Twenty-five

Dean tried to keep his mind on what he was doing. He’d found an Internet café and had been clicking through articles on previous targets of OPF, some of which were more high profile than others. OPF had started out small or rather more localized in their attacks, but gradually their targets had shifted to large conglomerates. North Sea Offshore Drilling was actually a subsidiary of a huge oil company. When there was more than one company involved in something they were “protesting,” they seemed to target the bigger one.

The strategy didn’t make a lot of sense to him. If the object was economic sabotage—to destroy these companies—why hit the one who could absorb it better? Was there something more than ideology at work?

He needed to try to “follow the money.” The popular refrain from the Watergate movie attributed to Deep Throat . . .

Fuck. Deep throat. Not what he should be thinking about. His mind instantly shifted—as it had been doing all morning—to last night.

“Epic” was an understatement. Dean didn’t know what to think. He probably shouldn’t try; he might not like what he came up with.

What the hell had he been thinking? It had seemed like a good idea at the time. They were obviously attracted to each other, they both knew the situation, they were stuck here for a few days—they might as well make the best of it. Why not?

At least that was what he had told himself, but it didn’t seem quite so straightforward now. He’d been inside her half the night, and the other half he’d kept her cuddled so tightly against him a good old-fashioned Gulf hurricane couldn’t have ripped them apart.

He was an idiot. He should have stuck to the original plan and not given in. He had a “type,” as the LC had pointed out, for a reason. Even in the best of circumstances—which this sure as hell was not—his job didn’t allow for anything more than casual hookups of the mess-around, nothing-serious variety. To be part of Team Nine, it was a mandate: no close family, no wives, no girlfriends. There were exceptions made like Blake with his supposedly estranged sister, and Colt’s marriage to Kate (being CIA, she knew how to keep secrets), but they all knew what they were getting into when they joined. It was part of the deal. You want the most important, dangerous, highly covert ops? No ties.

So yeah, he had a type. Women who were fun to hang out with, maybe go to dinner with and see a few movies with in between hot and heavy sessions in the bedroom, but no one he’d be tempted to want something deeper or more serious with. He kept it simple. Light. Casual.

Fitting Annie in that box, however, wasn’t working. There was nothing simple, light, or casual about her, or how she made him feel.

He should have stayed away from her from the beginning and every stupid step along the way. Listened to his head and not his gut—or other parts of his body.

Frustrated with himself and the situation, Dean cursed and returned to his electronic surfing. The wind-and-board variety would come after lunch.

His attempts to delve into the financial history of OPF, specifically who might be funding them, however, hit dead end after dead end. After an hour of banging his head against the proverbial cyber wall, he gave up.

What the fuck was he doing anyway? He wasn’t a backroom guy. He wasn’t a computer hacker, a forensic accountant, or an analyst.

He was a SEAL. A fighter. The guy running into a firefight or the guy you sent behind enemy lines. He was the person who knew how to run an operation and get the job done.

He could look at a situation, assess, analyze, and make a decision before most people formulated the question. Knowing how to act and being able to trust that those actions were right was almost instinctive. It was probably his biggest strength.

But after what had happened with the kid in Russia and now Annie . . .

His gut seemed to be letting him down.

He needed to get back to what he was good at. Solving problems and getting the job done. In this case, clearing Annie’s name and making sure she was safe before he disappeared again.

With that in mind, he left the café and started back to the guest house, making a call along the way to the LC to pass on what information he’d gathered about OPF. Maybe Kate could do something with it.

He’d told Annie he would meet her for lunch on the beach, so he was surprised when she came bursting into the room not long after he’d returned to the guest house.

One look at her face, and he knew something was wrong. She was as white as a sheet.

He felt that strange thud in his chest and didn’t hesitate to draw her against him when she raced into his arms.

The frantic beat of her heart seemed to echo his own.

He had to stop this shit. The man known for his cool under pressure went to fucking pieces whenever she jumped.

He drew her back, holding her away from him, where presumably she wouldn’t do as much harm. “What’s wrong?”

“There were two men at the beach—”

Dean wasn’t sure he’d ever lost it before, but that had done it. He went ballistic. Out of control with rage. “If those two assholes touched you, I’ll kill them.”

Something in his voice seemed to clear some of her panic. She looked at him in surprise. “What? Oh, you mean those guys from yesterday?” She shook her head. “I wasn’t talking about them. This was two different guys. They were walking up and down the beach, talking to people, showing them something. It looked like a flyer. I’d just come back from the bathroom when I noticed them. I don’t know why I didn’t return to my things, but there was something about them. . . . They didn’t look like they were from around here.”

Dean had calmed down enough to ask, “Why?”

“They were a little too polished. I don’t know the right word. . . . Slick, maybe? The fancy-European-designer-suit kind of look. But tough guys. It was just wrong.”

“What was the flyer?”

“I didn’t stick around to find out. But it has to be my picture.”

“You think they were police?”

She shook her head. “No. Don’t you see? I think it’s Jean Paul’s men, and they are looking for us.”

He tried to calm her down. “Jean Paul isn’t looking for us. He’s too busy covering his ass. Anyway, he couldn’t have mobilized that kind of manpower in a couple days to check every island. There are hundreds of places we could have gone; there is no reason to think he would have gotten that lucky to pick this one so fast. He couldn’t have followed us. It’s probably just a coincidence.”

He didn’t believe in coincidences, but it seemed a stretch that Jean Paul would try to track her down with that kind of intensity. He had to know his story wouldn’t hold up. He should be more concerned with getting the hell out of there.

Dean supposed it could be the police or MI6 if they’d given any credence to his terrorism report. But again, mobilizing that kind of manpower that quickly didn’t seem likely.

“Wait here,” he said, setting her aside. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”

“No.” She caught his arm, her slender fingers pressing like a vise. “You can’t go down there. What if they see you? What if something happens to you?”

“I’ll be careful.” He wanted to dismiss her concerns out of hand, but he couldn’t. If she was right, this was bigger than he’d thought.

He pulled the phone from his pocket and handed it to her. “You hang on to this. If I’m not back in an hour, hit nine. It’s speed dial. The man who answers will know what to do.”

Dean understood the significance of what he was doing. He was handing her his secret. Maybe not in so many words, but if she used that phone she was a part of this.

“Who’s on the other end?”

“Someone you can trust.”

Someone he trusted, he realized. To put Annie’s well-being in Taylor’s hands, he must. So why hadn’t he trusted him in Russia? Good fucking question.

Dean retrieved the gun he’d taken from Jean Paul and stuck it in the back of his jeans.

He could tell she didn’t like seeing that, but she didn’t say anything. Worry and anxiousness clouded every one of her delicate features.

“What should I do?”

“Sit tight” obviously wasn’t going to cut it. She’d go crazy staring out the window, waiting for him to return.

“Change in case we have to get out of here.” She was still wearing her suit and shorts from the beach. “Get our things together, and see if you can get Mrs. Collins to make us a couple of sandwiches.”

She nodded, obviously relieved to have something to do.

He knew too well the trouble you could get into when you were idle. Like getting messed up in an ecoterrorist plot/murder investigation.

Dean grabbed a few more things and went to the door. “I’ll be back soon.”

“You better be.”

He grinned at her fierce expression and pulled her into his arms again for long enough to press an equally fierce kiss on her mouth until it was yielding and soft again.

“Remember, Annie. One hour.”

•   •   •

It took him half that. The guest house was only a couple of blocks from town. The beach where Annie had seen the men was a short distance beyond, but Dean didn’t make it that far. He’d just turned onto the main drag when he saw the two men walking out of the post office and headed toward Patsy’s supermarket.

One look at them, and Dean knew Annie’s instincts had been dead-on. He could recognize professionals when he saw them. He had no doubt that these guys were hired killers.

His blood turned to ice at the thought of the danger Annie could have been in.

What the fuck was going on here?

He ducked into the post office, happy to see a young kid behind the desk. He looked fresh out of high school—or whatever the Scottish equivalent was.

Dean put on his best beach bum look and looked anxiously over his shoulder. “Who were those two?”

The kid responded to the “sheesh” tone. “They said private investigators. Handed me some kind of badge, but I didn’t look at it too closely.”

“What did they want?”

“Said they were looking for a woman who may have been kidnapped by her boyfriend.”

Fuck.

“But they were lying,” the kid said.

“How do you know?”

“It was the same picture of the woman in the paper yesterday for that murder up in Lewis.”

The kid was obviously pleased with his detective work.

“Really? You must have a good memory.”

The kid blushed. With his cropped strawberry blond hair and transparent complexion, that basically meant he turned beet red.

“It wasn’t hard,” the kid said. “She’s hot. Hard to believe she’d be involved in something like what they are saying.”

Dean nodded, not having to feign understanding. “I bet there’s more to it.”

“Was there something you wanted?” the kid asked, finally remembering his job.

“Yeah, a stamp for a postcard. But I just remembered I forgot my wallet back at the hotel. I’ll be back.”

Dean had all the information he needed, and he didn’t want to waste any more time. If those guys had gone into the market to talk to Patsy, there was a good chance she’d recognize the picture. It wouldn’t take them long to track them down to the guest house from there.

He wanted nothing more than to go after the bastards and put them out of their misery, but protecting Annie came first. He didn’t know if there were others involved, and he wanted to get her the hell out of here.

None of this made any sense. He’d expected the police to be looking for them, but why was Jean Paul? Was it a loose end to cover up the murders or something else? Whatever it was, Jean Paul obviously meant business. Dean had no doubt those guys had been sent to kill her.

He felt a burst of rage again but forced himself to focus. Annie. He had to get her somewhere safe.