In Too Deep Page 28

  Tally's heart slammed into her throat. Ears ringing, heart pounding, she froze, her mouth on her wrists. Michael's bomb had gone off early. The horrific noise continued to ricochet off the walls for a few minutes after the blast, and almost, almost blocked the sound of crashing and bouncing rocks.

  She looked around frantically, waiting for the sky to fall. Waiting for her life to flash before her eyes. Waiting to be dead.

  The slice of filtered sunlight was extinguished.

  Worse than death.

  Dark.

  Climbing over the rocks separating the cove from the beach, Arnaud's head jerked up at the sudden, deafening explosion. He spun around to look behind him, almost tumbling head over heels back the way he'd come.

  "No! No! NO!" Bouchard screamed, clambering up toward the guard, who was still waiting for him, weapon drawn.

  Huge boulders and rocks bounced down from the top of the cliff. They struck the face, breaking more rocks free. They landed with a thunderous impact that kept the ground shaking for a full minute. Arnaud and Church's henchman scrabbled for balance as the ground shook, and the rocks where they stood trembled under the impact.

  As the dust settled, Arnaud's heart sank, and his fury rose.

  The rock fall had effectively sealed the opening to the upper cave. No one was getting anything out of there now. Not for days. Maybe weeks.

  Not enough time.

  When the next explosion hit, it would impact on the munitions and weapons inside the cave, and the entire side of the cliff was going to end up in Bora-Bora. And, Bouchard thought furiously, take him, not thirty feet away, with it.

  He spun around and rushed to climb down the other side as fast as his legs and arms could go.

  He ran past the uselessly slow golf cart, ignored the terrified man behind him, and raced down the beach to safety.

  It took Tally several minutes to realize the cave had stopped shaking. It was her body that still trembled. Bathed in icy sweat, her breathing came so fast, she wondered vaguely if she would pass out.

  Daddy? Daddy. Let me out. Oh, please, let me out.

  Algiers. A broiling hot summer day. The day before her fifth birthday. Bev had found Trevor in a seedy hotel on the waterfront. Tally was sticky and hot and thirsty after the long flight, and the smells and the noises of the city scared her. But she was happy to see her daddy. He gave her a noogie on top of her head, which hurt a little. Then he forgot about her. He was sorta happy to see her mom, though. He and Mommy kissed right there in the middle of the International Hotel lobby. Tally went to sit on a chair by the door. She made herself as small as possible, but kept watch on their suitcases. She knew people could steal other people's bags, and she was a big girl, and had to be responsible. After a while, they all went up to Daddy's room. Tally eyed the big bed longingly. She was so sleepy.

  Daddy picked her up, and Tally laid her head on his nice, strong chest and closed her eyes. Now that she was with her daddy, everything would be happy again. He smelled good, spicy and sweet, and she breathed deeply. Content to be in his strong arms.

  "She'll be okay in here for a while," Daddy said, shoving her into the closet. The door slammed.

  She sat there on her bottom in the hot, stuffy, pitch-darkness. She was thirsty, and she hadn't been to the bathroom yet. "Daddy? Let me oooout…"

  Over the sound of her own sobs, Tally heard every breath, and moan, and the creak of the bed as her parents had sex. Her hands hurt from banging on the door. She kicked with her feet, until her legs ached. Finally, cried out, she lay on the floor in a little ball with her face pressed to the crack at the bottom of the door. Mommy was going to be mad. Tally had wet her pants because she couldn't wait anymore.

  Tally listened to the sounds of the shower running, and the toilet flushing. She called for her mommy. Mommy said, "Shhh, go to sleep," like she was really mad. Tally listened as they dressed for dinner, and listened to the scary quiet when they were gone. She heard them come back later, and the bed creaked some more. But they didn't let her out.

  Tally huddled in the back of that pitch-dark closet all night, and all the next day. Until Daddy eventually packed his suitcase, and left. Her sobbing mother loaded her on a plane to go back home. Tally didn't mind going home. She didn't remember she'd been in the closet.

  Until now.

  "Holy shit," Tally said out loud, stunned by the suddenly crystal-clear memory. "Who knew getting beaten up, kidnapped, shot at, chased, tied in a cave, and damned-near drowned would shake that free?" These last few days had apparently served her better than a future of expensive therapy.

  But if she was going to enjoy a neuroses-free life, she had better figure out a way to get free. Now.

  "What's the collateral damage?" Church demanded into the phone, clearly talking to one of the men he'd sent to clear the weapons and ammunition crates.

  With a worm's-eye view, Michael squinted through his swollen good eye as the man's feet moved from one end of the plastic sheet to the other. The men stepped over Leli'a's body as if it were no more than a piece of furniture.

  "How long to break through?" Church paused. "Not acceptable. You have less than an hour. Take as many men as you need. But get the job done."

  Jesus. Was Tally all right? Michael wondered, eyes closed. "Unconscious" might buy a little time to pull himself together. He'd survived worse and lived to tell the tale. This was different only in that Tally was the stake in this poker game. He hadn't been thinking about Tally when he'd set those explosives.

  Now he was.

  Church had ordered Bouchard not to kill her—which meant squat to a scum-sucking dickwad. Bouchard's plans included Church's early demise. What did he care about Church's orders, or Tally?

  She'd be safe in the lower cave from the first explosion. The second explosion would wipe out everything on the north side of the island. In less than an hour.

  Michael heard the faint hum of a golf cart coming up the shell path, and the murmur of voices. Buyers, or brute force?

  The phone rang. Church listened, then threw the cell phone down on his desk with a clatter. "Is he awake?"

  One of Church's men tapped Michael none too gently on his back. Michael grunted. No act. It fucking hurt.

  "Get rid of her body. Now," Church instructed. "Do not release him," he told the two men holding Michael down.

  He leaned over and slapped Michael's cheek, while in the background, plastic rustled as they carried Leli'a's body out. "Naptime is bloody well over, Lieutenant."

  Michael opened his eye and stared up into the face of his enemy. "How does it feel to know you're about to lose everything you thought you had in the palm of your hand?"

  "You'll eventually tell me what I want to know." Church nodded to the guy holding Michael's arms. With a sharp, upward wrench, the guy made Michael's shoulders scream with pain.

  "You might want to imagine the water over Tallulah's head about now. Do you have the balls to out-bluff me, I wonder?" Church asked as he knelt down, then paused to run a handkerchief over his sweating face and bald head.

  You're going to be sweating a hell of a lot more before I'm done with you, Michael thought, flexing his fingers behind his back. All in working order.

  "Which will get her first?" Church mused, using a metal knuckle-duster to punch Michael in his cracked ribs. The room darkened around the edges. "Another explosion," Church continued conversationally, punching him again, "or will you let her drown?"

  The image made Michael suck in air. Jesus. His worst nightmare happening to Tally. He couldn't go there. And he refused to let Church know he'd scored a hit. He shrugged. The casual gesture hurt like hell.

  "Kill either of us and you'll be greeting your buyers with more than egg on your face, old man." He was fortunate the goons hadn't broken his legs. They'd certainly cracked a few more ribs when they'd used him as a punching bag. Michael breathed through the pain.

  He'd had several broken ribs the second day into SEAL Hell Week, and he hadn't rung th
e bell then, either. All he'd had to do was concentrate on the end zone.

  A quick memory of Hugo's face as he flew over that railing…

  Michael was up, and on his feet, leaving the two men who had been holding him sprawled on the floor. He took the one closest to him out with a hard chop to his throat, and commandeered the guy's CAR-15 as he went down.

  Church screamed bloody murder, calling in reinforcements. He ran around to the other side of his monster desk, jerking open draws and tossing papers as he desperately searched for another weapon. "Shoot him. Shoot him!"

  Michael swept the heavy brass lamp off the edge of Church's fancy desk and held it in his left hand, the CAR in his right. He swung the lamp. It connected on the side of the second man's temple with the satisfying splat of a watermelon breaking.

  Michael shot the second guy just as the door burst open. Half a dozen men poured into the room. They tried to surround him. Despite his injuries, Michael was as fast as he was determined. He got off a quick round, downing a couple of men on his blind side without really looking.

  He did a high kick, landing his foot high in one goon's chest, and sent him stumbling over one of his friends on the floor. Michael swung his leg again, same guy, same place. This time, the guy went flying backwards, hit a chair, and lay still. Michael tossed aside the lamp and grabbed an M-16 rifle on the floor. Cool. Weapon in each hand, he suffered no pain, and felt like Rambo.

  Hoo-yah!

  A volley of shots tore up the mahogany bookcases across the room, scattering bits of paper and gold-embossed leather. He returned fire even as he spun on his heel, and vaulted over Church's pretty, burled-wood desk. Before Church had fumbled the Glock he'd found into his hand, Michael stood behind him, his arm around Church's throat.

  A few morons tried to get off a few shots. The window behind his head shattered, and the rod holding the heavy velvet drapes crashed to the floor.

  "Call 'em off. They're starting to annoy me."

  "Don't shoot, you imbeciles." Church held up his hands. "Don't shoot."

  "I'm going to kill you," Michael said against Church's ear. "And believe me, I'm going to enjoy every slow second before you breathe your last." He glanced up at the men scattered about the room. "I'll get to the rest of you later."

  Michael wrapped his arm more tightly around Church's neck and pulled him off his feet. The older man was several inches shorter, and fifty pounds heavier. He tightened his elbow around the man's neck. Church grunted and tried to stand taller. He twisted, trying to reach Michael, but Michael didn't budge.

  "I've wanted to do this since I met you, Church. For what you did to my partner, for what you did to me—"

  "You killed your own partner by pushing him overboard. And it was your own fault that you got in the way of the bullet meant for him."

  "But now that I've come to know you better," Michael continued, unfazed by Church's rationale and rhetoric, "I have an even more valid reason for wanting you dead."

  "What's that?"

  "Tally."

  Michael jerked his forearm up with a twist, heard the satisfying crunch of snapped vertebrae, felt the sonofabitch go limp, then stood back and let Church's lifeless body fall across the scattered papers on his desk.

  Shit. Too painless. Too quick. Too rushed. He'd anticipated a bigger rush. More satisfaction. He hadn't known how much more important choosing life would become. Footsteps…

  Michael glanced up.

  The buyers stood at the door, weapons drawn, taking in the carnage.

  Michael's frown turned to a laugh. "Jesus. Am I hallucinating?" he asked as the two men strode into Church's office, bypassing the bodies on the floor.

  "Two of them aren't on the plastic," one of them observed, British accent wry. "You've gotten sloppy, Wright."

  "Hunt St. John, you son of a bitch. What the hell are you guys doing here?"

  "Never knew a SEAL to let well enough alone." Dare poked at one of the men sprawled on the floor. "This one's still breathing. May I?" Without waiting for permission, he tapped the guy, then looked up, his scarred face beatific. "T-FLAC to the rescue, my man—"

  "The hell you say." Michael pushed Church's body off the desk. He needed the support for a moment. "Since when does T-FLAC tread on Uncle Sam's toes?"

  "Since we offered to come in, politely as you please, and close your Mr. Church down." Huntington glanced at Darius. "Didn't his brothers say he was ass-deep in this?"

  "Yeah."

  "There you go." Hunt hitched the knee of his navy slacks, and sat on the arm of a chair. "We have a message for you from said brothers: 'Come home.' "

  Michael felt a rush of gratitude and relief. Damn it, even separated by thousands of miles, the Musketeers came through for one another. He'd underestimated his family. Thank God.

  "Can you two yahoos do cleanup detail? I have a little errand to run."

  Dare began stripping weapons from the bodies and gently sliding them across the floor to make a pile. "Don't know why we should have to clean up your garbage, Wright. You had all the fun."

  Michael grinned, despite the pain in his split lip, and strode to the door, making a concerted effort not to limp. "I presume you have backup?"

  Dare admired a rifle he picked up. "This is pretty. I'm keeping this one." He looked at Michael. "We kinda like backup. Unlike some branches of the military."

  "This op was strictly unofficial. I'm not a SEAL anymore " Michael pointed out, reaching for the door handle.

  "Should have fully realized your resources, old chap," Hunt said quietly, getting up to assist Dare.

  "Hoo-yah," Michael said, grateful for the reminder. He'd used some of T-FLAC's resources, but none of their manpower. His brothers and brother-in-law had come through, anyway.

  "I have a lady to rescue. Here"—he tossed Church's cell phone to Hunt—"stay turned. I might need to fully realize my resources."

  They'd brought the Nemesis back into the marina. Michael made a quick detour. He couldn't afford the time, but he had to be prepared for anything when he got to the cave.

  The second he boarded, he knew he wasn't alone. "Shit. I don't have time for this." He strode to an aft locker aft, opened it, and removed a Sig Sauer from a hidden compartment in back.

  Armed, he opened the door to the wheelhouse, then shoved aside the door to the salon. With a howl, Lucky darted off the counter in the galley.

  Arnaud Bouchard rose as Michael stepped into the salon.

  "You're like a fucking cat, Lieutenant. Unfortunately for you, you just used up your last life."

  Standoff. Both men were armed, determined, and dangerous.

  Michael sighed. "Would you mind stepping to your left a few feet before we start spraying bullets around?"

  "What?" Bouchard automatically stepped aside. "Why?"

  "Because my sister did that sketch behind you, and I don't want to ruin it—thanks." Michael shot him between his startled eyes.

  Not exactly satisfying, Michael thought as the man dropped to the carpet. But expedient.

  Michael stood on the rocks and stared down at the water in the cove. He'd run the length of the beach as if death were on his ass. Knowing what he would find, and yet hoping—

  High tide was in. The small crescent of beach was completely covered. Given another hour or so, and judging by the watermark on the cliff face, the ocean was going to rise another three feet—by which time the slitted entrance into the lower cave would be under water. And possibly blocked by falling debris from above.

  He trained his eye slowly upward. The mouth of the upper cave was completely blocked. It would take a cleanup crew a month and a week to clear the rubble. He wasn't a demolition expert for nothing.

  He'd done his job well. Too well.

  Michael quartered off the cliff face, looking for a way in from the top. There wasn't one.

  Right now, Tally was inside, in the dark, terrified out of her mind, probably singing at the top of her lungs.

  There was only one way to s
ave her: and that was for him to get in that swirling water.

  He'd have to go in. He'd have to go under.

  His mouth went dry, and sweat chilled his sun-warmed skin. His heart pounded so hard, he thought he'd pass out. He blinked back the black snow filling his vision.

  It'd taken him a fucking year to have the guts to get in up to his waist. A year. One stinking, cowardly inch at a time. His ears rang with the force of his blood pounding through his veins.

  Michael looked up at the blue sky. A sky the same brilliant color as Tally's eyes. Ah, Jesus, he thought, stunned by the lightbulb moment. I love her, and my life will be shit if she's not in it with me.

  Hugo… help me, man, I've gotta save my girl. "No guts, no glory—right, Bud? Hoo-yah!"

  He jumped.

  The icy water closed over his head and it felt as though his heart stopped.

  Michael saw Hugo's face as the props sucked him in—the water churned as the propellers picked up speed in slow-mo. White. Then frothy red. Hugoooo—

  No! Tally.

  Michael shook his head to clear the vision, his heart thudding in his ears as he broke the surface. He bit down on the fear—no time, no time, no time—and started swimming in strong strokes toward the opening. Two feet remained at the top. Twenty-four inches which were less than a handspan at their widest point.

  The current pushed and pulled him, and he braced his feet on the rock. He filled his lungs. Emptied them, and filled them again. Then dived beneath the water and pulled himself along the canyon of the walls with both hands. Fallen rocks had piled at the base of the opening in an untidy heap. There was no getting to Tally without moving them. And moving them fast.

  He spent precious minutes rolling the obstructions aside, shooting to the surface for air, and diving back down again.

  All the while a metronome ticked in his head.

  Tally. Tally. Tally.

  Finally, he'd cleared enough of the debris to allow his body to pass to the inside of the cave. He surfaced once more, dragged in a lungful of air, then dived and immediately started pulling himself between the narrow walls of the fissure, scraping his hands on the jagged surface as he kicked his feet. It was a tight, claustry fit.