Ricochet

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Ricochet

T-FLAC Short Shot

eBook Copyright 2013 by Cherry Adair

A huge thank you to Marcia K. Miller, ARNP for being upbeat and fabulous, and always being there with the right words of encouragement when I need them. I’m so grateful to have you with me on this journey and for your help in keeping me fit and healthy.

To Max “Mr. Divabetic” Szadek because you are awesome, and support diabetes with flair and dazzle.

I hope that showing Hannah running, jumping, being shot at, and having wild monkey sex proves that diabetics can do absolutely anything.

Smooches

Cherry

C
alm seas and a dark moon.

A perfect night for fishing.

Or hunting tangos off the Ecuadorian coast.

Covered head to toe in black LockOut, eyes obscured by night vision goggles, T-FLAC operative Grayson Burke and his men climbed up thin ropes, like shadowy spiders, from the waterline to the upper railings of the slowly moving Megayacht.

Silently landing the length of all three decks, fifteen T-FLAC operatives melted into the darkness, dispersing like smoke.

No exterior lights shone on the luxurious ship, not even running lights. Despite its size,
Stone’s Throw
‘s occupants didn’t want to attract notice. For good reason.

The intel that three high-ranking ANLF lieutenants were on board was the biggest break the counterterrorists had had in months. The fact that the bad guys were contained on board a ship, in the middle of the South Pacific, gave Gray and his men the advantage.

T-FLAC wanted the number one tango on their watch list—the megalomaniac, elusive, sick-fuck, head of the Abadinista National Liberation Front, known only as Stonefish. No one knew who he was, or what the man looked like, but his reign of terror across South America was legendary, and about to get a hell of a lot worse if he pulled off the coup he was masterminding.

If Stonefish gained Cosio, he’d control, in a matter of weeks, not just the tiny country, but he’d have a firm toehold in Columbia, Peru and Ecuador. Drugs, extortion, torture, weapons…a long fucking list.

Stonefish was T-FLAC’s number one priority, and their number one failure to capture to date.

Grayson’s
failure.

This was more than a mission for Gray. It was extremely personal. For three years he’d been after the son of a bitch. His own capture, on Stonefish’s order, was inexorably tied in his head to the loss of Hannah. No matter how hard he tried to forget one, and concentrate on the other, they couldn’t be separated.

This time, fucking up wasn’t an option.

A good part of South America would be at war if they didn’t find and stop him.

But first, they had to capture his men, and do whatever necessary to extract the intel they needed to find him. By whatever means necessary.

Glock raised, Grayson filled his lungs with the smell of salt air, and the faint hint of cigarette smoke as he landed lightly on deck. “Priority,” he reminded the three teams on board, speaking low into his comm as they dropped their lines down into the water. He paused for a split second to be certain they were listening, the directive bore repeating, “Secure Sorenson, Deeks and Mauro. Get the hell outta Dodge ASAP.”

“Bravo One. Copy that.” Kyatta with his five-person team said softly from his position on the top deck. Wheelhouse. Disable the chopper.

Morrow responded quietly. “Delta One in position.” Second deck. Salon.

Echo Team manned the commandeered trawlers—the best they could find on such short notice—lying in wait, silently riding the swells in the matte-black water, ready to return them to Esmeraldas where transport waited.

Gray’s Alpha team; below decks, engine room. Using hand gestures he sent them down from the second deck, covering them as the four men went ahead.

This was a snatch and grab. Little communication was necessary from here on out. Everyone knew where to go, and what to do.

The rank, unwashed stink of a heavy smoker preceded the hulking form of a man. “Hostile coming up on your six,” Gray alerted his men. “I got him.” Visible through the NVGs, the man strolled across his path to stand at the rail. Bodyguard by his bulk, and doing a piss poor job of guarding anybody’s body, including his own.

A flick of a lighter, the flare of a cigarette.

Approaching silently from the rear, Gray jerked the slightly shorter man back against him with the crook of his elbow across his throat. Cutting off a gargled yelp of surprise, he dug his forearm hard against the guy’s trachea. The cigarette went flying, fading to a small red dot, as he fought to get free.

Gray shoved the man’s head back and applied the pressure necessary to crush his trachea. Too late, fuckwad. Three seconds. Gray stripped the body of the Jericho 941 semi-automatic, tossed it over the rail, and moved on.

In the middle of nowhere, with cloud cover, and no expectation of visitors, the security on board was lax as his men quickly cleared the decks, ready to go inside and extract their targets. The intel had been last minute. Not exactly his style. He liked to be completely prepared. But this was the closest shot he’d had at Stonefish in fucking years, and he wasn’t about to pass it up. Gray had just finished an op in Venezuela with these men, and they worked together well.

They’d been strategically in position to close in before the ship reached land.

“Sit-rep?” Gray asked. As each team leader called in a situation report, he scanned the open deck ahead of him. Clear, but he kept his eyes and ears open. The susurrus of the water lapping against the hull was a faint backdrop to the sibilant sound of voices from inside the nearby salon where all the principals were gathered.

Via his comm he heard the scuffle of feet in the darkness, the occasional grunts of pain quickly snuffed.

An
excellent
night for fishing.

“We have visual.” Charged with inserting a fiber optic camera through the sliver of the door opening into the salon from the second deck, Darrach, Delta Two, indicated he was in position to observe the players inside the salon.

“Priority targets?” Gray asked, just as another bodyguard came out a side door. Heavy-set, solid, no neck. They saw each other at the same split second. Surprised as shit, the man fumbled for his side arm. Grayson crouched, slid the Tac 11 combat knife from his ankle holster, and threw it true as he rose.

“Mauro, Sorenson, and Deeks,” Darrach confirmed. “Five unidentified, six crew.”

Verification that Stonefish’s lieutenants were indeed on board, made Gray’s smile feral in the darkness as he pulled his knife from the man’s chest, then wiped off the blood on the guys shirt. The unidentified extras on board, five men, and a woman, were unknown. Sharply aware of every creak, every shadow around him, he slid the knife back into the sheath. “Eyes on the woman?”

“Negative.”

“Top deck?” Grayson asked Charlie Kyatta and his team, tasked with clearing the third deck and wheelhouse, then working their way down. Six minutes and they’d all convene on the salon to throw the net.

“Negative,” Kyatta said quietly. “Captain. One crew. Guard on the helipad eliminated. Chopper disabled. Nobody’s going anywhere tonight.”

“Lower deck clear. Three crewmembers. KIA.” Alpha Two, Jerry Grazioso reported. “Headed to engine room.”

The Echo team, twiddling their thumbs in the waiting fishing boats were keeping a tally of how many people had boarded the Megayacht, and how many KIA since T-FLAC had joined the party. The only person unaccounted for, so far, was the woman.

Using a skeleton key, Gray slipped through the door his team had secured behind them to deter any unwelcome exists or surprise visitors on their six. “Rechecking cabins. Wait for my order, Bravo.”

“Copy that.”

Gray secured the door behind him, then started down the beautifully wood paneled corridor to see what vermin he could flush out of hiding.

F
rom the moment Hannah Endicott stepped on board the luxuriously appointed ship with her best-friend/man-she-was-going-to-murder-when-she-got-him-home, she had a bad, bad feeling. An insects-crawling-all-over-her-skin, heebie-jeebie, sort of feeling.

The men Colton insisted she meet were polite and quite sociable. But she didn’t like any of them. There was nothing specific she could put a finger on, and it wasn’t just her annoyance at Colton. Even though she was way beyond pissed at him, her fight or flight antennae was full on vibrating.

Still, if they could afford a luxury ship like
Stone’s Throw
, they must be doing something right as far as business went. But she doubted it was legal.

Investors paying in diamonds? That didn’t sound legitimate to her at all.

Her gut feelings, as she’d learned to her detriment, were not infallible. Since she was, at present a captive audience, she’d listen to the rest of their presentation at dinner, and reserve judgment.

She’d had no freaking idea, when she reluctantly agreed to meet her friend’s business partners for dinner on board, that the multi-gazillion dollar, floating mansion would actually set
sail
. Another damned ride Colton was taking her on whether Hannah liked it or not. For a woman who hated confrontation, Colton was rapidly teaching her that even she had her limits.

She liked knowing what to expect, and preparing for it. She’d been that way her entire life. She wasn’t prepared for this. Not in any shape or damn-well-frigging form.

She’d dressed for the flight to Ecuador—
not
a place on her Bucket List. Her favorite jeans, because they were comfortable to travel in, a tucked in men’s-style white cotton shirt, and flats so she could run, if necessary, in the concourse. Her purse, a compact tote for this last minute, short trip, was stuffed with two days’ worth of clothes, her insulin and a few basic toiletries. That was it. Nothing that fit the glam of this floating palace.

The plan was to get back the money. Fly home.

Dealing with loose diamonds was not something she’d anticipated.

Hannah wasn’t a violent woman, but she wanted to grab her friend by his perfectly styled blonde hair, and bash his head against something hard. For a long time. Colton had made a succession of incredibly stupid investments over the years, but she was afraid this one, with these people, made all the others pale into insignificance.

There wasn’t a damn thing she could do until they reached the island. Come morning, she wasn’t taking no for an answer. In the mean-freaking-time, the ship was in the middle of the South Pacific and all she could do was suck it up, and try not to add homicide to her skill set.

The Captain had informed her while they had cocktails on deck that they were currently between the coast of Ecuador and the Galapagos Islands. A hell of a long way to swim lugging a briefcase of diamonds.

Drying her hands in the luxuriously appointed bathroom, Hannah gave herself a cursory glance in the mirror as she brushed her blunt cut, shoulder-length streaky honey-blonde hair, then wiped a smudge of mascara from under her eye. Applying a little blush to her pale face, she considered her repairs done. No one here she had to impress. She’d leave that to Colton.

She might look like a pushover, but she was far from it. Under her slender frame, and blue eyes, beat the heart of a lion, and she refused to take any bullshit. From Colton or anyone else for that matter. “
Anymore
,” she added ruefully under her breath.

After her mother’s divorce when Hannah was two, they’d moved in next door to thrice divorced Michelle Wickham and her two boys. The women had worked together as flight attendants at the time, and years later had parlayed their love of travel into a small, thriving antiques business in Chicago, a few blocks off The Miracle Mile.

The kids, Colton, Grayson and herself had run tame between the two houses. Nicknamed GQ for how Colton dressed, even when he was small; Tinkerbelle, because Grayson always said she looked like a delicate fairy; and Pumice, the name she’d bestowed on Grayson because of his name, coupled with the color of his eyes, and secretly, because he was always so serious, and gruff, even as a kid. The silly childhood names had stuck.

The Moms disciplined and loved all three equally. Colton and Hannah were the same age, their birthdays days apart which bonded them quickly. They’d become best friends. Grayson, four years older and wiser, was fascinating because he seemed to have dark and dangerous secrets. Unfortunately for Hannah, that just made him even more appealing.

Secrecy wasn’t nearly as enticing as an adult. Hannah, always wanted to see the good in people, especially the people she loved, but she had come to realize that Grayson was one of the bad guys. Disappearing for months on end—once an entire year went by before they saw him—he always returned without a word of explanation.

Always fit and strong, he’d turned into a hardbody.

She straightened her spine. The last person she should be thinking about right now was Grayson and his hard body. She had enough on her plate without adding that toxicity to the acid already churning in her stomach.

She rubbed her upper arms through the thin cotton of her shirt. The enormous bathroom, with miles of chocolate-colored marble, teak, and glass, was damn cold. Or maybe it was her nerves. Pissed and also scared, she headed back to the bedroom, surprised smoke and flames weren’t rising from the top of her head to keep her warm.

It had taken her most of her life to realize that she was enabling Colton. “Water under the bridge.” Great, now she was talking to herself.

She’d told him the last time that she was done with him helping himself to money that didn’t belong to him. She’d meant every damn word, and every threat. She didn’t give a flip how she accomplished it, but she wasn’t leaving South America without the Moms money Colton was using as his buy in for this “Amazing, chance of a lifetime” investment. The money now inconveniently converted to diamonds

How and when had he acquired the knowledge to convert cash into diamonds? Certainly not at the Life Insurance company where he worked. The little shit had taken their Mothers’ life savings while they were in Asia, and hied his ass off to Ecuador. Without a thought for the consequences of his actions. Hannah in hot pursuit.

If she didn’t have the money when they returned to shore, she was going to press charges this time and have his sartorial ass thrown in jail.

A South American jail. No more enabling, no more empathy. No more excuses. She was sick and tired of being self-sacrificing. If nothing else this last stunt of Colton’s made her seriously rethink the choices she’d made so that everyone she loved would be happy. What she had given up for everyone around her.

A gifted musician in college, she’d had aspirations of being a concert cellist, of performing on the stages of the largest concert halls in the world. But her mother had needed her help getting the business up and running.

So instead of playing her beloved cello on a stage, she managed Provenance Inc. while the Moms played across Europe on their perpetual buying trips. They hadn’t asked, she’d offered. But a year had turned into six. They hadn’t taken advantage of her, Hannah knew that. She was a pleaser. It never occurred to her to say no. That was going to change when she got back home. Maybe she’d have “NO” tattooed on her arm as a constant reminder.

Chewing the corner of her lip, she got out the pouch holding her insulin pen and needles from her tote. Yesterday she was rehearsing what she’d say to the Moms when they returned home in a couple of weeks from this latest buying trip. They didn’t need a store front to travel. Between them they had enough money to lead a comfortable, and trip filled life. They could sell Provenance Inc. and she could finally have her own life.

Except that when she’d checked, there was no money. At freaking
all
. One call to the family travel agent, and she’d followed Colton to Ecuador, prepared to be gone from the store for a day, two at the most. Twenty-four hours more than she anticipated needing to knock sense into her friend.

Get the money back. Fly home.

But now that she’d met the men Colton was dealing with, now that she’d seen the obvious wealth, and the slew of no-neck-bodyguard types all carrying enormous guns- “I have no damned idea how the hell I’m going to pull this one off.”

The other two investors had each produced a pouch of uncut diamonds as well. There was zero chance of her taking the pouch Colton had handed over under the watchful and vigilant eyes of the businessmen, and their dozen bodyguards in the salon without being caught.

Sick to her stomach at the thought of losing everything the Moms had worked for their entire lives, Hannah prepped her dose on auto pilot.

As a type one diabetic, she’d been injecting herself since she was old enough to do it on her own. Grayson had been the one to patiently read every scrap of information her mom had brought home from the doctor’s office. He was the one to talk her down from freaking out at the thought of injecting herself. He’d calmly and efficiently administered the first, then stood with her as she’d done the next and the next, until she had the hang of it. Grayson was many things, but the man had the patience of a saint.

Hannah still hated him.

And she refused to think about Grayson when she had much bigger fish to fry at the moment. She didn’t care how impressive the plans for the resort were, or how much the projected earnings were, the Moms’ retirement was not, under any circumstances, going to be part of it.

Ejecting a couple of drops of insulin into the air to remove bubbles, she dialed in the appropriate dose by rote. Whoever these men were, she, Colton and the other investors, were pretty much hostages as the slow moving
Stone’s Throw
sailed toward the island where the resort was under construction.

When had her friendship with the man she thought of as a brother, turned into her being his freaking nanny? She’d never felt sisterly toward Grayson. It was Gray who’d given her her first kiss, Grayson who’d been her first lover. The fact that she was still trying not to be in love with him after what he’d done had nothing—okay, it had everything to do with trying to rectify the biggest mistake of her life.

She knew better than to waste time thinking about him. Especially now.

Untucking, and lifting her shirt, Hannah pinched a fold of skin at her waist and administered her shot. A loud thump on the door startled her, causing her to jerk her hand. The pen dropped to the floor, then rolled under the edge of the bed skirt.

Damn. Hannah dropped to her knees to find it. “Some-“ one’s in here!

“Savrov spoke my name.” The male voice, American, and very, very angry, was right on the other side of the cabin door while she was in the downward dog position. “Get rid of him.”

Not moving an eyelash, Hannah held her breath, waiting for them to keep moving.

A second man, sounding younger and Latin American, asked, “Permanently?”

Something cold and slithery prickled her skin. What did
that
mean?

The first guy didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Had he walked away after giving the order? Hannah almost let out the breath she held. “Is the device set?”

Heart lodged in her throat, and pulse thumping uncomfortably she remained on the floor, too scared to move and alert them to her presence. Who
were
these people?

“As you instructed,” the younger man said, deferentially. “Exactly thirty minutes eighteen seconds from now.”

“Excellent. I’ll bring the others up to the helipad in three minutes. Be ready to take off immediately. Before anyone notices we’re missing. I want to be out on open water to watch the show.”

What show
? Hannah mouthed, afraid she knew the answer. Had she seen too many Bourne and Die Hard movies? Maybe they were talking about something completely different than killing someone, stealing the diamonds, and blowing up their fancy ship as they flew off into the sunset?

Or maybe that’s exactly what they were saying.

“What about the crew?”

“What about them?” The American said coldly. That sounded ominous. “Are you offering to be part of the fireworks?”

Hannah’s stomach lurched with dread. What the hell? She missed the mumbled response as their footfalls disappeared down the corridor. What had the two men been doing below decks? Looking for her? Setting a bomb? Either thought sent an icy chill across her skin.

Her heart knocked triple time. Colton, plus diamonds, plus the hair on the back of her neck lifting after hours of having a ‘bad feeling’? Whoever these men were, Hannah’s gut told her in thirty minutes, and however many seconds, the ship was going to blow up with herself and GQ on board.

Not good. Not good at all.