Chapter Seven
THE PEOPLE WHO’D told him he was a jackass and had his head up his ass may have had a point. Right now Killion would barter just about anything to rewind his choices and take his pretty little frog geek to a real hospital with real doctors. For the past thirty-six hours he’d done nothing but fight to keep her alive.
The water was icy cold as he climbed into the enormous bathtub with his arms full of delirious female. A female who’d just spiked a temp of 105 F. He knew there was a risk of cardiac arrest from what he was about to do, but it was the only thing he could think of to stop her brain from being fried. He eased into the freezing depths and felt his balls retract to the point of no return.
“Holy mother trucker.” Goodbye manhood, it was fun while it lasted. He gritted his teeth as the water climbed higher, creeping closer to the top of the tub, almost to the edge but not overflowing. Audrey’s head rested on his shoulder, lolling in a way he didn’t like. He did not want her to die.
They were both naked. It was easier this way and she was too out of it to give a shit. Anyway, his dick was now a worthless icy nub that would probably never recover from this experience, which served him right for believing he could handle everything himself. He shivered but Audrey’s skin sizzled to the touch. He’d run out of IV antibiotics four hours ago, so he’d crushed up tablets and put them on her tongue. Now all he could do was keep her hydrated and try to keep her body temperature within the normal range—normal for raging fever, anyway.
“Don’t die,” he whispered in her ear, hugging her closer and trying to ignore the fact he had an unobstructed view of her naked breasts. He’d taped plastic over her wound and was careful not to disturb that area.
He wasn’t an asshole, but he wasn’t blind, and he didn’t know whether to be grateful or horrified when his dick stirred. At least it hadn’t snapped off down there.
What the hell had he been thinking? Playing God with someone’s life? But no matter how much he berated himself he knew it had been the only choice.
“Please don’t die.” He already had a village full of dead people on his conscience. He couldn’t take any more. He stroked the hair off her forehead. Then picked up her wrist and searched for her pulse near the delicate blue veins. Fast, racing, scaring the shit out of him.
He pressed his lips to her temple; she was still searing hot while his teeth were starting to hammer. She let out a little moan and started to twist in his arms. He held her tighter.
“Come on, Aud. Fight this. Stay alive and if you’re innocent I swear to God I’ll do everything in my power to get you out of this mess.”
After another five minutes, his arms were shaking so badly he was worried he wouldn’t be able to lift her out if he waited any longer. He pulled the plug with his right foot and clambered awkwardly to his feet using his elbows for purchase.
He found a big fluffy towel and wrapped it carefully around the woman in his arms. Barely five-two and yet she was hanging in there valiantly, fighting for life with everything she possessed. She reminded him of his grandmother—diminutive, but feisty, just like he’d told her when he’d had her bound on her kitchen floor and she’d still gone for his balls.
He laid her on the bed and grabbed another towel, using it to squeeze the water out of her hair, then patted her dry, doing his damnedest not to think about the fact she was a living breathing woman. He removed the plastic covering her injury and examined the jagged wound closely. It was healing nicely. There was nothing weird or sexual about his actions—he was trying to keep her alive. Even so, as soon as she was dry he grabbed a baggy T-shirt that belonged to the owner of the house and eased it over Audrey’s head and arms—no easy feat—and adjusted the sheet to make her decent.
He’d never been offended by anyone who wanted to walk around naked, but that was a choice, and right now Audrey didn’t have a choice about anything that was happening to her.
He dried himself off and pulled on boxers from his duffel bag. A rattling noise startled him, and he realized Audrey was shivering so badly her teeth chattered. Shit, had he cooled her down too much too fast or was this a natural progression of the fever? He had no clue. He stood there stupidly wondering what the hell to do. Then he crawled into the big ass bed, wrapped his body around her much smaller one, warming her as best he could. She burrowed back against him, a perfect fit.
“Come on, Aud. You can do this, baby.”
She trembled in his arms, and he found his eyes slowly drifting shut, his brain finally dis-engaging from the craziness of the last three days. Sleep came, surrounded by soft white sheets and the pure clean scent of a woman. It didn’t even matter that she might be a cold-hearted killer; he just wanted her to live.
* * *
TRACEY WILLIAMS HAD traveled back to the States, heading for Patrick Killion’s last known address though she wasn’t stupid enough to break into the place. A man like Killion would be prepared for intruders and probably wouldn’t leave anything useful around anyway. As far as she could discover the guy had no family. He’d just been spawned one day for the sole purpose of ruining her life.
She sat in her hotel and had been scouring the news coming out of South and Central America, looking for clues as to where Killion and Lockhart might be. She stared again at one news report that made her senses tingle. A large oil tanker approaching the Panama Canal from the Caribbean had reportedly been hijacked a couple of days prior and the hijackers had threatened to ram into the gates of the canal unless the Panamanians paid a fifty-million dollar ransom. Peanuts compared to the cost of shutting down that shipping channel for even a few days. Panama had apparently worked with Colombia to retake the vessel and—so sad, too bad—all the hijackers had been killed during the liberation.
Wouldn’t want any would-be terrorists thinking this was a smart idea.
But the thing was, Panama wasn’t usually that chummy with the Colombians and the situation rang alarm bells. She picked up the phone and called a contact, Peter. They made small talk and arranged to meet for a drink while she was in town, then got down to business. “Can you get me details on the company used in the rescue of that oil tanker near Panama?”
Her questions wouldn’t seem too outlandish. The company she worked for shipped billions of dollars of goods around the world annually. Piracy was a big deal.
There was a long pause as Peter accessed information. “It was an outfit called ‘Penny Fan Solutions.’”
She felt like she was missing something. “I don’t suppose you know who owns it?”
She heard tapping. “There’s a shell company, but,” more tapping, “As far as I can tell it’s registered to some guy called Logan Masters.”
She leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling with a smile on her face. She should have known. Killion had turned to his old SAS pals to get him out of Colombia. She rolled her eyes at herself for taking this long to figure it out. Had he taken Lockhart with him? Of course he had. If she weren’t with him he wouldn’t need covert ops.
“Anything else you need?” Peter asked.
“Yes, actually.” She leaned forward in her chair again. “Do you know if they flew straight from Colombia to the tanker?” This was a bit of a weird question, but she’d make it worth his while.
A moment of silence before he said, “No. They approached the tanker from a US naval frigate based in the Caribbean. Hmmm.”
She waited, nerves plucking like guitar strings. Would Killion have boarded a naval ship with a wanted fugitive? Possibly, if he knew the captain. That would make Lockhart virtually untouchable.
“I’m looking at some satellite data we had on aircraft in the region. We focused extra resources on it after the ship was jacked. Looks like the helicopter made a detour north before heading to the frigate. Maybe refueling or picking someone up?”
Or dropping someone off.
“Can you tell me where it went?”
“Tiny island also owned by a private security company but this one based in DC—Cramer, Parker and Gray. Security Consultants—sounds more like a law firm. I’m obviously in the wrong business.”
She laughed. “No kidding. I owe you.”
Peter sent her the coordinates of the island. “See you soon.”
“Looking forward to it.” She thanked him and put down the phone and punched the air. The guy wasn’t great in bed, but he gave good information and he’d always been kind to her, unlike certain other people she could mention. She usually had to get him drunk because he was squeamish about his wife, but she never put pressure on him and always made it about old times and a bit of harmless fun. She needed to keep him on her side. Sure she could blackmail him, but dinner and blowjobs were a lot less effort.
By keeping a broad perspective she’d narrowed down Killion’s exact location even though he thought he was so clever. He was predictable in the fact he used his friends and connections rather than striking out on his own. She looked up the island on Google Earth. Completely isolated and vulnerable. She wished she could be the one to do this job, but it was logistically impossible. And who knew what a Colombian drug lord would do to an active CIA operative? She winced. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be pretty. C’est la vie.
She picked up the phone and passed on the information to her partner who was in boss mode and obviously worried by the level of incompetence being shown by his Colombian friends.
He didn’t ask when she’d be home.
Pissed, she tossed down her pen and picked up her purse. She was about to go shopping and buy something nice as a treat for herself, and he was going to pay the bill. Diamonds, she decided, for all the men she had to screw and assholes she had to kill. She deserved something pretty, something eternal, something that reflected her true value, even when the rest of the world was determined to take her for granted.