Blake came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. The ugly mark on his chest was a reminder how real all this was.
“How are you feeling?” She recalled the pain she'd seen on his face back on the dock.
“It was just the sudden impact. See,” he said, looking down, “no injuries.”
The bruising over the gunshot wound had cleared and the giant egg he'd had under it seemed to be dissipating. The nickel-sized scab had healed and while the small red crater-like dent would lighten, he'd be left permanently scarred. It was a shame to mar such a beautiful man, but the fact that someone had tried to kill him when she'd been in the bathroom brought tears to her eyes.
“Hey.” He framed her face with his hands. “Why are you crying?”
She'd nearly lost him and this, whatever this was between them, would never have happened. He'd have been out of her life forever and even though parting was inevitable, she would never have had the opportunity to fall in love with him. And she did love him. She'd once thought he was like staring at a hot fudge sundae, tormenting yourself with how good it would taste but not daring to indulge. She'd gotten to taste, but unlike a sweet treat, she didn't regret it. Not loving him anyway. “You could have died.” He wouldn't know she was referring to that awful night.
He kissed her gently on the lips, then pressed his forehead to hers. “I'm glad you care. Lately you've been looking at me like you want to kill me yourself.”
Had she? She was going to put a stop to that here and now. “Sorry. I don't mean to.”
“You have every right to be mad at me. Look at where we are.”
“You didn't ask someone to try and shoot you. Now,” she said, needing to lighten the mood, “get dressed. This is depressing and I'm hungry.” She reached down and handed him his jeans.
“We're adding bossy to that list?”
“I've been called worse. Blake?” She passed him his shirt. “What are the odds we won't be recognized from that news footage?”
“I'm not sure. Not good, I think.”
“They could've killed innocent people with that bomb.”
“Possibly. The boat was rigged with a delayed timer. When we went on board we triggered it. It was ballsy.
Too
ballsy,” he said, deep in thought.
“What are you thinking? And please don't hold back. This is my life too.”
“You're right. The explosion, it was public. Very public. It got the locals involved, the press, the police, and they had to have known the FBI might consider it an act of terrorism. Why attract that much attention? It's not Krupin's style. He doesn't do shit like that. He's like a viper, striking quick and deadly, then slithering off.”
“You think the hitman took it upon himself to rig the boat after we landed in Key West?”
“See, that's it too. The guy uses assault weapons, not bombs. He likes it when you see his face.”
“Doesn't that make it harder to kill someone? Why not sit on a roof and shoot from there?”
“He's a sick bastard. But anyone who hires him knows that. If it was Krupin, he'd want me to know fear, to know I was going to die. So blowing up the boat doesn't make sense. And he had no way of knowing if we'd board her again. Kind of an inefficient way to kill us.”
“Maybe he was getting tired of tracking us down.”
“Again, not if Krupin sent him. He'd get off on us running. To him, it would be part of his revenge. If he really thinks I killed his nephew, he's going to want me to suffer.”
Rhonda shivered. What kind of monsters was Blake involved with? “So, what's the theory then?”
“Where's my phone?”
“Bedside table.”
He picked it up and made a call, then put the phone on speaker.
She smiled at him, appreciating his effort not to leave her out of the loop.
“Talk to me, pretty boy.” Monty's voice was on the other end.
He rolled his eyes. “Have they taken apart what was left of the bomb?” he asked, not bothering to react to his jab.
“Doing it as we speak. As soon as I know, I'll let you know. Thoughts?”
“See if they trace it to a source. Then I want to figure out if Sorrentino is connected to that source.”
“You think he set the bomb?”
“Don't know. But whoever did would've had to know it would attract the media. Can you get a list of marina employees, pictures maybe?”
“Hang on.”
The sound of keys clacking echoed through the line. It took only a few minutes.
“Five employees full-time, four part-time. But according to the police report, only the manager was on duty.”
“That's not right.” The kid who wanted him to sign forms wasn't the manager.
“I'm just telling you what the cops reported.”
“Let me know if you find a source.”
“If someone is trying to draw attention to you and someone else is gunning for you, you're in deeper trouble than we thought.”
“Perceptive.” When Blake hung up, he wasn't happy. “Someone didn't want us dead. Just noticed.”
“You're wrong,” Rhonda disagreed. “I went with you because I didn't want to be alone.” She'd have been dead if she hadn't been such a chicken shit around boats. “I'm not part of his equation.” Now she was on someone's hit list and expendable to someone else.
She sat on the edge of the bed. Could life get any worse?
Blake took a seat beside her, the bed dipping as he sat. “We'll get through this.”
She noticed he hadn't disputed her theory. “I admire your optimism. But truth is, you can't promise me that.”
“Yes,” he said, taking her chin and forcing her to look at him. “I can.” He got up and retrieved the third duffle bag. He set it on the bed and opened it. “Pick one you like.” He pulled out a box of dye.
She looked inside and saw several different colored wigs.
“Your hair is too long,” he said. “Too noticeable. A wig will change that. They're not the most comfortable things to wear, but it's only when we're in public.”
She touched her long hair, the hair that had taken years to grow. It was more than hair. It was her armor, shielding ogling eyes from seeing the real her. “I'll cut it,” she offered before she could change her mind. “Find me scissors.” She stood, ready to chop it off. She didn't need her hair anymore. She would never strip again. Of that she was certain.
“No,” Blake objected. “You don't have to. I don't want you to. The wigs will work.”
“It's all right. It's only hair.”
“But I don't want you to think back and remember cutting off all that beautiful hair because we were running. You've sacrificed enough. Please, try the wigs first.”
It touched her heart that he'd think of it that way. To make him happy, she chose a red, curly one. “This will make me look like an orphan.”
“A very cute, sexy orphan.”
“I am
not
wearing a wig while we have sex.”
He took the wig from her hand and tossed it across the room. He pulled her into his arms. “You're the only one I want to sleep with. Don't ever doubt that.”
* * *
Early the next morning, Blake chose a more scenic, less-traveled route. Rhonda was wearing the red wig, and he had dyed his hair brown. They changed their clothes too. The duffle bag held a variety of disguises. This morning, they'd chosen redneck camo. It worked. They didn't look anything like themselves.
Last night, Harris had contacted them. Paid in cash, the parts used for the bomb were traced to a store in Miami. From the video surveillance, they'd been able to identify the bomber as one of Sorrentino's men. The real question now was, how did Sorrentino find them?
They'd been on the road a couple of hours when, for the third time this morning, Rhonda needed to use the bathroom. He'd swear that woman's bladder had shrunk. Could stress do that to a woman? Outside the Everglade Alligator Farm, Blake pulled into a gas station.
“This one looks clean.” He motioned to the gun she'd put by her feet. “Take it.”
“Come on,” she complained. “I like my girlie parts. Twice now I've had to pee with that thing on my lap. Do you know what kids and men do on the floors of public washrooms? Please, it's just a bathroom.” She got out of the car before he could argue.
“Don't be long,” he said, not liking that she hadn't listened.
Ignoring him, she darted around back to the washrooms.
He cut the engine and waited. He hadn't said anything, hadn't wanted to worry her even more. But if Sorrentino had found them, was there a leak, either in the FBI or, God forbid, ICU? Because of that, he'd decided to only communicate via payphone, limiting everyone's ability to identify his and Rhonda's exact location. As disturbing as it was to think someone in Ryan's organization was a mole, he had to keep Rhonda safe. In another seven hours, they'd reach Savannah. An old friend had a beach house, and Blake knew he was overseas, no one to pinpoint where they were.
Getting antsy, he got out of the car and scoped the area. A family gassed up, while another filled an RV with loud children. He glanced at his watch and headed to the bathrooms. He should've gone with her. He'd just rounded the corner when her scream curdled his blood. The motherfucker who had shot Blake had Rhonda by the waist, lifting her off the ground as she kicked and screamed. Orlov, Krupin's henchman, watched, a gun in his hand. He shouted something in Russian. Enraged, Blake went for his own gun, just as Rhonda swung her arm. The back of her fist connected with her assailant's face and when his hands came up, Rhonda nailed him in the groin. He fell to his knees, clutching his dick with an agonizing groan. At the same time, Orlov made a grab for Rhonda. If Blake fired his gun he'd risk shooting her. So he used their tug of war to his advantage and dove for the asshole's legs, taking them both down. She managed to free herself, but both men were able to hang on to their guns.
“Run,” he shouted at Rhonda. When she hesitated, he repeated the command. This time she listened and took off toward the park.
Undistracted by Rhonda, as Blake was, Orlov got the upper hand and nailed Blake in the face. It stung like a son of a bitch, his lip cracked. He ignored the pain, getting his own fist to connect with the Russian's chin. They rolled over on the gravel, Orlov's fierce grip on Blake's wrist, Blake returning the favor, each trying to get the other's gun. He took a chance. He released the fucker's gun hand to grab a fistful of gravel, tossing it at his face. It did the trick. Orlov let go, swiping at the dirt blinding him.
Still on his back, Blake aimed, with no reservations about shooting the prick. Two men charged around the corner with bats in their hands. Rhonda's screams must have alerted them. In the distance, sirens blared.
“The cops are on their way,” one of them shouted.
Blake scrambled to his feet, as Orlov, managing to sit, blindly shot toward the new voices. He nailed one of the newcomers in the knee. Blake went to discharge his own weapon at Orlov's head, but his partner surprised Blake by body slamming him into the brick wall. The other newcomer fled, leaving his friend behind.
Sirens grew louder. Blake narrowly missed being cracked in the jaw. He returned the punch, doing more damage to his assailant's already broken nose. The man's neck snapped back as he stumbled backward. Blake readied his gun, but Orlov was prepared. He fired his weapon. It nicked Blake's wrist, forcing him to drop his gun. Sirens wailed from around the corner, now at the gas station. Orlov took off, heading toward the park and Rhonda. Blake snatched up his gun, not bothering to look back. He told his legs to run faster, to get to Rhonda before Krupin's assassin did.
Chapter Seventeen
R
honda's heart raced, the sound of her heavy breathing loud in her ears. She debated left or right and opted for a busy path, hoping for a place to hide. Her feet pounded the dirt as she passed tourists snapping pictures of wildlife. Every now and then she chanced a peek, hoping to see Blake. Had they killed him? Her vision blurred, and she swiped at her tears. Now wasn't the time.
Chancing another look, she realized she was alone. She didn't know how far she'd run, but it hadn't been far enough. She was still out in the open. Making a decision, she climbed over a fence. Ahead was a sandbank and behind it, the marsh.
The wet, sloppy ground squished between her toes. The mud tugged at her sandals, slowing her down. She considered going barefoot, but unsure as to what she'd find, she kept them on. Hidden now behind the tall grass and reeds, her heart slowed. Where the hell was she going? And how would she get out?
Telling herself to relaxâthis was a National Parkâshe trudged on, never more thankful to discover a small clearing. Behind it, the gray roots of cypress trees tangled with silent, emerald water. And while those trees looked like a great place to hide, all kinds of things crawled around back there. Even this was taking a chance. Eyeing the ground for anything that moved, she realized this might've been a dumb mistake.
“Stupid going further. Nasty alligators.”
Rhonda closed her eyes, recognizing the accent behind her. What was worse? Being mauled by a hungry alligator, or being shot. She turned to face him, her wig irritating the scar on her neck. With his gun pointed straight at her, the Russian wore an ugly sneer.
She forced herself to stay calm, to swallow her fear and assess the situation. She'd survived one nasty encounter. She'd survive this. Why hadn't he used his gun? Not that she wanted to die, but why hadn't he killed her already? She was so screwed and had no idea what to do. She unclenched her jaw and did the one thing she could doâbreathe.
He approached slowly, circling around her like a panther assessing its prey. “Very pretty.”
Bile rose in her throat. Were his intentions more sinister than murder?
He motioned with his gun for her to start walking.
“Fuck you.”
The slap was fast and hard, making her ears ring. She touched her cheek and gave him a venomous look. He didn't seem to care, the corner of his lip turning up in an ugly smirk. With him focused on trying to scare her, she discreetly pushed her sandal into the mud. Anything to stall. “Where are we going?”
His grin widened and she noticed a gold tooth. But he didn't say anything. Was his English worse than she'd thought, or was he just a prick? She suspected both theories were true.
“Move,” he commanded.
“I'm stuck.” She pointed to her foot, now up to her ankle in mud.
He glanced down, then gave her a warning glare. She'd planned a feeble attempt at freeing herself but her sandal was good and truly wedged. She bent over and grabbed her calf, getting ready to pull, and inconspicuously looked around for something she could use against him. Nothing. Not even a fallen branch.
After several tugs, she freed her foot and had no choice but to start walking, her steps eaten by all the muck beneath her feet. Now late morning, Florida humidity was on the rise. Her T-shirt clung to her back, and the damn wig itched. She wiped the sweat off her brow with the back of her hand and swallowed hard, beginning to feel nauseous again. It would serve him right if she puked all over him.
Behind her, she heard an “Oof,” then a splash. He'd tripped? She spun and found Blake and the slimy bastard rolling in shallow water. He'd found her. Relief and fear collided in a large mass at the bottom of her stomach. They had guns. And neither was letting go.
It was hard to tell who was winning. In a foot of water, arms and feet flailed, one would emerge gasping for breath as another would go under. Precariously near to a deeper swamp, if they edged too close, any chance of Blake getting his footing would be lost. The sound of flesh hitting damp flesh made her cringe. Her fingernails dug into her hands, as inwardly, she cheered her lover on. She wanted to shout out, but feared distracting him. She told herself he knew what he was doing.
The two men somehow made it to their feet and Blake's next punch sent the Russian's gun flying to the grungy shoreline. Keeping her eyes on the battle, she dove, desperate for the gun. She almost had it when she heard the noise. A low growl stopped her. Dreading what she'd see, she turned toward the sound. Her scream lodged somewhere between her throat and back teeth. A very pissed off alligator stared her down. She tried to remember what Blake had said about the alligators on the plantation and couldn't. Had he told her to run? To smack it on the nose? What?
Alligators don't normally attack humans, but judging from his hissing, he was either mad or as scared as she was. She withdrew her hand, not wanting to give him an appendage to chomp on. Behind her, the fight continued, oblivious to the alligator. Hoping he was more afraid of her than she of him, she stepped back, bracing herself for his thrust forward. Instead, he hissed again and dove into the water. Her relief was short-lived when she realized Blake was in that water.
Blake had a good twenty pounds and six inches on the Russian, but regardless of what he'd said, he was still recovering from a gunshot wound. Rhonda frantically searched for something she could use, then rememberedâthe gun. She reached down and grabbed it, but it was covered in slime and kept slipping. The Russian went down again, his nose bloodied and dripping. But he managed to get up, ramming Blake in the stomach. With a splash, both men landed in the river. Panicked, Rhonda prayed the dark blob floating toward them was a log. She had to warn him.
“Blake,” she shouted, “there's an alligator.” She pointed to the sinister mass. But with all the splashing, he hadn't heard.
Using her T-shirt, she tried to dry the gun, making no headway, as her shirt was drenched in sweat. She looked up to see arms, legs . . . and tail. They were under attack. Panting, she hugged her belly and prayed Blake would emerge. The seconds dragged on.
Then her heart stopped beating all together. She couldn't breathe as the Russian swam to shore. Frantic, she watched the water for signs Blake would be next. Nothing. Even the alligator had disappeared. The Russian drew near. Fumbling with the gun, she turned on her heels to run. She slipped on the mud and was about to land on her ass when she was yanked up by her arm. He snatched her wrist and took the weapon from her. She was defenseless. And without Blake.
He said something that sounded like a curse in Russian, his hand going to his bleeding arm. He'd been injured. Good, maybe he'd bleed to death. A slow, festering infection would be nice. Her attention on the water, she silently ordered Blake to emerge. She was still commanding him to live, when she was hauled away. No, no, no. He couldn't be dead. He couldn't. What the hell was wrong with him? Why wasn't he climbing out of the swamp.
“Don't bother,” the Russian said. “Alligator food.”
Rhonda's feet grew heavy as she doubled over, the contents of her stomach splattering the marshland. Lightheaded, she blinked. Blake was
not
gone. He wouldn't
do
that to her. She was
not
that unlucky to have the only man she'd ever loved taken from her.
The bastard allowed her to finish retching before dragging her off. She wiped her mouth on her arm. Blake gone? How could that be? She glared at the hand now around her bicep, wanting to sink her teeth into those ugly fingers. This monster had killed her man. And she'd find a way to make him pay.
* * *
His head was going to explode. Every blood vessel screamed for air. Blake's arm was numb, and he could forget about his hand. He knew where it was and what had it and he only hoped it was still there, if he managed to escape. The water grew murkier as the alligator spun him around, which meant he had only seconds left. Using all his strength, he wrapped his legs around the animal's torso, his free arm around his snout, and tucked and rolled with the reptile. There was only one way to dislodge his arm. The nasty jaws had to let go.
Contrary to belief, alligators didn't enjoy fighting with their food. If this bugger thought Blake too much of a hassle, he'd release him in search of another meal. But if the beast didn't open his mouth soon, Blake would pass out. Either from the rolling or from lack of oxygen, his light-headedness made it hard to focus, but if he wanted to live, he had to hang on. He clenched his eyes shut hoping to stave off the nausea, now threatening his concentration.
His fingers sprang open, his numb arm floating freely in the water. The alligator had given up. Using what little energy he had left, he kicked his feet, hoping his head didn't implode. In an explosive burst, he broke the surface and sucked in every ounce of air his lungs would absorb. Gasping, he grappled his way to shore with one arm, at last finding purchase on the muddy bottom. Dizzy, he fell onto the marshy embankment.
Trying to steady his breath, he refused to look at his arm. His shoulder burned and he seriously feared that it had been torn out of its socket. His first coherent thoughtâRhonda. He scanned the area. No sign of her. Orlov hadn't killed her. Which way had they gone? He drew another deep breath and forced himself to think. His entire body vibrated as he tried to stand. Steeling himself, he looked at the damage. He had at least eight puncture marks, two more nasty than the others and bleeding profusely. He had to get out of here and find something to wrap his arm.
He chose the clearest path, hoping Orlov had done the same. And there he saw it. Someone, most likely Rhonda, had vomited. It wasn't exactly breadcrumbs leading the way, but he'd take it. Never had he been more grateful for puke.
He'd only been assigned a couple of jungle missions, but knew what to look for. He spotted broken branches and as the marsh turned less muddy, he saw footprints. He picked up his steps. They couldn't be that far ahead. His chest ached but he ignored it, pushing to a faster pace. He had to get to her. He didn't know how long she'd be kept alive.
Then he heard an engine turn over. He ran toward the sound. He hadn't yet cleared the reeds when he saw an unconscious Rhonda being shoved into the passenger side of a black sedan. He had no weapon, no way of freeing her. So he focused on the New Jersey license plate as the car drove off with Rhonda inside.
They were on a dirt road, an access road, he guessed. He had to get to a phone and started to jog. It was then he felt the brunt of his injuries. He'd need to stop the bleeding, but he had nothing. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Damn, it was getting hot. Cradling his wounded arm, Blake dragged his feet. Pinprick-sized stars marred his vision. He couldn't pass out. Rhonda would die.
He kept the image of her beautiful face in the front of his mind and forced himself to move. “Keep walking,” he said. “This is just a scratch.”
He lost track of time. How long had Rhonda been at that douchebag's mercy? Behind him someone honked. He stopped, blinking the haze from his vision.
A pickup stopped and an older man got out. Wearing a worried expression and a green shirt with a nametag that read “Walt,” he regarded Blake's arm, the blood now running over his hand and down his fingertips.
“Gator?”
Blake nodded, unable to say anything.
“Come on,” he said.
He helped him into his truck. Opening the door, he insisted Blake sit. From under the worn seat, the man withdrew a clean-looking tackle box.
“You're lucky I found you,” he said. “If the bite doesn't kill you, infection will.”
“And how?” Blake drew a shaky breath and started again. “How does that make me lucky?” He
really
wanted to know.
“Because.” He opened the tackle to an array of first-aid equipment. “I always carry. Can never be too careful out here. Now, you can either wait until I get you to a hospital . . . or.” He opened a small rectangular box and pulled out a syringe. “It's an antibiotic. I'm one of the handlers in the park. I'll tell you now, I'm not a licensed anything, but I've done this on more than one occasion. I
am
trained in first aid. Your choice, son.”
It wasn't a choice. He didn't have time to take care of his
boo-boo
while they did God knew what to his Rhonda. “Shot.”
Walt nodded.
The alligator must have done nerve damage, because Blake didn't feel the liquid being poured over his arm. Quickly and efficiently, Walt wrapped layers of gauze over the holes, then he pushed Blake back onto the seat and lifted his feet into the cab. And before his would-be savior came around the truck and took the driver's seat, he poked Blake in the arm with the needle.
“What's your name?”
“Blake.”
“Well, Blake, didn't your mama ever tell you not to swim in a swamp unarmed?”
“She told me to use the fork on the left for my salad but forgot to mention the alligators.”
Walt laughed. “Good to see you have your sense of humor.”
“What I don't have is my phone. Do you have one I can use?”
“Sure.” He opened the glove box, keeping his eyes on the road. “In there, somewhere.” Then he reached under his seat and pulled out a thermos. “Can't stand bottled water.” He passed it to Blake. “Drink, it's from the tap and you need it.”
He took the thermos. Under a pile of gas receiptsâand a handgunâhe found the phone.
The man shrugged at Blake's cocked eyebrow. “Can never be too careful.”