Sinner (The Hades Squad #1) (27 page)

Really? In this day and age? No digital locks?

He shook his head, grabbed both ends of the bar, heaved the rod free, rested the metal on the floor, and wedged it into a corner. Sinner eased one door open.

Thirty whites of widened eyes focused on him. He put a finger to his lips. “I represent the Medici Shipping line. My team and I are here to free you. Please remain silent and do as you’re told. Everyone understand? Nod if you do.”

Fifteen heads bobbed.

The man nearest Sinner, who appeared to be in charge, whispered, “What about the captain? And the other officers?”

“All being rescued as you are. I’m going to ask each one of you to stand and head down the corridor in single file when I give the order. I’ll lead the way.” Sinner turned to the man who’d asked the questions. “Name and rank.”

“Deck Cadet Singh, sir.” The man stood, came to attention, and saluted.

Sinner nodded his approval. “Bring up the rear, Deck Cadet Singh.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Deck Cadet Singh brimmed with eagerness.

“Make your crew ready for the trek, Cadet Singh.” Sinner turned to the cargo’s entrance and edged into the corridor while keeping a peripheral watch on Cadet Singh assembling his men. He pressed his ear bud and spoke softly, “Sinner reporting in. Situation is under control. Hostages are unharmed.”

“Roger, Sinner. Satan reports all clear. Repeat—all clear. Tangoes are contained. The
Indonesian Express
is secured.
Neptune
’s on its way. ETA ninety minutes, over.” Shifty’s voice ringed with triumph.

Sinner glanced over his shoulder. “That’s a roger, Shifty. Has Devil reported in, over?”

“Affirmative. He’s with Satan in the nav bridge, over,” Shifty replied.

“We are proceeding to the tween deck and will see you in a couple, over and out.”

Several hours later, Sinner lounged in an oversize chair located inside Medici Shipping’s private executive jet. The luxurious interior of the twelve-seater plane mimicked the VIP section of an exclusive after hours club. A plush, cream leather upholstered sectional fronted a carved mahogany table. Three chairs formed the other half of the circular space. “Beats naval transport hands down.”

“I could get used to this.” Devil gestured to the fully stocked bar and the stacked, jaw-dropping sexy flight attendants busy assembling hot appetizers for the team.

Jinn’s lip curled. He cricked his neck right and left. “Give me a naval pilot any day. Don’t trust civilian aviation or aviators.”

Satan glanced up from the papers he worked on. “Get used to it. Any word on when your final papers will be handed down?”

“Sure. Every week they say next week. You know what it’s like.” Jinn answered. “As it is, Nikar hasn’t even received word of approval for his de-commission.”

“That true, Nikar?” Satan asked.

“Yeah. Same old, same fucking old. SEALs move at the speed of light. The bureaus haven’t seen the light.” Nikar sipped on dark single malt whiskey. “Hey Sinner, what’s this Satan’s saying about you taking the ball and chain bullet? Voluntarily?”

No way could Sinner stop his happy grin. “You bet. Wait till you meet her. Destiny’s incredible. She’s going to pamper me like there’s no tomorrow, and I’m going to enjoy every fucking minute.”

“Jesus. Is Sinner still in there somewhere? What happened to the man who was going to fuck his way through New York and Long Island?” Devil threw Sinner a disgusted grimace. “I fucking hope whatever you’ve got isn’t catching.”

Sinner smirked. “I am so going to fucking rub it in when you’re drop-kicked into the marriage rabbit hole.”

“Never.” Devil folded his arms. “No fucking way. My cock’s not being harnessed. Unless it’s during a leather scene at Bacchanal. You gotta come with me next time, guys. Whole new experience.”

Demon blew out a long sigh and crossed his long legs at the ankles. He swirled a honey-colored liquid in a crystal tumbler. “Pussy is as pussy does. Can’t see any reason I’d want a woman to wear a collar. And I don’t like fucking in public.”

“Come with me once, and you’ll change your mind,” Devil declared. “You should too, Sinner. At least taste the life before you get shackled.”

“Not interested. Destiny’s all I need.” All at once he was anxious to get home, to hold Destiny in his arms. Sinner rubbed the spot on his arm where the stray bullet had grazed him.

“Did you let the medic take a look at that injury?” Satan pointed his pen at Sinner.

“Naw. Volac cleaned and dressed it. It’s a mere scratch,” Sinner stated.

“It was careless.” Satan’s jaw worked. “You know better, Jinn. Just because he looked like a kid, you figured he wasn’t dangerous. He could’ve shot the captain.”

Jinn ran both hands through his chestnut curls. “I’ll fucking berate myself for that fucking stupid error for the rest of my life.”

They all fell silent, and Sinner knew each man was replaying the surprise attack by the young man who held one of the two ordinary seaman positions on the
Indonesian Express
. Until the man-boy, who went by the name of Ashraf Ali, dived for a pistol concealed beneath the wheel in the navigational bridge, not one of the Hades Squad team members had suspected that the pirates had an inside man among the crew.

“So, when are you biting the bullet, Sinner?” Volac raised his glass to Sinner.

“It’d be tomorrow if I had my druthers. Going to aim for early December.” Sinner didn’t hold high hopes for that date estimate.
 

“You do realize your mother’s going to insist on throwing you a huge wedding? Ten to one, she’ll try to get the pope to officiate.”

Satan’s wide grin didn’t alleviate the anxiety his statement provoked in Sinner.

“Fuck. Destiny’s going to have a fucking conniption.”

Linc hadn't called, and he'd been gone more than seventy-two hours.

Destiny didn't have any way of contacting him besides his cell, and that went to voice mail on the first ring.

Where are you? Are you safe? Please, please, don't be in any danger.

Last night she hadn't slept a wink. Her imagination fired into overdrive, and every time she nodded off, the same dream repeated—Linc wounded, never coming back to her.

You're such an idiot, Destiny Driven.

You meet the man of your dreams, and you refuse to commit, waiting for him to turn into your father, waiting for him to betray you.

All her grievances seemed trivial. Nadine, Juanita, not even her finished book compensated for Lincoln's company, his touch.

“We're here, lady,” the cab driver announced.

Whaaat?

Destiny unsnapped her beaded black clutch, fished for a twenty, and handed the bill to the driver.

“Thank you.”

She'd expense the ride to the Plaza anyway, so why not give the guy a good tip. A notion occurred to her. “I'm going back to my place in an hour and a half. Can you come back for me?”

“Sure, lady.” He handed her a card. “Call me twenty minutes before.”

“Thanks.”

She dreaded facing Nadine and Juanita without Linc at her side. Destiny trudged up the hotel's marble steps, meandered through the lobby, and made her way to the champagne bar.

Angel Robinson, aka Nadine, headed the reception line.

Dressed to impress and wearing the heavy makeup necessary for television and paparazzi, Angel wore figure-hugging electric blue spandex, four-inch stilettos, and enough ice to light the darkest shadows of Manhattan.

Nadine threw her arms wide, one sapphire-and-diamond-encrusted platinum bracelet spinning brilliance around a slender wrist, and cooed, “My favorite editor. Dahling, so wonderful to see you again.”

During the requisite air kiss Destiny made the mistake of inhaling, only to dry choke on the thick, heavy scent of Gucci's Eau de Parfum.

Cameras flashed.

“Turn around,” a man whose face was hidden by a T. rex-sized zoom lens attached to a camera ordered.

Destiny obliged and spread her lips wide.

More flashes.

Steven Eldridge appeared, as did Jess, and they posed for a group shot.

Destiny slunk away from the masses herding the restaurant's entrance. A penguin-suited waiter offered her a flute of fizzing champagne, which she accepted with an alacrity that surprised even her. Another similarly clad attendant proffered blini stuffed with caviar and a sour cream dip. Destiny snagged two and popped one into her mouth. She closed her eyes, savored the salty fish essence coating her mouth in culinary ecstasy, and her thoughts tangoed from Keechum to Linc hanging from the pear tree, to his acrobatic, talented tongue, and an ache smoldered in her chest.

I love him. I really love him. Why am I even here?

Was becoming senior editor worth having to deal with Nadine? Juanita? Not in a zillion years. Destiny gulped the rest of the Dom Perignon bubbly and deposited the empty crystal glass on a passing waiter's silver tray.

“Well, well, if it isn't the high-and-mighty Destiny Driven, also known as Sara Parker.”

Juanita's voice grated like chalk on a blackboard, and her words didn't impact for two racing heartbeats.

Destiny Driven?

One palm clamped on her chest, Destiny pirouetted.

“A deer in the headlights. How perfectly delicious.” Juanita, all five-four of her perfect petite figure, shimmered in a plastered-on silver lamé sheath. “Tsk-tsk, you really must invest in another cocktail dress. I think I even remember that oily spot. Not a good strategy to call attention to… What's the PC term? Ah, yes, curves, that's the term.”

Think of something, anything.

“You remember Kenny, Sara? Or should I say Destiny? Editing under a pseudonym—how quaint. Afraid of the pursuit by adoring hordes? Or hiding a criminal past?” Juanita spoke in a tinkling musical rhythm, a tad higher than the conversational buzz of her neighbor. One by one, heads swiveled in their direction.

Out of the corner of one eye, Destiny spied a frowning Jess forging a path through the crowd.

This is not happening. This is not happening.

“What's going on?” One hand propped on her hip, the other holding a half-empty flute, Jess glanced from Juanita to Destiny, once, twice.

“Seems your assistant editor's implicated in some sort of sordid fraud. Did you know of her dual identity? According to her passport”—Juanita flung out her hand, pointing a manicured finger—“her name's Destiny Driven.”

Jess’ even features pinched. She visibly blanched, her porcelain, peaches-and-cream complexion paling to snowflake whiteness. “Sara?”

Destiny squeezed her eyes shut, unable to meet Jess’ direct stare. “It's not like she's implying, Jess.”

A muscle in Jess’ cheek flexed. “Tell me she's lying.”

A balloon inflated in Destiny's throat, and she couldn't get a word out.

“Honey?” Jess touched her wrist.

Destiny met her mentor and friend's brown eyes, eyes lit with warmth and kindness, and choked. “She's not lying, Jess. The name on my birth certificate is Destiny Driven.”

Jess blinked, became aware of their hushed audience, and her hand clamped around Destiny's forearm. “Come with me.”

Cameras flashed; photographers stumbled out of their way. Glancing over one shoulder, Destiny caught a glimpse of Juanita holding her own mini press conference.

Jess took her into the powder room, locked the door, set her glass on the table, and forced Destiny into one of the two upholstered chairs against one wall.

Destiny watched, mute and despairing, as Jess filled a tumbler with water from the tap. She thrust the glass into Destiny's hands and ordered, “Drink. You look like you're going to pass out.”

I wish I could.

“Start from the beginning.” Jess folded her arms and sat in the opposite chair, crossing one red pump-clad foot over the other.

Destiny's skull ached as she stumbled through the tale. She couldn't meet Jess’ eyes, instead traced the little burgundy squiggles bordering the pedestal sink's foot. Knuckling both temples, she finished with, “And that's the all of it.”

“Bugger Juanita,” Jess snapped. “That bitch has never been able to accept the fact that you have more talent in your little finger than she has in her entire body.”

“I'm sorry, Jess. I guess I should have told you everything, but I never thought of myself as anyone other than Sara Parker until recently. When I knew I had to go to Alaska via Canada, I…I didn't know if the birth certificate with the name Sara Parker would stand up to post-9/11 scrutiny.”

“Honey, I don't give a bleeping damn what your real name is. I've known you for five years, considered you my little sister for at least three of those. I know who you are, and what's in that generous heart of yours.”

“I still don't understand why Juanita turned on me. I thought we were friends. I mean, I know there's a huge wealth gap, but it didn't seem to matter. I'm so glad I never trusted her with the details of my past before. Not that it matters now. Those details are going to be plastered all over the net.”

“I tried to tell you, Sara.” Jess made a moue. “It's going to take me a while to get used to Destiny. Your mother must have had a quirky sense of humor to name you Destiny Driven.” She tilted her head to one side. “Although it has a nice ring to it, Destiny Driven. When you finally finish that manuscript you've been working on for the last five years, you should consider using that name.”

“I finished it.”

Someone had sprayed a sickly sweet floral scent in the powder room. Destiny plucked the cap off the aerosol air freshener, sent the green gods an apology, and hit the pump. She inhaled a rain-forest, lime-zinged fragrance, her nose once again a happy camper.

She risked a glance at Jess to find her unflappable boss’ jaw dropped. A smile crept across Jess’ lips. “Praise the heavens. When?”

“A couple weeks back.”

“And why isn't it in my grubby little hands? And why can't you look at me?”

“I could lie and say it slipped my mind, but truly I've been dreading submitting it to you. Too much of a coward, I guess.” Destiny rolled a shoulder.