Terri Reed - Covert Pursuit

She pivoted right, wrenching her elbow back and away as her stiff left hand thumped hard against his forearm, effectively breaking his hold. Once free, she jumped back to land in a fighter’s stance, weight on right leg, left leg ready to kick if need be. Her right hand gripped the butt of her holstered weapon.

She’d been wrong. The man posed a threat. She just didn’t know how much of one. Or why.

Surprise washed over the guy’s face. He jerked his hands up in a show of entreaty, palms out, fingers splayed. “Whoa, whoa! Hey, Detective, I didn’t mean any harm.”

“Don’t move.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he drawled in his thick Southern accent.

“Who are you? And what do you want?”

“Name’s Jason Bodewell.” He gestured toward the classy boat behind him. “I charter my boat out for the tourist trade.”

Taking calming breaths, Angie relaxed her stance slightly. “Okay. So…?”

One side of his well-formed mouth lifted. “So, I was going to offer to take you out.”

She blinked. Heat crept up her neck. What? “Out?”

His eyebrows rose. “To look for the body.”

A little embarrassed groan escaped. “Oh. Right.” So he’d heard everything. What was he? Some sort of crime-scene gawker? Or just a good citizen wanting to help?

Though her heart rate beat faster than normal, the adrenaline eased. She moved her hand away from her Glock and thought about his offer. She really didn’t want to wait until morning to get out there and prove that she’d seen a body being dumped. She knew what she’d seen.

Narrowing her gaze, she pinned him with a hard look. “Do you have scuba equipment?”

He nodded. “Are you certified to dive? At night?”

Her PADI—Professional Association of Diving Instructors—certification had expired years ago. And she’d never gotten around to getting her night-dive certification. “Are you?” she countered.

“I am.”

“Would you be willing to dive down?”

He flashed a grin. “Would be my pleasure.”

Now, why did his words give her pause? Why was he so eager to help? “Fine, I’ll take you up on the offer. But keep your hands to yourself. And no sudden movements.”

“Oh, you can trust me.”

“I could, but I don’t.”

His blue eyes twinkled. “I’d be shocked if you did. Considering you’re a cop and all.” He strode to the boat and untied the ropes from the dock. “Come on, I won’t bite,” he coaxed. “I promise.”

Hoping she wasn’t making a mistake, Angie followed. Glad she’d brought her personal firearm with her, she placed her hand back on her weapon. Just in case Jason decided to renege on his promise.

Aware that his attractive guest was as nervous as a long-tailed cat on a porch full of rocking chairs, Jason started the engine and smoothly maneuvered the Regina Lee away from the dock.

Covertly, he glanced over at the detective. He liked the way her brunette hair was pulled back into a wild puff of curls and the way her brown eyes, the color of chicory coffee, observed everything. Her lithe figure moved with grace and agility beneath her denim cropped pants and V-neck T-shirt.

Her peaches-and-cream complexion barely hinting at a touch of sun suggested she hadn’t been on the island long. She’d told the chief she was a Boston homicide detective. Her accent attested to that fact. She sounded like she’d been born and raised in Bean Town, too.

She made a credible witness. Yet, she’d been brushed off by the chief like a bothersome mosquito. Curious.

The deck boat the detective had described sounded similar to one reported to be in use by Picard. For the past six months, Jason had relentlessly pursued every lead to find the elusive arms dealer, who, after fleeing New Mexico, was rumored to have landed here on Loribel Island.

Jason was champing at the bit to find the man and take him down, but Picard was being protected now by the very government that had sought to arrest him. The elusive Picard had become a source of intel into terrorist activity in the States and abroad. Rage simmered low in Jason’s belly. He couldn’t move until he could identify Picard and find something concrete to nail him with, something the government couldn’t ignore. Then Garrett’s death would be avenged.

Jason hoped this situation with the pretty cop witnessing something so very odd could turn out to be the catalyst that brought Picard out into the open. Weapons were Picard’s specialty. But taking Picard down for murder would do just as well.

Now he just needed Angie to show him where she’d seen the bag dropped.

Slowly, as if to obey the no wake rule, Jason headed the Bayliner Bowrider, a boat designed for day cruising, in the direction the vacationing cop had indicted to Chief Decker. A breeze kicked up, churning the ocean and creating small swells. Indications of the storm to come.

“Angie—can I call you Angie?”

For a moment she pursed her lips before nodding.

Jason found himself fascinated with her full mouth and the little freckle at its corner. He tore his gaze away to focus on the water ahead. “You wouldn’t happen to know the coordinates of where you saw the guys in the boat drop the bag, would you?”

“I’m not a sailor.”

Amusement had him smiling. Of course she wasn’t. She was a pretty, hard-edged cop. “Thought I’d ask.”

“Veer more to the left,” she said as she came to stand beside him at the helm. “Slow down.”

“Where were you when you saw the boat?”

“Sitting on the deck of my aunt’s cottage.” She pointed toward a row of lights dotting the shoreline.

The shadowy night sky made discerning the outline of any individual house impossible. “It’s too dark now to see which one is Aunt Teresa’s, but I think we’re just about where I saw the boat stop.”

He cut the engine, letting the boat bobble with the current while he dug out his dive apparatus. He could only hope he’d find some evidence to link to Picard at the bottom of the ocean.

She moved to the side railing and looked overboard. “I see why the chief wanted to wait until morning,” she muttered.

“No worries. I’ve an underwater light,” he said.

The sound of another boat approaching grabbed Jason’s attention. A deck boat, illuminated by high-powered lights attached to the sides, sliced through the choppy water.

Jason abandoned the dive equipment to stand beside Angie. “Is that the same boat?”

“I don’t think so. The one I saw was bigger with a higher top deck,” she said. “Who do you think they are?”

Trepidation slithered over him as the boat closed in. “Not sure. Help me put this stuff back into the cargo hold,” he said, not wanting to advertise their purpose in being out on the water.

Together they made short work of restoring the scuba equipment. “Let me do the talking,” Jason said as the boat slowed.

“They’re armed,” Angie said in a tight voice.

“Yeah,” he acknowledged as a hard knot formed in his chest.

Men carrying submachine guns stood at the fore and aft positions. Another man, flanked on either side by two more armed guards, called out instructions to the driver.

Apprehension tethered Jason’s feet to the deck. He swallowed back a prayer for help. No need to waste hope that God would come through for him. Jason would just have to make sure he and Angie got through this alive on his own.

The boat drew abreast of the Regina Lee.

Forcing himself to relax, Jason worked his cover persona, deepening his Southern drawl. “Island Charters at your service.”

Two armed men wearing jeans and black T-shirts jumped aboard as the wake of the other boat rocked the Regina Lee.