Protector S.o.s.

Since the two women listened to nothing he said, perhaps his ignorance was bliss. It had certainly been less stressful—until now.

Travis stepped aboard and headed for the engine. He checked the fuel first. The tank was full. He yanked the power cord once and wasn’t all that surprised when the motor fired right up. There was no extra smoke, no sign of the overheating she’d mentioned. In fact, the only thing close to overheating was his temper.

Travis didn’t want to tell Sandy, “I told you so.” He wanted to know that his sister was safe, that Sandy had brought him here for no reason other than to irritate him. But the knot in his gut told him otherwise. So did the tension in Sandy’s jaw, where a muscle ticked. He’d never seen her wound so tight.

With her laid-back attitude, Sandy usually looked at life through mellow-toned glasses. But her live-and-let-live philosophy seemed to apply to everyone but Travis. According to Sandy, years ago, he could do nothing right. He knew nothing about women, nothing about teenage girls and nothing about parenting.

What made their fights so tempestuous was that Sandy had been partially right. But what twenty-two-year-old dude was ready to take on raising a rebellious teenage sister and have a serious relationship? Travis had done his best. And he couldn’t have screwed up too badly with Ellie because she had turned out just fine. She didn’t do drugs. She didn’t drink too much. And she had good friends. If she went too easily from one man to the next, Travis didn’t see what he could do about it. Ellie was a grown woman, but obviously she’d tangled with something bad enough for Sandy to break her silent treatment of Travis and call him.

He wanted an explanation, but Sandy left him to man the tiller while she cast off the lines. Amid gulls squawking, and other boaters waving as they passed by, they cruised out of the protected harbor. Travis kept one eye on the temperature gauge and saw no sign of a malfunction.

Sandy returned to the cockpit and sat next to him, crossing her long, tanned legs. “Sorry for the dramatics. I’m pretty sure that my office and phones are bugged.”

Travis frowned, pulled the tiller to his body and motored around a channel marker. “Where’s Ellie?”

“Our last client kidnapped her.”

“What?” Travis didn’t hold back several four-letter words. His temper, already on a short fuse, lit up. It worried him that Sandy didn’t even bother to shout back—a sure sign of serious trouble.

“At least pretend to fiddle with the engine, and I’ll tell you everything.” While he removed the engine’s hood, Sandy’s eyes brimmed with tears and she wiped them off her cheeks. He’d never seen her cry, and his gut churned with fear. “We’d been paid by Danzler to deliver a boat to a private island off Nova Scotia owned by a Martin Vanderpelt. When we got there, Vanderpelt examined the boat, discovered it wasn’t the exact one he’d ordered and went ballistic.”

“I don’t understand.”

“His boat had been struck by lightning. Danzler had a duplicate hull on hand and filled his order. But Vanderpelt insisted we return for the original damaged hull and made us take his associate, Alan Lavelle, with us.”

“You took on a passenger?”

“He pulled a gun on us.”

“Go on.” Travis forced himself to appear outwardly calm, but inside he tensed up with fear for Ellie. Taking out a wrench from the toolbox, he pretended to use it, his concerns for Ellie escalating with every word Sandy spoke. The defeat lacing her words scared him as much as her story.

“So the three of us sailed back to Danzler Marine only to learn Vanderpelt’s original boat had been stolen. We decided to return home to wait for Danzler, the insurance company and the police to find the boat, or decide what to do next. That’s when Alan grabbed Ellie and forced her into a motorboat that came alongside us. He told me that when I found Vanderpelt’s boat and brought it to the island, he’d release Ellie.”

“Why didn’t you call the cops?”

“He said I’d be watched. And that if I went to the authorities, Ellie would suffer consequences.” Sandy met his eyes, her own still teary. “I called you from a pay phone, but was afraid to answer your calls. They are watching me. I don’t know who or where or how, but I’ve heard clicks on my phone, and there are people hanging around the marina that I’ve never seen before.”

Travis forced himself into professional mode. He couldn’t allow his fears to overwhelm him if he was going to help his sister. “When did they take Ellie?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“What kind of boat was it?”

“A Grady-White with double Mercury engines. The first five numbers of the serial are 47583.”

“You did good.” He tossed the wrench back into the toolbox. “What can you tell me about Alan Lavelle?”

“Not much. He was medium height, medium build. Nondescript. He didn’t talk much, and said nothing about himself or Vanderpelt. He didn’t seem to know boats, but the closer we got to land, the edgier he became.”

“You think he took Ellie back to Vanderpelt’s island?”

“I don’t know.” Sandy’s voice cracked. “He could have taken her anywhere.”

“What did Danzler Marine say about the missing boat?”

“They filed a police report and are collecting a claim from their insurance company.” She shrugged. “They’ll probably be happier if the boat’s never found. Lightning weakened the hull, and that’s not easy to fix.”

He saw regret in her eyes, and something more. “What else?”

“Alan called me this morning. He told me I had to deliver the boat alone. But I protested, telling him I couldn’t handle it by myself and needed a mechanic. So he okayed one crew member.”

“That was good thinking.” Sandy had done remarkably well under trying circumstances. This kind of pressure often caused people to fall apart, and they failed to think clearly. He made his voice warm, despite the chill in his heart. “I’m glad you called me.”

“I didn’t have much choice.” She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders as if bracing for a blow. He didn’t understand why. They might have fought like dogs over a scrap of meat, but they’d never come to blows. Although during some of their past fights, Sandy had made him angry enough to lose his temper, Travis had never lashed out with violence. But she was steeling herself as if she expected him to go postal.

“What?” he asked.

“Alan said if we didn’t bring him the boat within ten days, he’d…” She swallowed hard.

“He’d what?”

“He’d kill Ellie.”

ELLIE WAS ALTERNATELY terrified, angry and restless. When Alan had forced her from the sailboat, she’d been shaking so hard, she’d barely understood that she was being kidnapped, never mind comprehended all the ramifications.

Right now, pessimism had her hugging her knees and wondering how anyone would find her. The ride in the Grady-White had been short. Once they’d raced out of sight of Sandy, they’d switched to a sturdy cabin cruiser, and Alan had locked Ellie in the forward cabin. She had a bunk, a head and a shower. The portholes didn’t open. He’d locked the hatch from outside. Not even Houdini could have escaped. And even if she smashed open the door—a feat that would take considerable force—she would have to face two armed men, Alan and his cohort.

Twice a day, Alan brought her food. The rest of the time, she was alone in the cabin with her thoughts. She tried, and failed, not to think about Alan’s threat to kill her. She tried not to think about how easily they could shoot her, toss her body overboard, and no one would ever know what had happened to her.

Instead, she attempted to think of a reason for her predicament. Why did Vanderpelt want that original boat so much? A boat with a damaged hull? Nothing made sense. Either he was insane or she was missing too many facts. She hadn’t a clue why he’d gone to such extremes to retrieve a damaged sailboat.

She still couldn’t believe their bad luck that Vanderpelt’s boat had been stolen. And she had no idea how Sandy would find it. Yet, she had every confidence in her best friend and partner. For Ellie’s sake, Sandy would overcome her disinclination to contact Travis. And the Shey Group, the powerful and secret organization of which her brother was a vital part, would hunt down Vanderpelt and rescue her. At least, that’s what Ellie told herself in her optimistic moments.

Ellie slept as much as she could over the next four days. Still, with no one to talk to and nothing to read, the time passed slowly. Contradictorily, she dreaded the end of the voyage.

But late on the fourth day of her captivity, Alan unlocked her cabin door. He tossed a black hood to her. “Put that on.”

His face was cold, his dark eyes, almost dead, like a zombie in those creepy horror movies. And his voice, so lacking in intonation, sent icy stabs of pain into her chest.

There was no point in fighting him. Not when just beyond him, in the main cabin, the other man waited. Mouth dry with fear, Ellie told herself they hadn’t brought her all this way to shoot her. With trembling fingers, she placed the hood over her head.

“Stand up and turn around.”

She forced her rubbery knees to support her. Willed herself not to fight, despite the hood that not only blinded but suffocated.

“Cross your wrists behind your back.”

Oh…God. She hesitated, and Alan roughly grabbed her hands and bound her wrists with tough, rigid plastic. As if all the moisture had been sucked out of her mouth, she couldn’t swallow. “What—”

“Silence.” Alan slapped her cheek and she stumbled, her shoulder slamming into the bulkhead.

Her ears ringing, her nose clogging, her eyes filling with tears, Ellie reeled from the stinging blow to her cheek. But the pain was nothing compared to the terror bleeding through her veins. Unwilling to provoke her captor again, Ellie remained silent. Although Travis had taught her to fight, there was no point in revealing her skills and giving up the advantage of surprise until she stood a real chance of escape.

The deck squeaked, giving her warning that Alan approached again, and despite herself, she cringed. He didn’t strike her, but his hand roughly clasped her upper arm and jerked her to her feet. Then shoved her through the main cabin and outside. She walked a gangplank to a floating dock that rose and fell with the wave action.

Listening carefully for clues as to her whereabouts, she heard seagulls’ caws and the whipping wind rustling leaves. There were no sounds of halyards clanging against masts, or the creak of boats at anchorage. Wherever they’d taken her, it wasn’t a marina. And since they led her about openly with the hood on her head, she could only conclude they weren’t worried about someone spotting her and reporting her predicament to the authorities.

Was she back on Vanderpelt’s island?

The time spent at sea was about right to have made the return. But she had no way of knowing if they’d come due north, south or east or any combination between. Tilting her head downward, she spied slivers of green grass and gravel by her feet. And what little air passed through her hood smelled of the sea.

Ellie had no idea how long they walked in silence, but she counted her steps. Two thousand and ten. Alan jerked her to a stop, and she heard the clink of a key inserting into, then turning, a lock. Alan spun her around, removed the plastic from her wrists, then shoved her forward.

Ellie barely got her hands in front of her in time to break her fall onto what felt like a mattress. The door slammed behind her and the lock slid home. Yanking the hood from her head, she blinked in the dim, gray light, finding herself in a new prison. The walls were stones set in cement, the tiny, high windows revealed only sky. The door was solid metal. Inside her four walls, she had a mattress on the floor, a toilet and sink in the far corner. No shower. No light. No tools.

On hands and knees Ellie examined the walls, but the solid stone gave her no hope of escape. She stood on the toilet, but still could see nothing but sky outside. And the sink’s plumbing fittings were solid, nothing she could loosen with just her bare hands. Ellie wanted to lie on the bed and cry herself to sleep. She didn’t. Instead, she lifted the mattress until it rested flush with one wall. The floor beneath the mattress was stone, like the walls. She couldn’t dig her way out.

Now what?

She needed to think. And nothing got the blood pumping and the mind working like a little exercise. Ellie warmed up with slow stretches, then ran in place until her breath came in gasps. After slowly walking in place to cool down her heart rate a little, she did push-ups. Isometrics. And then a final series of stretches.

And didn’t feel one damn bit better. She was still a prisoner without any hope of escape.

Ellie drank cold water from the sink, then kicked the mattress back onto the floor. She was about to lie down when the voices of two men drifted to her. Hurrying to the wall, she pressed her ear against the stone.

A man spoke gruffly. “You don’t look happy.”

“I’ve never killed a woman,” another man said, his tone somber.

“Hey, man. It’s just like running your blade through a tough piece of steak.”

The peace Ellie had won for herself through her exercise disintegrated. Stumbling away from the wall, she’d barely flopped onto the mattress before the door opened and one of the men shoved a bowl of food in her direction. When she didn’t get up fast enough to take it, he dropped the bowl. The ceramic dish broke, and her soup splashed on the floor, walls and mattress.

Chuckling, he slammed and relocked the door.

Ellie hadn’t been hungry. But at the sight of the spilled soup, she burst into tears.

“Come get me, Sandy,” she sobbed, lying on her side, her knees pulled to her chest. “Travis, please find me. Soon.”

Chapter Two

Sandy waited for Travis to shout at her. To tell her how irresponsible she’d been. That Ellie’s life was in danger because she’d led his little sister into a dangerous situation. She braced for him to yell at her for refusing to keep weapons on board, for accepting a commission from a stranger. But without saying one word, Travis flipped open his cell phone.

Arrogant as ever, Travis hadn’t listened to her warning that if they contacted the authorities, Ellie would be killed. Sandy didn’t wait for him to press the send button, she grabbed for the phone. “Don’t!”

Travis pulled the phone away. He’d always had the most amazing reflexes, but she’d forgotten exactly how fast he could move. She’d also forgotten how he could drill her with one of his I-know-better-than-you-do looks that always made her furious. Anger at him chased back some of her fear. Until she looked, really looked, at Travis’s face, and realized he was more dangerous now.

He’d changed during the last eight years. The gaunt lines of youth had been replaced by the solid maturity of a man. If possible, he’d grown more handsome, more cocky. His shoulders had broadened, his chest had thickened with powerful muscles that tapered to a flat stomach. But his face, with its bold nose and square jaw, remained compelling. His dark hair that gleamed in the sunlight was still thick, but cut short. She didn’t understand how his eyes, the exact same smoky gray as Ellie’s, could convey such harsh disapproval with just a glance. “My phone call will bounce through four continents and five satellites. The message is encrypted with a code not even the Pentagon can break. You needn’t fear anyone will listen in.”

The Travis she’d known wouldn’t have explained at all, but this Travis gave her the opportunity to offer an opinion. “Yeah, but when they can’t break your code, do you suppose they’ll think you’re one of the authorities they told me not to contact?”

Sandy didn’t know why she bothered to argue. Travis never listened to her. Now that he was thirty, and undoubtedly more set in his ways, she was probably wasting her breath. The hard look on his face, the grim set of his mouth, warned her to choose her words carefully. For Ellie’s sake, she had to work with him. If she’d had any other choice, she’d never have called Travis. But with Ellie’s life on the line, she’d do anything to help her—even put up with her brother again. While Sandy didn’t know exactly what Travis did for a living, she knew it was high-tech, dangerous and clandestine work for a secret organization that worked with the U.S. government.

Sandy had expected Travis to come charging in to save Ellie. She’d known he’d be full of himself, but she needed his expertise. So when, after considering her words, he pressed the off button and said, “Good point,” her jaw dropped.

The Travis she’d known would never have admitted that she had a good idea, never mind let her suggestion change his mind. Perhaps along with his body’s maturing, his mind had grown wiser. Or perhaps his fear for Ellie was making him consider other options. Whatever accounted for the change in him, she hoped he’d learned to control the temper that fueled him.

If Travis’s temper had been a motor, it would have run on high octane. If his temper had been a boat, it would have been a sleek racer, raring to go and easily tipped. And if his temper had been a storm, it would have been a nor’easter—powerful, raging and disastrous.

Years ago, Sandy had decided she didn’t want to drown in one of his storms. And yet, she’d always been drawn to the passion that drove him. There was a turbulence to Travis that made him the most exciting man she’d ever known, but that attraction came with a cost—a price so high, that being around him was dangerous to her well-being.

After the most passionate of flings, Sandy had concluded she couldn’t live in the chaos that always surrounded Travis. Their breakup had been painful, but necessary. She’d cut her losses and gone on. And as a means of self-protection, she’d avoided Travis during his infrequent trips to visit Ellie. For her own sanity, she didn’t want to risk falling for him again. Incredible passion wasn’t worth the accompanying heartache.

“We need help. I’ll wait until I can use a land line and a pay phone.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. Travis, the original Mr. Go-It-Alone, had become a team player. Stunned by his transformation, Sandy realized that the man she was sitting beside must have gone through more than she’d imagined to have changed so much. Ellie had hinted that Travis’s stint in the Special Forces had taken a toll, but Sandy hadn’t wanted to discuss him—not when the subject was so raw and painful. So Ellie had honored her wishes and rarely mentioned his name.

She peered at Travis over her sunglasses. “I’m all for getting help, but if there’s any chance of a leak…”

His eyes snapped with the old temper, but he kept it caged. “We need help with Vanderpelt. The Shey Group, the people I work with, will get me Vanderpelt’s history—everything from where he was born to where he keeps his money. I need to know who Vanderpelt trusts. Where he’s from. What other property he owns. Everything about his business, to make the right decisions.”

“You have access to that kind of information?”

He nodded. “We also need blueprints of the island. Satellite photos might tell us if Ellie is there. We may need an assault team to land. Or a secret approach might be better, depending on the number of men and defensive positions. I need expert military analysis. We don’t have the time, expertise or equipment to do this all alone.”

Travis sounded as if he knew what he needed, as if he was an expert. And a stranger. Instead of responding emotionally, he’d laid out a plan in a logical progression that had clued her into the fact that the organization he worked for must have extraordinary resources. “Okay. But Vanderpelt expects you and me to deliver his boat. We’ve got to find it, repair it, then sail it to his island.”

“The Shey Group can help us there, too.”

Travis spoke as if he had no doubt his organization would help them. She didn’t question his judgment, because one thing hadn’t changed—Travis had always loved his sister. And Sandy had no doubt he would do whatever it took to rescue her. Making the decision to call Travis had been difficult. She’d worried that his hot-headed temper would hurt her chance of rescuing Ellie, but now she was very glad to have Travis at her side.

Sandy knew that boats often disappeared and were never seen again. It was too easy for a professional thief to steal a boat in the middle of the night, change the serial numbers and sail off to another country to sell it. The Coast Guard couldn’t cover every cove and harbor along the U.S. border. And marinas simply operated on too small a profit margin to employ night watchmen. Usually, the insurance company paid off the claim and the owner purchased a new boat. Finding Vanderpelt’s missing vessel was not going to be easy.

“How can the Shey Group help with the boat?”

“We have contacts in the Coast Guard, the navy and the police. If Vanderpelt’s boat shows up on any official radar, we’ll know about it.”

Travis’s certainty gave her a measure of relief. “You’re assuming Alan and his associate didn’t sink her, or change the serial number.”

“I’m not assuming anything. Can you put out word to the local sailors, and at the marina, that we need to find that boat? Also, if we can get a line on the Grady-White, it might give us a clue as to who we’re dealing with.”

She nodded. “The grapevine is as good as ever.” Fishermen, local guides and pleasure boaters were a tight community. When one of their own needed help, everyone pitched in.

Travis turned the boat around, heading back to the marina. “I’ll order us some jamming equipment. We have to be able to communicate without fear of someone listening.”

Travis sounded sure of his technical expertise, but she still feared his equipment could give away their plans. “But, if we jam the signal, won’t they become suspicious?”

“Not necessarily. Let me deal with it.”

Were they actually working together? It was difficult to believe that she and Travis had had a conversation without ending up in bed or shouting at one another. This had to be a first. And she hoped it would continue.

After they returned to the marina, Sandy typed up a description of Vanderpelt’s boat. She offered a reward for any information, then used the copy machine to make flyers. Her assistant manager would post some at the marina. But she took the majority of the flyers, and a stapler, with her. She and Travis drove up and down the coast, stopping in marinas, bait shops and boat dealers to put them up and talk to people about the missing boat. At this time of year, the waterways were crowded with boaters on summer vacation. Everyone promised to keep their eyes peeled during their journeys.

While Sandy worked, Travis stopped at local bars. He used the pay phones repeatedly, never staying on the line for more than thirty seconds. Then they’d both return to her vehicle and head to the next spot.

Travis checked the sideview mirror for what must have been the hundredth time. “I wish I could pick up a tail.”

“Why?” She was driving since Travis was barhopping. In case anyone was watching, he’d ordered a beer every place he’d stopped. But he probably hadn’t drunk much, because he still appeared clearheaded. Even in their younger days, Travis might have been a hell-raiser, but he hadn’t been much of a drinker. He liked fast cars and faster boats, but he always said high speeds and drinking didn’t mix.

“A tail might give us some clues. Vanderpelt is like chasing a ghost.”

She didn’t like the frustration in Travis’s tone, or the discouragement in the set of his shoulders. “What do you mean, he’s a ghost?”

“Vanderpelt is not a U.S. or Canadian citizen. His name is probably an alias. A corporation owns the island, but it’s a subsidiary of a Swiss company. Normally, the Swiss are not into sharing their financial information with us. But since 9/11, and thanks to a favor Logan Kincaid did for their embassy people in Saudi Arabia, they told us the Swiss company is part of a Libyan conglomerate, headquartered in Tripoli.”