New Year Island (7 page)

Cory realized that even if he could speak, nothing he said would matter. He was going to die. Another heavy wrench thudded onto the table. And a third. He felt his bladder let go.

“The rule of three comes from the Air Force. It’s how long the average person will survive when deprived of those things.”

The client leaned into his view again, holding the shop’s impact wrench now. Cory’s eyes traced the wrench’s pneumatic hose to its connection point above the table. Bile flooded the back of his throat, filling his mouth with its sour taste. The client grinned and blipped the wrench’s trigger twice, splitting the air of the engine room with its loud auto-body-shop whizz. The sound hurt Cory’s ears. Tears leaked down the sides of his face, tickling wet against his ears.

“Not everybody is average, though. That’s what makes it interesting.”

The client moved down to his waist. Something clinked on the table down there. The impact wrench shattered the air again—a sustained scream this time. Vibrations rattled Cory’s bones as agony exploded through his hip, sending an entire universe of pain unfolding through his body. His arms and legs shook. He felt himself slide a few inches sideways. Wet pattering noises, something splashing and dribbling on the plastic tarp down at his waist. Oh Jesus, blood—
his
blood! He sucked in a huge gulp of air to scream, gagged instead, and vomited.

The client held up the impact wrench, socketed another long, sharp-tipped metal screw, and put it down again to pick up one of the heavy pipe wrenches. “Sorry, but we just can’t have these things coming off of you when you go in the water.”

The wrench screamed again in the closeness of the machine shop. Cory’s body shook and slid on the tarp again. It went on for a while. Then the wrench was mercifully silent. He blinked. A soft burnt-hair smell hung in the air, like in a dentist’s office. Vaporized bone.

His consciousness was fading. He heard the plastic tarp rustling, felt it moving against his body, and then came a ripping sound he recognized: duct tape.

“There’s one last part to the rule of three. It trumps all the others. And I can see from your eyes it’s going to be the deciding factor here. Do you know what it is?”

As Cory’s world faded to black, the client’s voice seemed to come from a great distance.

“Three seconds without hope.”

• • •

The cold air revived Cory a little. A mist of salt spray wet his face. He turned his head and looked down into the churning black water that flowed past, just below him. His body was lying on top of the plastic tarp sheeting. The client put a foot against his side and pushed. He slid along the megayacht’s rear sundeck, the slick plastic protecting the boards. Heavy metal shifted against his thighs—the pipe wrenches the client had bolted to his pelvis. His shoulders were hanging off the deck now. He teetered, balanced on the verge.

He looked up, uncomprehending. The client was a shadow silhouetted against the stars. Cory couldn’t make out the face.

“It’s possible to survive for hours in the water, even injured, if you put your mind to it—the weights won’t help things, though. How good a swimmer are you? I’d love to stay and find out. But I can’t, unfortunately.” The shadow’s head turned, looking toward the bright light from the main deck and salon above. “I’ve got to get back to the party. The other contestants might wonder where I am, and I don’t want to miss our host.”

C
amilla stood just inside the entrance to the main salon, with Mason Gray, the banker, at her side. The interior of the split-level space was a showcase of gleaming chrome, travertine, and cream-leather luxury. Together they surveyed the salon and its occupants. She had a good feeling about Mason. He was smart, she could tell. His eyes roamed the room, mind clearly active behind that lazy grin. She sensed confidence—cockiness, even. There was always some risk with his type, but she decided she wanted him on her team.
If
she signed on, that is.

“Your turn.” She put a hand on his arm. “Tell me what you see.”

“We’re missing one.”

“So you’re psychic now?”

“Nine people, counting us. Four women, five men. They wouldn’t leave the sexes unbalanced. Ten is a nice, round number.”

Camilla looked at the others, bunched in twos and threes. “All contestants, then. So where are the Vita Brevis folks? Our hosts?”

Mason’s eyes roamed from group to group, as if sizing them up. “What do you think of our competition?”

“Some are our teammates.”

“At first, maybe. But there’s only one grand prize.” This, naturally, coming from a banker. “So tell me, who are they?”

Ten contestants meant two teams of five. So she needed three more besides Mason. She needed to choose carefully, though. The key to winning was having the right team dynamic—a balance, not necessarily all the best individual players.

At the other end of the salon, a curved zinc bar swooped beneath art-glass sconces, backlit by soft blue accent lighting. She focused on the trio standing by the bar. A half-Asian girl in her late twenties was talking to two guys. They looked to be around the same age.

“The girl, she’s an athletic type,” Camilla said. “Personal trainer, maybe. Triathlete.”

Mason nodded. “Rock climber—watch her hands, what her fingers are doing around the edge of the bar-top as she talks. Acts like she’s just one of the guys, but you can see she loves being the center of attention.”

The Eurasian girl suddenly looked at them across the room, unsmiling, almost as if she knew they were talking about her. Her eyes were unfriendly, too. Camilla was a little surprised. “Whoa, girlfriend, lighten up,” she murmured.

Mason laughed. “Amazon Girl is going to be trouble. I can tell that already.”

Camilla shifted her focus to the two guys. “Guy talking to her, with the shaved head, African American. Wearing a Hawaiian shirt. He’s a big dude—must spend serious time working out. A gym owner?”

“Ex-military. See how straight he’s standing, like he’s at attention? But she’s more interested in the other guy.” Mason laughed. “The guy who looks bored.”

She looked at the third member of the trio: a tall Latino with short, dark hair. Her breath caught. He was movie-star good-looking. Something about him seemed familiar, too.

“Dresses like a bartender from a SoMa ultra lounge,” she said. “Seriously? Who wears all black nowadays?”

But she couldn’t take her eyes off the guy. Mason seemed to notice her noticing, too—she wasn’t fooling him with her snide comments. She quickly turned back to Mason.

“Ouch!” he said. “You’re a fashion critic, too.”

She threw him a mischievous smile. But she couldn’t avoid occasional glances at the dark-haired man in black. His eyes flicked in their direction. For a moment, his gaze met Camilla’s.
My rider! That’s my motorcycle rider!
She had no idea how she knew, but she was sure of it. He lifted an eyebrow, momentarily seeming to acknowledge her. Then he looked away.

Mason was eyeing her strangely. He’d caught that, too. Awkward. Camilla smiled, almost in apology. She couldn’t think of anything to say. Then both her and Mason’s eyes were drawn to a new arrival: a slim blonde, standing in the opposite doorway. Now it was Mason’s turn to take a surprised breath.

“I didn’t know we were doing
America’s Top Model
,” he said.

The arrival of the blonde woman seemed to suck all the air out of the room. Conversations stopped.
Wow!
Camilla thought.
And she’s used to that.

The woman appeared to be in her mid-twenties. She looked around, big green eyes taking in the scene, her gaze moving from person to person. Her wide, friendly, dazzling smile said,
I can’t wait to meet you.
A stunned Camilla found herself smiling back. Mason was wrong. The blonde woman was wearing a designer dress and heels, but she didn’t have the empty, no-personality beauty of a runway model. She was gorgeous, for sure. But there was too much excitement in her eyes, too much energy in the way she stood. She would make a runway model standing next to her look like a mannequin. At least her mouth was too wide. But even that minor imperfection simply added to her allure.
Good Lord,
Camilla thought,
the rest of us can just pack up and go home now.

“Hi, guys,” the blonde said. “I’m Jordan. Sorry I’m late.”

Uh oh.
Camilla looked back at the three by the bar. Her rider in black was getting up, his movements lazy but graceful, like a panther’s. He excused himself from the other two.
No, no, no,
Camilla thought helplessly, amused at the same time by her own reaction. Her rider headed around to the other side of the bar. He ran an idle hand through his hair, then flipped a pair of martini glasses upright with a flourish. Jordan the not-runway-model cut across the room toward him. No hesitation.

That was bound to happen no matter what, Camilla thought. Those two belonged together. Oh well. She watched her rider—well,
the
rider, anyway—set to work mixing a pair of drinks. One of his turned-up sleeves slid higher, exposing a tattoo on his forearm.

“Hey, did I call that bartender thing, or what?” she said. Her voice sounded a little weak.

Mason was serious now. He watched the rider closely. “That tattoo looked like a Manta Ray to me… kind of unusual.” He considered for a moment. “I’d say he’s a swimmer or, more likely, a scuba diver. Sure is good looking, though. I bet he’s in great shape.”

Camilla’s eyebrows went up slightly. Mason was gay? She had missed that, which was surprising. Then her amusement deepened. It was going to be
that
kind of party for her, then… she should have brought a book.

Her eyes were drawn back to the other side of the bar. She giggled. “Check out climber-chick. Oh,
man
, she’s pissed now. Jealous much?” The Eurasian girl was staring at the blonde with open hostility. It actually wasn’t that funny. Her eyes were slits, her mouth tight. If she were a cat, Camilla thought, her ears would be lying flat against her head right now.

Contestants were supposed to spend
two weeks
sequestered together?

Camilla hoped things weren’t going to get ugly.

L
auren glared at the blonde woman flirting with Juan.
Sarah Calloway.
Of course it wasn’t really Sarah, whom she hadn’t seen since high school, but Lauren knew the type. This version was named “Jordan,” apparently. Fucking prom queen, all grown up. Walked into the room, and suddenly you didn’t exist anymore. Lauren had really liked talking to Juan. He was a dive captain from Catalina, seemed really interesting, and so goddamn
hot
, too. But the blonde had called him to heel with a silent dog whistle that only guys could hear, and that was that. Lauren’s chest felt tight, her abs tense. She flexed her fingers, concentrating on taking deep, slow breaths.

She turned her attention back to JT. Big lug was still talking. What was he saying to her?

“…team up?”

JT grinned his infectious grin and rubbed a hand across the back of his shaved head. His biceps bulged like footballs. She looked at his Hawaiian shirt. Clown probably thought he was on vacation or something. That wasn’t yuppie gym muscle she saw underneath it, though. Handsome enough in a boyish sort of way, but she could see a hard edge, too, hidden beneath that grin. A crisscrossing knotwork of thick scars traced his upper arm, pale against his coffee-dark skin.

Juan the hot dive captain had a prominent scar also, right at his hairline.

And she had her own, too. Interesting.

“What if there’s no teams, cowboy?” she said.

“Letter said ‘team-oriented competition.’”

She rolled her shoulders, then twisted at the waist, stretching until her spine popped audibly.

“Ever do any serious climbing, JT? I like the big walls.”

“You mean rocks and ropes and shit?” He looked away for a moment.

Had that been contempt in his eyes, as if she’d said “knitting” or something? When he looked back at her, the earlier boyish charm had evaporated. His eyes had gone flat and distant, and so had his voice. It sent an unpleasant chill down the back of Lauren’s neck.

“Girl, I was Force Recon for four years. Marine Corps. Deployed in Afghanistan. We did some rock climbing, that’s for sure. With eighty pounds of kit on—while getting shot at.”

“How nice for you.”

Lauren didn’t want to talk about anything that had happened in that part of the world. She really didn’t. It had been five years, but the thing was just never going to go away, was it? She looked at her fingers, gripping the bartop, their tips white.

If this show was anything like the ones she had seen, it was going to be a straight-up competition. Physical challenges, probably—with clear rules, scores. Winners and losers, determined in a fair fight.
Her
kind of game. She looked at Jordan and Juan and felt her confidence come flooding back. Prom queen over there was in Lauren’s world, now. She was in for a big fucking wake-up call.

Lauren found herself looking at Jordan’s nose.

C
amilla’s motorcycle rider—Mason’s scuba diver—lounged on a barstool, half sitting, half standing. Jordan leaned her elbow on the bar next to him. The two of them looked so right together, Camilla couldn’t really muster up much in the way of jealousy. Jordan had her head turned sideways, a curtain of blond hair hanging past her cheek as she talked into the rider’s ear. Eyes moving restlessly from group to group, he nodded at something she said. Camilla’s thoughts went back to how he had scooped the little boy from in front of the truck. So casually, effortlessly. She wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t want anybody else to know about that. It would stay their little secret.

Jordan suddenly looked right at her.
God, that smile.
Again Camilla surprised herself at how much she wanted Jordan to like her. Jordan tilted her head in apology, still smiling. She held up a finger, indicating herself and Camilla—
sorry, you and I need to talk, but I got a little tied up here
—and Camilla knew she had her team leader.