Protector S.o.s.

“So you don’t know who he is or where he’s from?”

“Yeah.”

“If his business is that extensive, surely someone must—”

“His cover is deep. We are not dealing with a common criminal. With his connections and wealth, he’s likely tied to any one of a dozen criminal organizations, the Russian Mafia, the Colombian cartels, the Chinese, the Bulgarians—take your pick.”

“So rescuing Ellie is going to be—”

“We’ll get her. These people won’t kill her as long as she’s of use to them. We have ten days, and we’re going to make use of every hour, every second.”

The determination in his tone bucked up her flagging hopes. Travis knew better than Sandy what they were up against. If he thought they could find and rescue Ellie, then it had to be possible. And meanwhile, Sandy would do her best to put her survivor’s guilt away. She’d never understood why Alan had taken Ellie as hostage and not her, except that she couldn’t get out of her mind the way Vanderpelt had leered at the sight of Ellie’s legs. Sandy said nothing to Travis about that look. He had enough worries, and he was already doing everything he could think of to find Ellie. But she also felt guilty that she hadn’t stepped forward and suggested Alan take her in place of Ellie. Taking the Vanderpelt commission had been Sandy’s idea. She was the older partner, and it should have been her taken hostage. But Alan had grabbed Ellie without warning, and Sandy had been so stunned, she simply hadn’t thought fast enough to do more than protest.

Driving up and down the coast stapling flyers to telephone poles didn’t seem like enough. Sandy wanted to do more. She wanted some hint that Ellie was still alive. The minutes seemed to tick by like months, and the stress kept her stomach churning.

If she didn’t known Travis better, she might have thought he had his emotions under total control. But every once in a while, their gazes crossed and she glimpsed desperation and bleak despair, along with fierce determination. They ate a late dinner of clam chowder and burgers. She barely tasted her food, but her body needed the fuel.

When they exited the restaurant, it was dark. Most day boaters would have come in and trailered their boats home hours ago. Those spending the night on the water would be anchored in a safe harbor, or tucked into a slip for the night. For her part, Sandy could do nothing more. But Travis had a restless energy that told her he wasn’t ready to quit.

She was about to suggest heading back to her marina when Travis’s cell phone beeped. He checked the caller ID. “I need to use the pay phone.”

For the first time that day, she accompanied him while he made a call. She was surprised how long it took to go through, but then, he’d dialed an international number. She was praying Ellie had escaped, and someone was calling Travis to let them know his sister was okay. But she knew how unlikely that was. Despite her impatience, Sandy refrained from asking questions Travis couldn’t answer.

“Travis, here.” He spoke into the phone, his voice deep and confident.

Shifting from one foot to the other, she fidgeted and looked for clues on Travis’s face whether the news was good or bad. His eyes narrowed, but he nodded as he listened, and she had the impression some progress had been made.

“Thanks. We can be there in an hour.”

“Where?”

“Pine Key. Some windsailers found the Grady-White on a sand bar. She washed in with the tide. We’re meeting the Coast Guard and a forensic team there.”

Forensic team? Her knees buckled and Sandy clutched Travis’s arm. “Oh, God. Are there bodies?”

TRAVIS CURSED HIMSELF as he stared down at Sandy’s pale face and quivering lower lip. “No bodies. The forensic team will comb the boat for clues to who stole the boat then sank her.”

“Ellie?” Sandy still clutched him, but her death grip had lightened somewhat.

“We don’t know where she is.” Right now that was good news to Sandy, who’d believed that Ellie’s body might have been on the sunken boat. Travis had no excuse for scaring her. His mind had been on Kincaid’s news, and he’d stupidly frightened Sandy when he knew better. She’d been on edge all day. Exhaustion darkened her eyes and guilt stabbed him. She was worried out of her mind, and his carelessness could have sent her over the edge into hysteria. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

Travis took Sandy into his arms, and it seemed the most natural move in the world. She needed solid reassurance. He had to insure she wouldn’t go to pieces on him. However, as her fresh scent—a pine shampoo she favored—drifted into his system with the potency of bubbling wine, he ached to hold her for longer than was necessary. When the smooth texture of her cheek brushed his jaw, it took all his self-control not to slant his lips over hers. Like a powerful high tide rushing in during a full moon, his elemental reaction to her almost swept him under. He simply wasn’t prepared to want her—not with all the years that had passed. Not with all the bad memories. Not with Ellie out there somewhere, waiting for them to rescue her. Stunned how Sandy affected him, Travis refrained from dipping his head to sip a taste of her mouth.

Already her color was returning, and her lower lip ceased quivering. “I should slap you upside the head for scaring me like that.”

She didn’t mean it. The tough talk was to cover up her momentary panic. He squeezed her tightly, then released her and stepped back. “If hitting me will make you feel better, go ahead.”

“Naw. I’d only hurt my hand on that stubborn jaw of yours.” She straightened. “But if you ever do that to me again, I swear I’ll deck you.”

“And I’d deserve it.” Not that she could hurt him. His reflexes had been honed from years of hand-to-hand practice in a half dozen martial arts. Travis held out his hand for the keys. “You’re tired. Why don’t you let me drive?”

She’d always claimed that he drove too fast to be trusted with her vehicle, but she handed over the keys with only minor hesitation. The truth was, he did drive too fast. But he had great reflexes. And he knew this road as well as he knew the expressions on Sandy’s face. He’d spent his youth driving up and down this coast, and could anticipate every curve, every light, fork and town. And he damn well wouldn’t risk an accident when Ellie’s life hung in the balance.

He kept his speed down to five miles over the limit, but it seemed to take forever before they reached Pine Key. Once a one-lane, covered wooden bridge for horse-drawn carriages, the bridge had been renovated several times over the past century. Now, two lanes of concrete, asphalt and steel, the bridge was high enough for smaller boats to pass under. The island beyond, with its protected cove, was a favorite anchorage for pleasure craft. Tonight, a police helicopter, several Coast Guard patrol boats and a barge with a crane disrupted the darkness and peace of the isolated spot.

Travis crossed the short bridge and parked. As he and Sandy exited, the crane roared to life and pulled a boat from the water. Lights from the surrounding craft and automobiles focused on the hull, and four holes in the bottom could clearly be seen where water spouted out.

“Those holes are perfectly round,” Sandy muttered. “They sank her on purpose.”

After Travis identified himself to a cop, he and Sandy strode up a long gangplank and boarded the barge where the crane operator gently lowered the damaged boat to the deck. A team of gloved forensic people immediately went to work, crawling through the hull in search of evidence. Since the boat had been underwater for hours, the sea would likely have washed away microscopic clues. But maybe they’d luck out and find a jacket lodged in a seat back, keys or identification coated in plastic.

Several people on shore watched the proceedings, and Travis wondered if any were taking undue notice of his and Sandy’s actions. Several times today, he’d thought someone might be following them. But despite his vigilance, he’d never spotted the same stranger twice. Which meant either he was suffering from paranoia, or the people watching them were switching off, indicating a coordinated effort and professional action that required substantial economic means.

Travis and Sandy joined the investigators, who’d carefully set an anchor and line inside a clear plastic bag. In other bags, Travis spied several life jackets, a flare, a screwdriver and an extra portable gas tank. No one bothered dusting for prints. Each item would be examined for DNA evidence, but it was unlikely blood, hair, or even a fingernail would have survived the assault of the sea.

The lead investigator, a pudgy, pleasant-face man with piercing eyes, joined Travis and Sandy as if he’d been expecting them. “I’m chief investigator George Foster.”

“Travis Cantrel and Sandy Vale.” Travis, then Sandy, shook George’s hand.

The amenities done, George went right to business. “The plastic serial numbers on the hull were removed before they sank her, but we lucked out. Whoever scraped off the plastic was in a hurry. We’ve matched the serial numbers to the ones Sandy remembered, so we don’t have to wait on a match from the engine’s manufacturer. This is definitely your boat. Logan Kincaid said that you’d want to contact the owner yourself.” George slipped a piece of paper into Travis’s hand. “I’ll give you a thirty-minute head start before I turn that information over to the local cops.”

“Thanks.” Travis tried to control his impatience. While there was a chance the owner of this boat knew where Ellie was, they might have difficulty finding him. Still, they might drive to the boat owner’s house, luck out and find both him and Ellie there.

George Foster seemed to understand Travis’s immediate need to track down their next lead. “Go. Your boss, Kincaid, is a good man. My number’s on that paper, too. Anything else I can do, let me know.”

“Appreciate it.” Travis nodded. “If you find more on the boat—”

“You’ll be the first to know. Kincaid gave me your cell number. But don’t expect us to find much. She’s been submerged almost twenty-four hours.”

“I understand.” Travis took Sandy’s hand and they hurried toward the car. He slipped into the driver’s seat, fastened his seat belt and handed her the address. “Which way?”

“Let me check the map.” She reached into the glove compartment and turned on an interior light. Although every nerve in him screamed to drive fast, until he had a direction, he restrained his impatience.

Sandy had a great sense of direction. If he gave her a moment to orient herself, she’d find the fastest route. Gazing down at the map, her lips pursed in concentration and she focused intently. He recalled that, despite all her laid-back ways, she usually got the job done, working at her own pace.

Turning the marina into a profitable enterprise had taken both hard work and good business sense. It also fit Sandy’s need for freedom. A nonconformist, she liked to set her own hours and wear whatever fashion struck her. She rarely slept in past dawn. However, she needed her afternoon nap, and often turned cranky late at night.

He’d bet she hadn’t slept since Ellie’s disappearance and, with the hour close to midnight, she had to be ready to drop. Yet, she hadn’t complained once about her exhaustion. After she gave him the directions, he tuned the radio to a local easy-listening station. Elevator music, as she called it. Music that would put her to sleep.

“Why don’t you close your eyes,” he suggested.

“You’ll wake me when we arrive?”

“Yeah.”

Sandy bunched her sweater against the door to pillow her head, but despite his effort to drive smoothly, she couldn’t relax. After fifteen minutes, she opened her eyes and flicked the radio to hard rock. The sounds of Jimi Hendrix filled the car, bringing back memories of loud beach parties, roasting marshmallows over an open fire, skinny-dipping and lusty sex. The one good thing about all of Sandy and Travis’s fights had been when they made up, the sex was always fantastic.

“Travis?” Sandy’s voice was low and throaty.

“Yeah?”

“You think there’s any chance Ellie could be with the boat’s owner?”

“It’s possible—but unlikely. Before we knock on the door, I need to stop and use the pay phone. By now, I’m hoping we have some background intel on the boat’s owner, Kevin Baine.”

Travis would have preferred to use his cell phone. But headlights in his rearview mirror kept him antsy. The car never drew close enough for him to see a driver. And when he pulled over, the vehicle kept going. But Travis knew a good tail wouldn’t blow his cover by stopping. Instead, he’d hide up ahead, turn off his lights and—once they’d passed by—jump back on their tail.

He pulled off the road at a convenience store, dialed the pay phone and waited for the connection. “It’s Travis.”

Ryker Stevens, a friend of Travis, and Kincaid’s best intel specialist, took the call. “Kevin Baine. U.S. citizen. He’s an army veteran. Honorably discharged. He makes his living driving a truck. No arrests. No suspicious activity. He looks clean, but I’ll keep digging.”

“Thanks.”

Travis got back into the car. For three miles, the road behind him remained empty. They had passed no rest stops or crossroads. And then headlights appeared behind them again, as if someone had been waiting for them.

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