Chapter Twenty-Four

Dev slipped her trusty boat alongside Molly’s dock just after midnight. If she timed it right, she’d have time to swing by the twenty-four-seven market on Sea Turtle Drive for a half-gallon of milk and a bag of Krispy Kreme Donuts on her walk home. Scottie loved the sweet glazed confections, and she couldn’t blame him. Sugar and fat were her best bad habits, too.

After making certain her boat was secure, Dev shrugged out of her slicker and stowed it under the pilot’s seat, where it would keep until she went out in the boat again. It never hurt to be prepared. Tucking the keys and most of the lanyard into her shirt, she cradled the burlap bag with Gru wiggling and hissing inside, then set a quick pace for those donuts and home.

Seth loved her; she’d seen it in his eyes before he and Cord had taken off for Cuba. Like no man yet in her life—and Cord didn’t count—Seth would come back to her. She was sure. Thinking about those strong arms of his around her, and the way he’d smelled when she’d first kissed him, of whiskey, the color of his eyes, put a bounce in her step. Life was going to be good again. She knew that, too.

Until she rounded the corner, where Molly’s wooden dock joined with the city’s concrete sidewalk. Sly Valentine stood leaning under the streetlight there, his arms crossed over his chest, and… Lookee there. His right hand’s sporting a bright, white gauze bandage. Poor asshole must’ve hurt himself trying to kill an iguana.

“Knew you’d be back ’bout now,” he said, pushing his dark glasses down his nose with his index finger, though why he needed those sunglasses at night was worrisome. Dev had always assumed he was a dealer, but did he use, too?

Tugging the burlap bag under her chin, Dev stuck her chin at Sly even as the hairs on the back of her neck lifted. “Gru’s alive, you ass. You didn’t kill him like you thought you did, so let me pass.” If she could only suppress the nervous quaver in her voice, she’d sound a lot tougher.

“Just here to walk you home, Baby Doll,” he drawled. Dressed in black denim pants, a black t-shirt, and a denim jacket, he’d tied his hair in a queue, but Sly still looked the same. Slick. Twisted. Guilty.

Dev edged around him with poor Gru struggling against his confinement. “Stop it. I don’t have time for this, and you know it. I have to get home.”

“But Baby Do—”

“I said stop!” she hissed. Sly had never laid a hand on her, but the velvet insinuation in his voice creeped her out, especially now, in the dead of night when most people were home and traffic was light. Despite continually setting him straight, he’d always acted as if he’d owned her. Dev’s heart kicked into overdrive as Gru wiggled again, as if he sensed the jerk who’d tried to kill him stood nearby. “I have to get some milk on the way home,” she blurted, frightened now and ready to run.

Gallantly, Sly bowed and gestured her forward. “Be my guest. It’s late. I’ll escort you to… where? Figarino’s good enough for you?”

“Y-yes,” she muttered. “That’s where I was g-going anyway.”

Shrugging out of his jacket, he swept it over her shoulders before she knew what he’d done. “Nights get chilly this time of year, especially after the storm we just had.” He tugged the collar up her neck and situated the shoulders over hers, so it wouldn’t slip. “Don’t want you catching cold.”

Dev cringed, the weight and smell of that denim, cigarette smoke and sweat unbearable. Wrapped up in Sly was the last place she wanted to be.

“Don’t,” she growled, fear driving her now. Figarino’s was two blocks away, her safe little bungalow another three after that. “I’ll… I’ll be fine on my own and tomorrow, I’ll return your jacket. Now, take off and leave me alone.”

“’S no problem,” he murmured, his voice husky and deeper than usual.

Shivers skittered up Dev’s spine. There was no way out of this creepy walk home. She set her eyes on the sidewalk and started walking as quickly as she could. Better to get this over with fast. Maybe she’d be safe once she got into Figarino’s. Maybe one of Key West’s police officers would be there for his nightly caffeine and a Krispy Kreme. Maybe she could accidentally on purpose bump into him, spill that coffee, and convince him that she had a stalker on her six. ‘Please, yes,’ she prayed.

Sly’s heavy hand cupped her shoulder. “Where’s the guy who’s been hanging around you?”

“He’ll catch up any moment,” she lied, casting a quick glance over her shoulder. I wish!

Sly chuckled, more of a growl than a laugh. “Well, good,” he purred, drawing out the good. “I’d like another chance at him. What’d you say his name was?”

“Seth, Seth McCray. He’s George McCray’s—”

“Shit. That explains a lot.” Sly’s palm gripped her shoulder tight, forcing her feet to stop moving. “Where is he? I know he wasn’t on that thing you call a boat. He’s gone after the prince, hasn’t he?”

She forced a laugh, though it sounded more as if she was choking. “P-prince? Wh-what are you talking about?”

“Knock it off!” Sly ripped the bag from her arms and flung Gru aside. “You ought to get out more. Play poker with the big boys. You can’t bluff worth shit.”

Her poor baby had landed with a thump in the rain-filled gutter. “No!” she cried, reaching for the iguana. “Not again! I can’t, I won’t lose him again!”

“And I can’t afford to lose you,” Sly growled as he jerked her off her feet, his arm around her waist. “You know too much, Dev, now shut the fuck up!”

“I’m not going anywhere with you! No!” she screamed, kicked and bucked, fighting for her life. Scottie and Gru needed her. Seth and Cord, too. She couldn’t let this happen. Whatever Sly had planned, she had to fight until—

A black limousine with its headlights turned off pulled to the curb, its windows dark, narrowly missing where Gru struggled to get out of the bag.

“Stop, Sly! At least let me let Gru out. He’ll die in that bag.” Beads of rain dripped over her panicked reflection in the shiny gloss coat of the limo, now parked directly in front of her.

“Shut up,” Sly growled, one hand at her throat, “or this’ll get worse.”

“Get your slimy hands off!” One warning was all she gave him as she tipped her head back and let out the loudest scream she could muster. Then another! She turned her mouth and lungs into an air raid siren—

“Looks like you have your hands full,” another male with a definite Mideastern accent called out from the vehicle.

Dev stopped screaming then, hoping against hope that this guy would help her, and buying time for one of those Key West officers to drive by, catch Sly in the act, and arrest the creep.

The olive-skinned stranger lifted to his feet from the backseat of the limousine. Of course, he had money and a chauffeur. “Put her down, Mr. Valentine. Please. Introduce me.”

A shiver rattled up her spine. This man might look handsome and his black eyes might sparkle, but there was something sinister to him. Oh. My. Hell. He’s Lianna’s husband, the man who’d tortured her fingers, that Bagani fellow. Dev still burned to know exactly what had happened to Lianna. Now, she just might find out.

Dressed in an immaculate, gray linen suit, white shirt, and black tie, Prince Bagani stood there on the sidewalk, fiddling with what looked to be pure gold cufflinks at his wrists. Tall, slender, and a definite man of the world, he flashed straight white teeth beneath a perfectly trimmed mustache. It wasn’t as heartbreaking a smile as Seth’s, when he’d finally smiled, but it was a smile. Kind of smirky. Kind of suave. Kind of—not.

This guy’s eyes were dark, rimmed with either kohl liner or the thickest, blackest lashes she’d ever seen. Man, he had debonair down to a fine art, the way he’d enunciated his request in perfect King’s English. But he was no Englishman, not if the seal engraved in lovely Arabic script on the gold ring on his finger meant what Dev suspected.

As if he’d read her mind, Bagani swept one arm to his waist and performed a small bow just as Sly muttered, “Your Highness, Prince Basheer Bagani, meet Devereaux Shepherd, the girl I’ve been telling you about. Dev, the Prince who’s going to make you wish you’d been smart and worked for me.”

Prince Bagani tilted his head. The corners of his lips curled with the most evil smile. Even his mustache seemed delighted to see her.

Dev screamed into the chilly dark night. But this time, no one came to her rescue.

“Eric!” Seth called out to his good friend just as Eric maneuvered his wide rubber skiff alongside the pontoon boat. “Knew it had to be you out here in the dark.”

“Thank God!” Eric called out. “You made good time. Didn’t think you could do it, not this fast, but damn, it’s sure good to see you.”

“Yeah, well, it finally stopped raining.” Seth glanced over his shoulder at the long dark stretch between Cuba to Key West, between him and Devereaux. “Came as soon as I could. Eric, Cord Shepherd.” Seth nodded to the belligerent guy with his pistol still trained on Eric. “He’s here to help. Cord, meet former Navy Corpsman and USMC scout sniper, Eric Reynolds, but you can call him ‘Sir’, so put your weapon down.”

“Ha!” Eric chuckled as he turned to the two men with him. “That’ll be the day anyone sirs me. Seth McCray, meet my good buddies, and two of America’s finest, Sergeant Wilson “Ace” Allen and Corporal Johnny “Tex” Ritter.”

Sergeant Allen growled, “Make it quick,” but neither man made a move to come aboard.

“You talked with Alex lately?” Eric asked.

Seth crinkled his nose at that. “Not since I hung up on him. Right now, he thinks my phone’s fried, or I wouldn’t be here with you.”

Cord leaned over the boat railing and reached for Eric’s hand to pull him aboard. “Semper Fi. ’Bout damned time we got a couple more Marines to stand with us. You ready to fight, brother?”

Eric landed on both feet, but lengthened his grip on Cord’s forearm until the two were eye to eye and fist to elbow. “You ready to die?” he gritted out. “Because I’m here to tell you, there isn’t a better man to have beside you in a firefight than former Army Sergeant Seth McCray, you feel me?”

What was it with all that posturing, staring, and squeezing the shit out of each other’s dirty mitts that Devil Dogs always seemed to do? “Guys, enough already,” Seth barked, more amused than exasperated. “You’re both mean as shit, now what’s the plan, Eric? How do we get Cassidy back, and where is she? Do you know?”

Eric released Cord’s hand first, no doubt because Cord’s big head was harder than Eric’s, and it’d take another minute or so before his synapses fired strong enough to relay Seth’s question from Cord’s big brain all the way down his arm to his hairy fingers.

Eric turned to face Seth, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes a different kind of sunshine on a night so dark. Wearing his usual cargo pants with its pockets probably all stuffed with first-aid supplies along with the essentials, like ammo, the man was a sight for sore eyes. “All I know is where we think they took her, to the other side of the island. You guys came in on the west side, but there’s a small navy tucked into one of the bays on the east side.

“How many ships?”

“One frigate, two patrol cruisers, a few smaller boats to get supplies ship to shore. Visibility’s pretty much nil at night, so it’ll be rough going. Once we get there, the beaches are coarse black volcanic sand, and in some places, it’s sharp as hell, so be aware of that. You bring any extra gloves? I lost mine in the ambush.”

Seth whipped open the tarp, pulled up a box of leather gloves, and tossed that to Eric.

“Thanks,” he growled as he ripped the end of the box open, jerked out a couple pairs and pushed his long slender fingers into the first one that fit. “You have no idea what that sand’ll do to your skin.”

“I’ve got Vaseline if you need it,” Seth offered.

But Eric shook his head. “No, thanks. FAST is due anytime now. We need to get you guys ashore and this rig stashed.”

“What about a Cuban navy. They even got one?”

Eric shook his head. “No worries. Cuba ranks seventy-fifth in the world for military firepower. Their total naval assets number a dozen patrol craft, which they mostly use to keep their people from skipping the island.” His gaze swept the pontoon boat from bow to stern. “Let me guess, Uncle George left this to you.”

“That’s a story for another time,” Seth muttered as he secured the bowline of Eric’s raft and prepared to tow. “Let’s go get Cassidy.”