual on the light. Within two minutes, his worst nightmare was realized. “Shit!”

  “What?”

  “We got company.”

  “Where?” Her breath hitched.

  “Dead ahead. Wait a sec and you’ll see it.”

  Her eyes snapped to the invisible horizon. “That light. What is it?”

  “That’s probably the US Coast Guard, and I’m guessing they know we’re here.”

  “Can’t we outrun them?”

  He shot her a you’ve-got-to-be-fucking-kidding glare. “We’ve got about twenty minutes before they board us.”

  Her brows shot upward, yet she seemed to look through him. “What do we do?”

  “We’ll shut down the engines and pretend we’re fishing.” He cut the speed right back and rode the boat’s slump into the water.

  “That works?”

  “If all goes well, they’ll check our IDs and give us a rap on the knuckles.”

  “What if I don’t have ID?” Her voice elevated a notch.

  He glared at her, momentarily lost for words. “What? Nothing?”

  “No.” She spat the word at him.

  Despite how weird that was, he believed her. It also meant she was in way more trouble than she was letting on. And now they both were.

  “In that case, we’ve got trouble.”

  “What’s your plan B?”

  He cocked his head. “What makes you think I have one?”

  “Every good soldier has a plan B. And you strike me as a damn good soldier.”

  There she goes again, simultaneously flattering him and applying pressure. “You’re right. But you’re not going to like it.”

  She lifted her chin. “If it stops me from rotting in a six-foot cell, then I’ll like it just fine.”

  “Okay then. I hope you can swim.”

  Her eyes bulged. “What! You’ve got to be—”

  Ignoring her outburst, he killed the engines and jumped up from his seat. “Come with me.”

  Using the chrome railing, he glided down the stairs without using his feet, then spun to his left and repeated the move to the lower deck. He strode to the bow section and pulled out a panel beneath the bed. He’d built it with concealment in mind, and it had passed detection many times already. Tucked inside, to the left of the secret hold, was the harness that he’d had to use only twice before. Each time, it was with a man. Each time, they’d thought it was part of the thrill ride.

  He doubted Miss. Bailey would share those sentiments.

  Marshall yanked the harness free, then turned to the rapid breathing behind him. Her eyes showed her fear, but otherwise she hid it well. “In that cupboard you’ll find three wet suits. They’ll all be too big for you, but it’s all I got.”

  “I’m really getting in the water?” Her voice quivered
, yet she didn’t look as terrified as the situation warranted.

  And that told him she’d been through hell before. “Yep. No choice.”

  Time was against them, moving in some kind of a weird warp. One second it was going a million miles an hour; the next second it was slow, allowing him to see every movement in perfect clarity—her trembling fingers as she pulled open the cupboard, the muscles in her toned arms flexing as she tugged a wet suit free, the blank expression on her face as she took the suit to the bathroom and disappeared behind the door.

  She seemed numb, robotic. Horrified, yet committed to what had to be done. He had to know what shit she was into. So if they got through this, he was going to belt it out of her.

  If they got through it.

  Fifteen minutes.

  He turned his attention back to adjusting the straps on the harness. The last guy he’d had in it had been just a fraction smaller than him. He just hoped the damn thing would hold her in. Otherwise, they had a whole new set of problems.

  She stepped out from the toilet. Despite the oversized wet suit hiding all her curves, with her flushed cheeks and her hair up in a high ponytail, she looked like she was ready for a photo shoot for the cover of Sports Illustrated. He’d never been in the company of a woman who was so beautiful, period.

  He’d thought his young Cuban fiancée would be the most stunning woman he’d ever meet. Boy, was he wrong. A wave broadsided Miss B Hayve, snapping him to attention.

  Focus, Crow!

  “What’s in the case?” He pointed at her suitcase, which was still on the bed.

  “Just clothes.” A new wave of fear rippled her features.

  “Just clothes? So if I toss it overboard, you won’t mind.”

  “Of course, I’ll fucking mind. It’s everything I own.” The fire in her response was the emotion he’d been looking for.

  “If it’s just clothes, it can be replaced.”

  Her eyes shifted.

  “I’m fucking serious. I’m tossing that case overboard with you.”

  She strode to the bed, unzipped the case, and reached beneath her neatly folded clothing. “This can’t get wet.” She gripped a tin box that was plain except for a couple of twirls engraved in the lid.

  His gut clenched. This was the last thing he’d expected. Yet given her cagey responses, he should’ve guessed. He met her gaze. “If it’s drugs, I’m throwing it overboard.”

  “It’s not drugs.”

  “I mean it, Charlene. They’ll bring sniffer dogs on board. So if you got drugs in there, I need to know. Now!”

  She undid the clips and peeled open the lid. “It’s not drugs.”

  Blinking at the rolls of money, he felt like he was on the set of Miami Vice. But this was real. And the way that money looked, banded together in neat rolls, convinced him it wasn’t something an innocent woman would possess. Trouble. She was trouble.

  “My father left it to me. It’s all I’ve got.” She sucked on her bottom lip, and her demeanor shifted from despondent to defiant, yet her eyes pooled. The last thing he needed was tears.

  “Give it to me.” He snatched it from her hand.

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “I’ve learned that if you put stuff in plain sight, they barely give it a glance. Hide it, and they sniff it out every time. And not just the dogs.” He leaned over the bed. At the top, next to the pillows, he’d built small nooks, ideal for a novel or a bottle of Bud. The tin didn’t quite fit and jutted out over the mattress, but it was a perfect spot. He pointed at her handbag. “Anything you need to take out of that?”

  She shook her head and he shoved it into her suitcase and zipped it back up.

  Charlene looked like a person who’d given up. He’d seen it before on soldiers who had been caught with their pants down . . . when all hope was lost. “It’s not over yet.” He opened the harness. “Step into this.”

  She had no choice but to hold on to his shoulder as she stepped into the device, which he’d stitched together himself. Just the touch of her hands gave him all sorts of signals that even he found creepy. Blocking the uninvited reflexes, he yanked the buckle into place, pinching her in at the waist. If it hurt, she gave no indication.

  Eleven minutes.

  He lived for this kind of shit, and his nerves were buzzing. But having a woman in the crosshairs was fucking up his focus.

  He met her gaze. “You ready?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t have to do anything but keep your mouth shut. Even if something brushes against your legs.”

  That had her eyeballs popping.

  “Trust me. It’s better the shark in the water than the sharks about to come on board.”

  “Oh, that’s just great. Why’d you have to tell me that?”

  “Because you’re gonna start thinking it anyway.”

  She did an eye roll that confirmed he was right.

  “Let’s move.”

  He clutched her suitcase, launched up the stairs, and scanned the horizon. It took two seconds to see it. The light was closer and brighter, and if his brain was working well, they had about nine minutes. Behind him he heard both the clang of the harness buckles and Charlene’s panicked breathing. It wasn’t good. Not if they were going to avoid the dogs.

  As a tornado of anxiety twisted his gut, he grabbed the string attached to the rope he’d secured beneath the rim of the bow for this exact purpose. By the time he’d hauled its short length aboard, Charlene was at his side. He squared her shoulders so she faced him. Her lip quivered. Her wide eyes begged for another solution. But there wasn’t one. This was it. “I’ve done this twice before. Each time with success. The only thing stopping us from cell time is your silence. Understand?”

  She nodded, but the expression on her face didn’t match it.

  “Good.”

  “How long will I be down there?” She bit on her bottom lip, but it didn’t stop her chin from quivering.

  “Longest so far was twenty-two minutes. It’s going to feel like hours. Have you done meditation?”

  “What?” Her face twisted with confusion.

  He glanced at the growing light. Seven minutes. “Meditation takes you to your happy place. Find it. Go there. Got it!”

  “I’ve been trying to find it for months.” A tear spilled down her cheek.

  The urge to thumb it away, to pull her to his chest and tell her everything was okay, was huge. But not a damn thing was okay. Not when a young woman’s life was on a slippery slope to deeper trouble.

  Six minutes.

  A lot can happen in six minutes.

  He clutched the brace at her waist. “Sorry.” Then he picked her up and tossed her overboard. Her scream was cut off when she hit the water, feet first and with a huge splash. The second she surfaced, he yelled down at her. “Charlene.”

  Five minutes.

  “Charlene!”

  “What?” She screamed up at him, while simultaneously treading water and wiping hair from her face.

  “Look up. See that hook. To your right. Charlene!” He yelled and hoped her clenched jaw was a sign of both determination and fury. That’s what she’d need to get through this. Along with a good dose of luck.

  And he didn’t usually believe in luck.

  “There’s a loop on the rope. Get it over that hook. Do it!”

  Her panic seemed to abate in a flash, replaced with a sense of urgency, impressing him once again. She hooked herself up quicker than the two men had done, and he now had to lean right over the railing to see her. That’s what made that hook the perfect position. Unless the Coast Guard approached him from that side, she should go undetected.

  “Good work.” He hooked a rope onto her suitcase and lowered it down. “Grab hold.”

  She did. No fuss. Efficiency plus. She’d make a great marine.

  Four minutes.

  “Hook it on, but keep it in tight to the hull.” Again, she followed orders efficiently.

  “Okay, Charlene.
This is it. I’ll get you up as soon as I can. And no matter what, keep silent.”

  Marshall pushed off from the railing and dashed back down the stairs. His training kicked into place as he yanked the telescope from the compartment beneath the oven, shut the door, and raced back up the stairs. At the stern deck, he plucked open the three legs of the tripod and pushed the plugs into the precision-aligned holes he’d drilled in the decking a year or two ago.

  Three minutes.

  With the telescope in position, he yanked open the door concealed beneath the stairs leading to the flybridge and hauled out the frozen blackfin tuna that had been in place for a few weeks. He tried to ignore the sensation of centipedes crawling in his gut as he drove the hook through the tuna’s lip, raced to the rear, and tossed it overboard. The other end of the line was threaded to his trusty Calstar rod, which he’d set up before they’d left the marina. He unhooked the rod from the base of the stairs and rammed it into the port-side holder at the stern. The line was zipping out with the weight of the frozen fish, and he adjusted the gear to slow it a fraction.

  Satisfied with that ruse, he returned downstairs, cracked open a Bud, tipped out a good slosh, washed it down the sink, and climbed the stairs again. Just before he edged into the swivel chair next to his rod, he flicked the switch to turn on the back spotlight. The brilliant beacon lit up a good hundred and fifty yard of ocean behind them. Hopefully, it’d lure the Coast Guard into that position.

  He swigged his beer, fought the bitterness on his tongue, sucked in a few calming breaths, and prepared himself for the best acting of his life.

  A foghorn split the silence, and he jumped up and spun toward the noise, playing the part of the surprised fisherman to perfection. If his thumping heart was any gauge, he’d win an Oscar. He waved his hand and lifted his beer in an alcoholic salute to the blazing lights.

  At fifty-seven feet, the patrol boat wasn’t much bigger than Miss B Hayve, yet when it drew up alongside, Marshall felt dwarfed by its presence.

  “Fuck, Crow, what the hell’re you doing out here?” The booming voice bellowed over their diesel engines.

  Marshall squinted against the glare, desperate to see the face that matched the voice he’d heard a thousand times before. Kirt Kilpatrick. Friend and foe rolled into one.