Deception Island (21 page)

Holly inhaled slowly and steadily.
Don't show fear.

“How is such a pretty woman not missed? I am very curious. Who are you?”

“A close friend of Laura.”

His smile didn't waver. “Not so close, I think.” He nodded to a TV mounted on an internal wall. “Her celebrations at being rescued were not ruined by any concern for you. No. I think you have served the purpose you were hired for, and they have abandoned you to your fate. Do not be sad, you will be worth something to me. A beautiful white American whore will fetch me a record price.”

Her cheeks iced over.

“Do not worry, my dear. You will enjoy it.” His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible above the rain. “American women love being tied up in dungeons and whipped and raped, yes? It is the fantasy you all read about in your safe lives, in your expensive houses. In other countries, women fear this treatment. You Americans crave it. I find this strange.”

She swallowed. Where did he get that whacked-out impression? He pushed up to standing, casually crossed the space between them, and ran a finger over her temple. The skin near her eye felt puffy and numb under his touch. How many seconds would it take to whip out the knife, unfold it and plunge it into his throat? Too many. His observant thugs in the doorway would be on top of her in a blink. She'd lose the knife and the phone—and possibly her life—before she got the blade anywhere near him. Better to bide her time. If they were planning to search her, they'd likely have done it before now. No point relinquishing the best defenses she had.

His finger traveled to the bruise on her forehead, where she'd clonked heads with Rafe on the inflatable. “How about that? Did that give you a thrill?” She jerked her head away. He laughed. “My lieutenant, Chamuel, would love to show you some more good times. It would be a shame to have my stock defiled, but a good commander keeps his men happy. I can ask him not to leave any marks—you are worth more to me in good condition. What is your name?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not where you are going. Your new...
employer
will no doubt give you something he finds suitable.”

He gripped her chin and yanked it up, forcing her to meet his empty gaze. His fingertips ground into her jaw. “Do not think that because you have a value to me I will not kill you if I discover you are too much trouble. I like to give people choices, and this one is yours—live or die, it is up to you.” He rapped an instruction to his men. “Now, my dear, my soldiers will look after you carefully while we find a more permanent home for you, with someone who will give you all the attention you desire. A pity your American girlfriends will never find out what became of you. They would be envious, yes?”

Chapter 21

Even in the foaming shallows of the ocean beach, the undertow tugged at Rafe's legs, forcing him to sidestep to stay upright.
Merde
—was he really going to attempt this? Gusts snapped at the Windsurfer's sail. If he let go of the boom it'd be airborne in seconds.

Crossing open ocean on a Windsurfer was a crazy risk. And in a cyclone? Insane. But if the militia hadn't come back for him by now he could assume they wouldn't. And Flynn would hold out several days at least between losing communication with Rafe and defying orders to come after him. Several days was several days too many. Now that Gabriel's plans had been disrupted, he'd change them, fast.

Somewhere beyond the cloud-smothered horizon was Rafe's first target—an uninhabited sandy cay that marked the northern end of the island chain he'd set his sights on. It wouldn't offer much shelter, but it would allow him a breather before he searched from island to island. How long would it take to get there? Three hours, best case? Six, if the wind turned against him?

He tugged the backpack straps, tightening them. The dusty life jacket he'd strapped on was two sizes too small but it'd do in an emergency. The Windsurfer harness hugged his waist. It'd be a miracle if the laptop survived the trip, even inside the plastic. Not that it was any use without the phone. He did a mental stocktaking—water and food, clothes, boots, bug spray, the Makarov, the sharpest of the kitchen knives. Holly's portable GPS was taped to the mast, just above the boom, its little LCD screen already smeared with salt.

He tightened his grip on the boom. If they hurt Theo or Holly he'd slaughter the lot of them, code of honor or not. He squinted out to sea. Isolated gusts skidded over the shallows, marked by dark patches in the dull water. Nothing predictable enough to ride. With the gale-force easterly shooting over the island and hitting the water five hundred meters out, he'd have a bitch of a time getting started. In the distance, the wind announced its descent with a mass of black sea torn with whitecaps and whipped by spray. That's where he'd pick up the pace.

He blew out a breath. Time to see if this contraption worked. And to find out if he remembered how to windsurf. He closed his eyes, hearing over the surf the soft music of Simone's southern French accent, peppered with Corsican expressions. The summer she'd taught him the sport while he was on leave was the best of his life. Her lilting voice and those carefree days had lured him into thinking he could attempt a normal existence in which he flirted with a woman, fell in love and lived a regular life.

Like hell. With one foot on the floating board, he looked over his shoulder, fixed his gaze on the tops of the palm trees and waited. However strained his relationship with Simone, she at least had given him the skills he needed to save their son right now. And to save his...captive? Ally? Lover? What exactly was Holly? A few days ago she'd been a stranger. Until yesterday he'd believed she was someone else entirely. Now, the thought of her being in pain and danger delivered the same sickening kick to his gut that he got at the thought of Theo in Gabriel's control.

He'd never felt that strongly about anyone but his son. It wasn't just the guilt that he hadn't prevented her capture, or that he'd dragged her into this situation to begin with. He didn't just want to save Holly for her sake. He wanted to save her for his sake, because a world in which he knew she existed, in which he might see her again, was better than a world where he'd never known her.

The palm trees doubled over in a bolt of wind. He gripped the boom with both hands. Showtime. As the gust punched into the sail, he lifted his anchor foot onto the Windsurfer. It took off, skipping over the water. His forearms tightened, fighting the strain from the bucking sail. Then, bam—the fin spun out, sliding the board sideways. He wobbled. The edge of the board caught the water, and the whole thing flipped, thumping his skull into the mast and catapulting him into the water. He staggered to his feet, spitting out a lungful of ocean.
Putain
. The water wasn't even up to his thighs.

He slapped the surface. He was a specialist in amphibious warfare, a parachute commando, and he was letting a Windsurfer defeat him? He lifted his gaze to the heavy blue-black clouds. Somewhere out there, two people waited for him—the only person he'd ever loved and a woman who'd cut right to the center of him like no other. The two people who proved he could still be human. If he couldn't save them, his life would be worthless.

La mission est sacrée, tu l'exécutes jusqu'au bout et si besoin, en opérations, au péril de ta vie. The mission is sacred, you carry it out until the end and, if necessary, at the risk of your life.

On his second attempt, he made it past the lee and settled into his harness. His forearms were burning already. Half an hour later he was still upright, syncing with the rhythm of the waves, with a strong, consistent wind pushing him on. Heading hard downwind at high speed, he only had to pull out the occasional jibe—and just as well, because the surging swells were enough of a challenge. At this pace the slightest error could somersault the board end-to-end.

The rain intensified, smoothing the water into a moonscape and blurring gray sea into gray sky for three-sixty degrees. Lucky he had the GPS to track his position because he couldn't see shit.

But just skidding across the water felt like progress—flying off the crests of waves, launching into the air. Every wave brought him a second closer to the people who, right now, needed him most.

The people he needed most.

* * *

Holly limped across the compound and followed Gabriel's doormen down a sandy path through the jungle, with Chamuel behind. Water vapor rose around them, from the downpour. Every time she hesitated or stumbled, the pilot groped her ass. Lucky her get-out-of-jail-free cards were in her
front
pockets. She dug her fingernails into her palms, longing to spin around and smack him one in his leering face. But then what? Limp away into the jungle, pursued by three armed men? She'd get a better opportunity.

They reached a clearing dominated by a dirty concrete hut. Two more men sat on the porch, rifles slung across their laps. One spoke into a walkie-talkie. A reply crackled back. She was losing count, but that made at least twenty Lost Boys. Right now, right here, it was five against one. Four big-ass assault rifles and at least one handgun against one pocketknife. The guard in front pointed with the tip of his gun toward the hut and yabbered something at her, gesturing. Shit. What exactly did they plan to do with her in there? She climbed the steps. If Gabriel considered her more valuable alive, they'd be reluctant to pull the trigger, at least. If they planned to use her in other ways, the best she could hope was that they'd take turns. She'd have more chance against them one at a time.

One of the men shoved her through the doorway. She sidestepped to avoid tripping on something. A leg. The floor was carpeted with bodies—live ones, thank God—sitting cross-legged. Twenty, maybe thirty pairs of fearful eyes stared up at her. All women, all Southeast Asian. Gabriel's trafficking victims? She dry-heaved on the stench of week-old sweat, unwashed hair, stale urine—and worse. The women had left a wide arc around a bucket in the corner. The toilet? Next to it was a dark red stain that could be only one thing. She swallowed.

Another guard sat in a corner by the door, his chair tipped so he could lean back against the wall, his nose and mouth covered with a red bandanna. Beady black eyes leered at her. The guy from the plane. Holly gritted her teeth. How many shipments of women had been channeled through this place? Her problem had just got a whole lot bigger.

He shouted and the women shuffled. A guy behind Holly prodded her with his gun barrel toward a gap that materialized on a dirty woven mat. She picked her way through the women and sat. Was it selfish to be grateful she wasn't alone?

As the men talked, the women cast her surreptitious looks. The woman beside her clasped her hand roughly, and squeezed. Holly gave her a grim smile. The room was a bunker with a couple of barred, insect-screened windows, one next to the heavily guarded door. Greasy-haired women with glassy eyes rested against the grimy walls. In the middle of the room, they sat back to back. One slept sitting up, her head slumped. How long did Holly have here? Given she'd come as a surprise, it could take Gabriel a while to find a buyer.

Outside, several pairs of boots receded. The woman released Holly's hand, rose stiffly and waved at the guard, pointing to the bucket. He nodded slightly. She shuffled her way through the crush of bodies. As she neared the bucket, half a dozen women stood and formed a semicircle around her, facing outwards—masking the guard's view. After a minute, the woman emerged. She met the guard's eye, raising the bucket and nodding at the door. He waved dismissively, revealing an S-shaped burn scar on his forearm. The woman was gone for a minute, before returning with an empty bucket and reassuming her seat.

An hour passed, in silence. Maybe two. Holly itched to ask someone what was going on, but the guard shouted at any woman who as much as cleared her throat. The women gave up staring at her and instead studied their hands or the floor or the walls. A girl wearing a Justin Bieber T-shirt sobbed into her neighbor's lap. The older woman rubbed her back in listless circles. The air thickened and heated as the insect chorus intensified outside. Now and then, a coconut thunked to the ground. The guard hosed the room with insect spray, and stepped out for half a minute while the choking fog cleared. Holly pulled up the collar of her sweater and breathed through it. No doubt the women were worth less if they had malaria.

Women went to the toilet, one by one, others forming a wall each time. The younger guard appeared with bottles of water, which the women passed around. A
G
was burned into his forearm—for Gabriel?

When she could no longer stand the heat, Holly took off her sweater and laid it over her lap to cover the bulges in her pockets, ready to pull it on again in an instant.

It was prison all over, but with no laws governing her treatment, no path to parole, no trial—fair or otherwise. Her only chance at surviving was to break out, with zero idea where she was, a child to protect and a couple of dozen women she could hardly leave behind. She couldn't even be sure what ocean she was hearing.

One of the men—the dark-skinned one, marked with a
G
—appeared in the doorway and gestured to his mouth, miming eating. Four women pushed to their feet and filed out. Holly gripped her sweater, searching the women's faces for signs of fear. Nothing but listless resignation.

She let maybe ten minutes pass, then pulled on the sweater. Time to put Plan A into action, which really wasn't much of a plan. Even if she could get a message to Rafe, what could she tell him?
Theo's alive, but they think you're dead?
No one was going back for him. Could Rafe get word to his guy and get off the island that way? She stood, gesturing to the bucket. The guard nodded. As before, the human shield went up. Facing the wall, she crouched over the bucket, and pulled out the phone. The senator's people had briefly entrusted her with an iPhone so they could keep in contact while arrangements were made for her trip, so she was familiar with its basic functions. She switched it on and wrapped it in the sweater, anticipating the trill as it fired up. Her stomach muscles clenched. She bent double over the muffled phone, and coughed loud and long as the first beep came. She froze. No footsteps, no shouts.

She extracted the phone and switched it to silent, blowing out her cheeks. It had a signal—only one bar, but that could be enough. A low battery warning flashed. She dismissed it. Feet shuffled up the steps to the hut. She hit the internet icon. The women around her muttered, and began to move off. Shit, her protective wall was crumbling. Sweat prickled her forehead. She pressed the phone's sleep button and shoved it in her pocket.

* * *

Rain pelted Rafe's skin. The waves surged like a roller coaster, the constant rebalancing straining his quads and abs. He could do sixty chin lifts and carry a two-hundred-pound man five kilometers, but this demanded a strength and agility his body had forgotten.

He peered at the GPS. He'd been out three hours, averaging fifteen knots. He was maybe two-thirds of the way across, making good time but being swept too far northwest.

Salt spray burned his throat. Could he risk pulling out a water bottle? The board crested a swell and hit air in a gut-flipping flight, before skidding back onto the choppy surface. Teeth clenched, he strained to keep the Windsurfer from landing flat and killing the power.

He adjusted his grip as the board righted. That was too damn close. The drink would have to wait until he was in the lee of the archipelago. The waves were getting bigger, slamming him down and pushing him toward an island he hadn't intended getting anywhere near. He jibed head-on to the swell—he had no choice but to cross it and head southwest.

He launched off a crest, too high.
Putain
. The harness dropped away. He didn't need to wait for the landing to know he was in trouble. Gripping the boom, he tried to angle the board to ease the nose in first, but it slapped flat onto the water, the boom twisting with his weight.
Crack
. Shit.

The boom slipped from his fingers and he plunged backward into the water, his bag dragging him down. Everything muffled. Bitter seawater swamped his airways. He fought to the surface, broke through with a surge and spluttered: spitting out water, sucking in air. The board was already being pushed away by the current, its limp sail dragging in the white-flecked water. The mast had snapped at right angles. Christ. He was screwed. He powered through the water and grabbed the edge of the board. The GPS had slipped off. No sign of it in the surging waves.

He unclipped the rig and dragged himself up to lie on the bare board—just a worthless surfboard now. Panting, he peered at a smudge of gray on the horizon, between the charcoal sea and the concrete sky. The cay? The island to the northwest? Or a trick of his eyes?