Sandra K. Moore - Dead Reckoning

Then he murmured, “I see there was much he didn’t say.” He went on, “For one thing, I didn’t expect Obsession to be so…” He trailed off, looking around the profoundly empty salon, as though he expected to find his vocabulary there.

Chris dried off while she waited for him to finish.

He didn’t. Instead he asked, “What does she weigh?”

“About a hundred thousand pounds.”

“Stout lady,” he said, nearly under his breath.

“She was built in the days when fiberglass was new and the boatyards were afraid of underbuilding. Her hull’s about twice as thick as it needs to be.”

“And a classic design.” He nodded to himself, obviously pleased, and turned from the galley to the salon.

His masculine grace as he strode away reminded her of the world her grandfather had lived in with his antiques gallery, his art, his clothes, his money. The world she didn’t belong in and never would.

Smitty might not look like a DEA agent, but neither did McLellan. This one at least had the air of command, but not the militaristic bearing she associated with state troopers. Different breed, she guessed. A rich one, given the way he dressed. She wondered which of them was the boss and decided on McLellan, who apparently didn’t have a nickname. And didn’t need one.

As she joined him in the salon’s center, he turned to her. “This boat’s very beautiful.”

“She will be.”

“Is everything on schedule?” His gaze sharpened as it roamed over the cracked windows, dingy wall panels and bare floor.

“So far. The boatyard can do the big jobs, but not all of it. My timetable says we need to splash next Friday. That means everybody pitches in.” She eyed the impeccable crease in his slacks. “If you’re up to it.”

McLellan shoved his hands into his pockets, relaxed and clearly at home. “I’m up to it. Always glad to learn something new.”

Chris paused, trying to figure out how to say what she needed to say. “Thank you for letting me be a part of this.”

His eyes darkened slightly. “Against my better judgment, but Falks’s attack on you tells me you’re the key to this mission. It’ll be dangerous but we’ll keep you safe.” He looked at Chris for a long, somber moment, as if he could see past her tough facade as easily as he could see past the salon’s water-stained wall panels to the strong framework beneath. Then he said softly, “We’ll bring your sister home.”

Sudden tears threatened but she blinked them back, turned slightly to study the stout and faithful flooring. She’d concentrated for the past five days on the effort, the plan. Keeping the schedule. It was all she’d allow herself to think about. Never beyond that. Never to what if Jerome finds out, or what if he sends more goons to stop them, or what if Jerome skips the island and goes straight to South America?

Or, heaven forbid, what if he’s already killed Natalie?

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