From: Delphi@oracle.org

To: C_Evans@athena.edu

Re: United States Marine, Jessica Whittaker

Christine,

Now that we’ve learned Arachne’s true identity, we can better protect the women she’s sure to target.

Jessica Whittaker will be one of them. She and her friend Nikki Bustillo have more to their genetic makeup than good looks and courage. With all the files Arachne’s stolen from the IVF labs, she’ll know just what talents they possess. Though I still haven’t nailed down how Arachne plans to use the women and their special powers, I aim to offer these Athena alums as much warning as I can.

I’ll be contacting Jessica, asking her to be cautious. But I’ve also got a role for her in Arachne’s takedown. More information about our enemy lies under the water, in a three-year-old shipwreck off Puerta Isla. With Jessica’s special abilities, she’ll find what we’re looking for. Even with A. on her tail.

D.

Dear Reader,

I’ll be the first to admit that I am a sucker for series. I’ve worked on continuities before and found it one of the most rewarding writing experiences. So of course I was both thrilled and agog when I was asked to be a part of Athena Force—but not too stunned to say, “Yes!”

The fun was compounded when I found out who my characters were: Jess and Zack. The Marine and the Geek.

Jess is tough. A little broody. Loyal. A woman who will fight for both those she loves and what is right, but who is also oh-so-determined to keep her vulnerabilities to herself. I knew she would be a bit of a challenge and I was right. Jess is not an easy character to know. Things I thought I knew about her were true but there were also many unexpected surprises. And no, I am not telling you what they are or they wouldn’t be surprises.

Then there’s Zack. People hear geek and picture a pasty guy who lives behind a computer. Not true! The “geeks” I know (and I know a surprising number) are driven men. They have to be or they wouldn’t be able to do what they do, and that drive spills into their personal lives. Zack is that man. Driven. Wicked-smart. A bit of a risk-taker. If he were here, I’d fight Jess to date him. I’d lose, but I’d try.

Love,

Sharron

Sharron McClellan

Breathless

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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SHARRON MCCLELLAN

always wanted to be a writer. There were two things she had always loved: writing and science. In college she thought about being a marine biologist, but there was the whole shark issue (they freak her out). Instead, she discovered the joys of playing in the dirt—a profession more commonly known as archaeology. For years she focused on excavating ancient sites that included projectile points, burn pits and the occasional burial.

But when she took a position during the archaeological off-season and ended up answering phones for a cruise line, she took to reading romance. It wasn’t long before she fell in love with the genre and returned to her first love—writing. Five years later she sold her first action-adventure/romance novel to Silhouette Books.

Since that first sale Sharron has traveled both the U.S. and Mexico (ask her about the riots in Oaxaca!) living an adventurous life. Currently, she resides in Annapolis, Maryland, where she races sailboats, dates wicked-smart men and writes every day. She believes in hard work, jumping into life with both feet, and she swears that her Muse spends most of her time in the bar next to the bay drinking gin and tonic with extra lime.

To my best friend and critique partner,

Cathy Pegau, who knows everything about me

(the good, the bad and the Jeez Louise, what were

you thinking!) and loves me anyway.

You know I can’t write a book without you.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

Chapter 1

U.S. Marine Corp Combatant diver, Jessica Whitaker stepped off the edge of the boat and into the Pacific Ocean, barely making a splash as she entered the water.

With the setting of the sun, the submarine world off Oahu, Hawaii, was dark but also as warm and familiar as her own skin. For a few seconds, the only sound she heard was her breathing inside the full-face mask. Then the rest of her team entered the water, breaking the silence. She counted the splashes. One. Two. Three.

A small team, but this was a training exercise, and in the initial stages, she found training to be much more effective if the recruits had personal attention.

Not that they needed or demanded the one-on-one time. They were Marines. They didn’t need anything but water, air and the burning desire to do the right thing.

She could train larger groups, but Jess knew one axiom to be true: there was nothing more detrimental to a mission than a half-assed operative who didn’t know what he was doing.

Or worse, thought he knew but thought wrong.

“Sound off,” she said, adjusting the vocals of her mask’s transmitter and receiver.

“Latham.” Newbie One.

“Taylor.” Her first in command and a trusted friend, the older, weathered Marine was an excellent teacher with an innate patience that the recruits responded to.

“Eielson.” Newbie Two.

The three men gathered around her, their dark, wet-suit-covered forms making them almost invisible in the night water. “As you know, our objective is the enemy ship, Sushi,” she said. “She’s approximately one mile away, and her coordinates were downloaded into your personal GPS systems before you entered the water. Upon arrival, Latham and I will set a charge at the bow of the ship. Taylor and Eielson, you’re taking the stern. Latham—” she addressed her partner for the exercise “—tell me our objective.”

“Disable and distract. Once she’s crippled, the surface team will board her and retrieve the hostages.”

“Good,” she responded. “Questions?”

Nothing but silence. Not even the sound of burbling SCUBA tanks since they wore rebreathers to give themselves an unlimited amount of time underwater.

Not that we have unlimited time, Jess thought. Nor did they need it. Marines did not screw around.

“Move out,” she said. In unison, they swam to the diver propulsion vehicles, DVPs, that drifted in the water next to the boat that had transported them to the drop spot. Taylor and Eielson left first. Sinking below the waves, they’d parallel her and Latham as they made their way to the ship.

She gave a short wave to the boat captain, who stood on the deck watching them depart, then powered up her DPV. Using the GPS coordinates for guidance instead of the running lights, she and Latham headed toward the Sushi.

She almost chuckled at the name but kept quiet. Each new training group gave the ship a different name. Some serious. Some funny. Some as imaginative as blank paper.

In this case, the name was given when the entire squad of nine went to a Japanese restaurant a few weeks ago. They’d eaten questionable sushi and sucked down sake.

They’d spent the next day hungover and sick with food poisoning.

She’d used the opportunity to take them on a five-mile run. Cruel, she mused. However, they’d all finished, proving their tenacity and strength of spirit not just to her but to themselves.

“How you doing, Latham?” Jess asked when they were a few hundred feet closer to their objective.

“Good, ma’am,” he replied.

“It’s just us for the next few minutes,” she said. “If you have any questions, now would be the time.”

“None, ma’am.”

She didn’t think he’d have any. One of her best recruits, Chuck Latham was a husky young man from the Atlanta inner city. He’d been given a choice when he was sixteen and standing in front of a judge for theft—join ROTC and get his life in line or go to juvenile hall.

Despite the ridicule of his peers, he chose ROTC. After graduation, he’d put himself through college. He was one of those rare recruits that had brains, instinct and heart. One day, he’d make captain or better. She was sure of it.

“You understand how the charges work?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She sighed, hating the formal term. She was only a few years older than Latham, and whenever he ma’amed her, it felt like a decade of difference in age.

She was not ready to feel that old. Not yet. “Latham, quit ma’aming me. It’s Whitaker.”

“Yes, ma’am. Whitaker, ma’am.”

Newbies, she thought, rolling her eyes.

The DPV sputtered, almost coming to a halt. Jess let up on the power, smacked the console, and it lurched forward. Damned machines.

The combination of night and their depth in the water column left them blind as they motored along, but Jess knew the water around them teemed with life. Lobsters. Snappers. An occasional white-tipped reef shark. Moray eels hunting for food.

And her favorite animal, mantas. Gentle giants that fed on plankton, their ten-foot-plus wingspans created pressure waves that she sensed, even through the skintight wet suit. Occasionally, one passed close enough that its wake rocked the DPV, making her trainee tighten his grip.

“They won’t hurt you, Latham,” she said, a chuckle tinting her voice.

“I know, ma’am. Whitaker,” he corrected himself. “They just startle me sometimes, and you have to admit those horns are a little creepy.”

“They’re not horns. They’re cephalic lobes that help them funnel plankton into their mouths,” she said. “Stop thinking of them as horns, and they won’t make you jump when they catch you off guard.”

“I’ll try, ma’am,” he replied, his deep voice taking on a drawl that he managed to hide except when he was nervous.

“You do that,” she said, not bothering to tell him to stop ma’aming her. “There’s nothing that’ll get you killed faster in the ocean than lack of knowledge and being unprepared.”

Ten minutes later, they arrived at the ship, and Jess checked her watch. Right on time.

Opening the case attached to the front of the DPV, she pulled out the explosive device. Flicking on a small, pencilsized light attached to her helmet, she checked the mine. It wasn’t much. This was a training exercise, and they didn’t want to actually blow a hole in the ship.

Or a recruit.

She handed the device to Latham. “Tell me what you know.”

Flipping on his light, he turned the cylinder over in his hands. “Limpet mine. Magnetic. Capable of a range of charges and producing a range of responses from barely noticeable to what the fuck, there’s a hole in my ship.”

She chuckled at his description but nodded in approval. “Time to get away before it blows?”

Latham examined the timer. “Anywhere from three seconds to three hours, depending on the required settings.”

“Give me fifteen minutes,” she said, even though the explosion would be little more than the equivalent of a child’s cap gun and fifteen seconds was plenty. In a real-life situation, they’d need those fifteen minutes, and she preferred to treat this as real even though it was a teaching situation.

Latham set the charge, and in the small line of light from his mask, she saw him freeze. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head. “I’m not sure. I entered the correct numbers, I swear, but the countdown is starting at sixty seconds.”

“Hand it over.”

He handed her the mine, and she punched in an abort code. Nothing happened. Fifty seconds.

She punched it in again. Still nothing.

She’d have to speak to someone about this equipment. Whoever was supposed to maintain it was doing a lousy job. Irritated, she took the all-in-one tool kit from her belt and flipped out the Phillips screwdriver.

The screws turned. And turned. But otherwise, didn’t move outward. They were stripped. She brought the explosive device closer to her mask and noticed scratches around the outside of the case with the majority being around the screws.

Underneath her tight black wet suit, the hairs on the back of her neck strained to rise, as she realized the problem with the timer was not accidental. Quite the opposite.

Sabotage.

Then true horror washed over her. If someone had taken the time to change the timer and strip the screws then it was a sure bet there was a reason.

Like blowing a huge hole in the ship.

Which meant a larger charge.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

The console blinked the countdown. Twenty-five seconds. She dropped the mine, pushing it toward the bottom of the ocean and away from the ship, herself and her trainee. “Latham, get to the DVP and get moving. Now!”

He swam over to the idling machine and set it in motion. The engine sputtered, stopped. He pushed the start button. Still, nothing happened.

Her heartbeat pounding in her ears, Jess pushed him aside and pounded on the console. “Start, you bitch.” The machine refused to engage.

Perhaps this was a bad joke, she told herself. Taylor, hoping to make her late for the rendezvous so he could win their ongoing bet of who bought the beer.

The bitter taste of fear in her mouth told her different. “Taylor, you there?”

There was no reply, but neither did she expect one. Mission protocol, after all. Damn. “If you can hear me, get out of here. We have a problem,” she shouted into the microphone.

She prayed Taylor and Eielson were where they were supposed to be. Sushi was a big ship. They would be fine unless the charge was so big it disintegrated the entire ship.

However, she and Latham were much too close. “Swim,” Jess said to Latham. “Fast.”

Latham followed her into the dark water away from the ship, the miniscule beams emanating from their flashlights a thin, bright path into the dark void. “Ma’am, what’s wrong?” he asked, his drawl more pronounced than she’d ever heard and his breathing hurried and harsh in her earpiece.

Fifteen seconds. They weren’t going to make it. “I’m not sure,” she lied. “Just swim.”

She pumped her legs and within seconds was ahead. No one was better in the water. She’d never lost a race in school or since she joined the Marines.

If left to herself, she might even outrace the explosion.

But that would mean leaving Latham. A trainee. A young man who trusted her to be a commander and do the right thing.

The right thing did not mean leaving a man behind to die.

She slowed, grabbed his arm and pumped her legs again, pulling him along beside her. He was heavy, slowing her. She refused to let go. He was not going to die. Not here. Not like this.

Neither was she.

“Ma’am, we’re not going to make it,” Latham said, his voice laced with fear.

“Yes, we are, and Latham, stop ma’aming me,” Jess snapped.

Behind her, the limpet mine exploded.

Definitely bigger than a cap gun.

Next to her, Latham’s eyes widened in fear. Her gaze shifted, adjusted, and she saw her reflection in his mask. Her dark eyes were wide. Panicked.

Then the percussion wave rolled over them, tumbling them in its wake. Someone screamed, and for a brief, agonizing second she thought her head would explode. Blackness claimed her, and she sank into the dark.

The darkness surrounding Jess was absolute. Almost tangible with its thickness. She swam through it like water. But somehow, she knew it was different. Something evil. Slick. Oily.

Still, she swam. She’d lost something. Something important.

No, she realized. Not something. Someone.

“Latham!” She screamed for her recruit. Out of the blackness, she spotted him next to her, sinking facedown into the ocean’s depths. She grabbed his arm and tried to pull him to the surface, but the darkness dragged her down.

Kicking harder made no difference. Pulling at the dark with her hands didn’t help.

Still, she fought. She had to save him.

Then the pull of the abyss flipped Latham over, and she froze in horror. His mask was shattered. His eyes wide and sightless. His mouth gaping in horror.

She tried to let go of the corpse that was once a man—a boy—under her guidance but found herself unable to release her grip. Instead, he acted like a stone, dragging her into oblivion. The farther she sank, the faster she went. Soon, she sped past animals that were the stuff of legends. Giant squid. Eels as long as a barge. Fish with lights for eyes.

Something came from below and grabbed her feet. Shook her like a doll. She lashed out, fighting with every ounce of her being.

She refused to die. Nature would not beat her.

“Jess.”

A voice called to her, pushing past the fear and the panic. “Jess.” She recognized the insistent, familiar baritone. Taylor.

She opened her eyes, blinking at the lights around her. There was no ocean. No depths pulling her down. No darkness that went all the way to hell.

There were white walls. Stainless steel fixtures. Air. A bouquet of daisies on a small table. She was in a hospital.

Disoriented, she untangled her feet from the sheets and yanked the oxygen tube from beneath her nose. Taylor tried to take her hand. She flinched.

He took a step back, waiting. Patient, as always.

Jess blinked again then scrubbed her face with her palms trying to make sense of the world. How had she gotten to the hospital? Why was she here?

“You back with us?” Taylor asked.

Back with them? She didn’t understand. “What?” she asked, her voice croaky. Her throat felt as dry as the desert.

Taylor handed her a glass of water.

She gulped down the tepid liquid then handed the empty glass back to her friend.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yeah. Thanks,” she said, feeling more grounded with each passing second. “What am I doing here?”

“You don’t remember?”

She shook her head. Trying to make sense out of her jumbled memory.

Taylor took her hand, and this time, she didn’t pull away.

“We were on a training mission. There was an accident. An explosion.”

“An explosion?” The incident came back to Jess in broken, disjointed frames. The stripped screws. The wrong countdown. The disabled DPV. The fear in Latham’s eyes as the explosion ripped him from her grasp.

Latham.

“Latham. Where is he?”

Taylor’s gray eyes softened, and he ran a hand over his military short, salt-and-pepper hair. “ICU.”

She opened her mouth to ask if he was okay then stopped herself. If he was in ICU she had her answer. She clenched the sheet in her fist, wishing she didn’t have to go to the next obvious question. “Will he live?” she whispered.

“No idea. If he does, there might be brain damage.” He sighed. “He went quite a while without oxygen.”

“His mask broke,” Jess said, remembering the nightmare. An image of Latham, his face twisted in death, flashed across her thoughts. Just a dream, Jess. She reminded herself. Just a dream.

“Yeah,” Taylor confirmed. “You were holding on to him when we located you. His mask was cracked. Flooded. It took us almost a minute to convince you to let go of him.”

“I was awake?”

“Kind of.”

She shook her head as both her nightmare and reality converged until she didn’t know which was true. Latham had been unconscious, unable to save himself. She’d tried to take him to the surface. She thought.

Whatever the truth, she told herself, he’s alive, and where there’s life, there’s hope. “Take me to him.”

Taylor shook his head. “No can do. You’re confined to bed.”

“No, I’m not.” Not even Taylor could force her to stay in bed. Not when one of her men was hurt.

She pushed back the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the cot, wavering as the world tilted around her. Taylor moved to help her, and she waved him off. “I’m fine. Just give me a minute.”

He sighed again, obviously annoyed by, and resigned to, her decision.

Making sure the pea-green hospital gown was tied in the back, she rose on unsteady legs. He didn’t offer to help again. “Show me,” she said.

He led her down the hall, through a set of doors and into a small pale green room. Machines whirred and beeped. The smell of rubbing alcohol, sweat and death permeated Jess’s nose. She covered it with her palm before she retched at the scent.

But beyond the sounds and the hospital smell was Charles Latham in a bed next to the window, being kept alive by tubes and a ventilator.

The room swayed, but she took a deep breath and shuffled over to her trainee’s bed.

Careful not to jostle any of his tubes, she stroked a palm over his cocoa-colored, shaved head. When he’d come to her for training, his dark, curly hair was just over an inch long and stylish for a Marine. He’d shaved it off. Keeping it simple, he’d said when teased about the transformation.

And now, he lay here. His face puffy. His skin ashen. His body limp.

A shadow of the man she knew.

“I am so sorry, Chuck,” she said.

“Chuck?” Taylor asked.

“He hates Charles,” she replied, unable to think of the boy in front of her as Latham. Under the circumstances, his last name sounded cold. Aloof. Impersonal. The boy in the bed was none of those things. Not to her.

He was a person. Her student. Her responsibility.

She put her hands in her lap and squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to believe that such an energetic, strong young man would not pull through. “You’re going to make it,” she whispered, praying that this room, and the comatose man in the bed, was nothing more than a continuation of her nightmare.

When she opened her eyes, Chuck still lay in bed. Dead except for the machines breathing life into him. “This is my fault,” she said.

“Things happen,” Taylor said from behind her.

“Not things,” she corrected, anger tinting her voice and wiping away any attempt at professionalism. “Sabotage.”

“What?” Taylor asked, surprise in his voice.

Jess shifted to face him. “When we were going to the ship, the DPV gave me trouble. I should have stopped. Aborted the mission. Instead I kept going.”

“Those things foul up. We both know that.”

“Yeah, but if I’d stopped…” She glanced at Latham then continued her story. “We set the limpet. The timer didn’t work. Wouldn’t abort. I looked closer, and the screws were stripped. When we tried to bug out, the DPV failed.”

She met Taylor’s widening eyes. “You and I both know that explosion was bigger than anything either of us would use for training. Did you hear me call out? Tell you to run?”

He nodded. “Still, sabotage? You’ve got to be kidding me,” Taylor said, the words not doubting her but uttered in surprise.

“I wish I were.” She shook her head, a part of her unable to believe it could happen on her watch. On any watch. Who would have done such a thing? “We were set up, John, and Chuck is paying the price.”

“You came close,” Taylor said. “We almost lost you, as well.”

Jess stiffened. “What do you mean? You said I was awake when you found us.”

“I said kind of. Your mask was filled with water. You were babbling.” He squeezed her shoulder. “We must have reached you seconds after it flooded. Otherwise, you’d be in ICU, too.”

Jess bit her lip. Taylor was one of her best friends, but not even he knew that luck had nothing to do with her survival. Her mask could have been filled for hours, and she would be fine. She was special. Different.

When she was a child, her parents discovered that her body chemistry was different. She processed gases, like oxygen and nitrogen, with an unnatural efficiency that gave her an advantage when it came to holding her breath. When tested, she discovered that she could remain submerged for ten minutes, and if she remained unmoving, twenty. But it wasn’t her efficiency that saved her when she was unconscious in the water.

It was the set of internal gills that rested just below the upper lobes of her lungs.

It was her freakish nature that saved her.

“You were lucky, Jess. Very, very lucky,” Taylor said, squeezing her shoulder again.

“Yeah, lucky,” she muttered. She took Latham’s hand in hers, squeezing his long fingers. He didn’t respond. She squeezed harder. He remained inert.

In the background, a monitor beeped. Grew louder and changed into an insistent shrill. The words, “Code Blue,” echoed over the intercom. Seconds later, doctors and nurses ran into the room and shoved her out of the way.

Standing against the wall, with Taylor’s arm around her shoulder for support, Jess watched them work on Chuck until there was nothing left to do but pull the sheet over his head.

“Yeah, lucky,” she whispered.

Chapter 2

Jess shut the door to her apartment and leaned against the solid wood. There wasn’t much to personalize the small living space. The few decorations that graced the room were a reflection of her Apache heritage. A woven basket in the corner. A book on Native American art on the carved oak coffee table.

There was little else, since she normally lived aboard ship with the rest of her team, ready to effect search and rescue or infiltration at a moment’s notice.

She touched the written order she’d shoved into her pocket. She’d been leaving the hospital when the communication from Command was handed to her. She didn’t open it. She knew what it said.

Fuming inside, she crumpled the official embossed paper in her fist.

Pushing away from the door, she strode across the living room to her computer, tossing the paper into a wastepaper basket along the way.

She hesitated, part of her wanting to fish it out and get the waiting over with—like ripping off a Band-Aid or taking the first step into unfamiliar waters—but her hands shook at the thought, and she stuffed them into her jeans’ pockets. The letter could wait. It wasn’t as if her reading it an hour from now would make a difference anyway.

Marching to her desk, she sat in her black, high-back garage-sale office chair and turned on her computer. Her attention flickered back to the small wastepaper basket.

Wait, she told herself and looked away.

The computer hummed, coming to life, but before she could open up her e-mail, a knock sounded on her door. She punched the button on the monitor. The knocking continued, like a woodpecker’s persistent rapping. The screen darkened, and she went to find out who was stretching her last nerve.

Taylor leaned against the sill, his knock turning into a wave of hello when she opened the door. “You didn’t open it, did you?” he asked.

“The letter?” Turning on her heel, she walked into her living room, finding it annoying that he knew her so well. “I was getting to it.”

Taylor stood in the doorway a moment longer then strode past her, stopping to pick up the crumpled envelope before he took a seat in one of her mismatched chairs. He ripped open the end of the envelope and pulled out a piece of folded white parchment with an embossed seal on the top.

“Well?” she asked, watching as he read it.

“Standard. You can’t return to active duty until the investigation is complete.”

Jess buried her head in her hands, gripping her long black hair between her fingers. It was two days since Latham’s funeral, but she already itched to engage both her body and mind with something more than working out and running mental scenarios about what might have been. “But I have to do something,” she groaned.

“A trainee died under your command. You knew this was coming.”

She did. It was also why she had wanted to ignore the letter. She met his gray-eyed gaze. He glanced away, but not before she read him. She knew that expression. That guilty look meant he was withholding information. “Spill it,” she said. Sitting in her oversize reading chair, Jess kicked off her sandals, tucked her legs beneath her and pulled her hair over her shoulder so she didn’t lean against it.

He sighed and leaned back. “They’re looking at human error.”

“Of course.” Not that it would help, since this was far from a mistake on anyone’s part. However, once they got past the mundane they’d have to listen to her. Have to check out her claim of sabotage.

“I don’t think you understand,” Taylor insisted. “Your error. You and you alone.”

Her error? Fury bloomed beneath Jess’s skin, but she refused to let it show. She managed a tight shrug. “Fine.”

“That doesn’t bother you?” Taylor asked. His brows arched in surprise.

“It’s what I’d do,” Jess replied, sounding as unconcerned as possible despite the fact that her insides were twisted into a tight knot. “It’s standard procedure. Besides, it’s not like they’ll find anything.”

She would know. She’d gone over that evening in her mind countless times. The preparation. The maneuver. She’d done everything by the book.

She continued. “The only thing I’m concerned about is what happens after they discover it wasn’t a mistake. I want to make sure they find out what really happened.” She rose, pacing as she spoke, her bare feet quiet against the wooden floor.

“Someone did this on purpose, John. We were set up. I was set up. I want them to find the perpetrator. Not just a name to expedite closing the file.” She reached the far wall and leaned against it, her forehead pressed against the wood paneling. “I want this person found and brought to justice. I want them to pay for what they did.”

“I know, but there isn’t much to go on.”

“How about the limpet?” She returned to pacing, her frazzled nerves demanding movement. “Do you have good news? Any at all?”

Taylor rubbed the back of his neck. “They’re analyzing the little shrapnel that was left, but so far it doesn’t appear promising. No prints or anything.”

“Damn.” This just kept getting worse. “Tell them to check for the stripped screws.”

“I’ll tell them.”

Once again, she recognized Taylor’s expression of guilt. Her spirit sank. “What is it?” she asked. She didn’t want to know what else could go wrong, but not knowing was worse. “What else are you not telling me? And don’t bother to lie since you suck at it.”

He cleared his throat. “They have found some evidence.”

“That’s good news,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Geez, John. Quit freaking me out.”

“It’s not good news, Jess.” He stared at his feet. “The log where you signed for the mine shows that you didn’t check out a training mine. You checked out a live limpet with enough power to blow a hole in the Sushi.

“What?” Jess stopped midstep. An unnatural chill rolled through her.

Taylor continued, “It’s your signature, Jess. They had a handwriting analyst check it.”

She stared at her first-in-command in disbelief as she searched her memory. But she only found what she knew to be true—she’d checked out a training tool, not an actual, full-scale mine. “You know I would never be that careless.”

He didn’t contradict her, but his attention remained focused on his shoes. She knew what he was thinking. She saw the uncertainty in the way his shoulders slumped and the way he refused to meet her eyes.

He thought it was her fault.

She sat down in her chair, resting her head in her hands. “I know what I signed for. I checked it. This is all wrong.”

“Maybe you were in a hurry,” he offered.

“No,” she shot back. She did not need anyone to make excuses for her. Especially one of her best friends. “I was not in a hurry. I know what I signed for, and that wasn’t it.”

“I know. We all do.” Taylor sighed again, a man at a loss and caught between the differing sides of the stories. “Hang in there, cookie.”

She smiled despite the frustration and shock. He hadn’t called her “cookie” since her days as a new recruit when she was a newbie and he was her trainer. “Thanks,” she said, squeezing his hand. He was still her best friend. And if there was one thing she knew, he might have doubts—hell, she had to admit she would if their places were reversed—but he would stand by her no matter what happened.

That’s what people like Taylor did. They were rocks in a stormy sea. “You better go,” she said.

“Yeah, if they spot me here they’ll be asking questions.”

“With you so close to retirement, we can’t have that,” she said. “Catherine would never forgive me.” Jess loved Taylor’s wife but cheerfully admitted she was in awe of the petite redhead since anyone who could keep Taylor in line was a little scary.

Taylor paused in the doorway. “I’ll see what else I can find out. Don’t count me out yet.”

She met his steady gaze. “Never.”

When the door closed, Jess leaned over, hands on her knees, as she absorbed the reality of her predicament. If convicted of sheer idiocy, she’d receive a dishonorable discharge at best.

At worst—Leavenworth.

It wouldn’t come to that, she told herself. She’d make sure of it.

She straightened and returned to the computer. Once again, she tossed the letter in the wastebasket.

This time, it could remain there.

She turned the monitor back on and opened her e-mail program. There was the usual. Her parents. Something about buying land in Costa Rica. A notice requesting an alumni update at aa.gov—the Athena Academy Web site.

Athena Academy. Her high school alma mater and where she’d spent her teen years. Normally, the teenage time frame from twelve to eighteen was reserved for angst, indecision and drama. Instead, the Academy, and its intense curriculum and supportive teachers, had made it challenging, empowering.

It helped that while the school was an all-girls, private institution, entrance was based on merit. Not money. And there was no application for enrollment.

They sought out the best and the brightest and offered them a full scholarship. So all the girls who attended were smart. Inventive. Talented and unique.

She trailed her fingers down the screen, wondering what they would think of her if they knew her situation. Would they be disappointed? Worried?

Pissed and eager to help?

Damn, she missed them. Her friends. Her teachers. Even her much-loathed language classes.

She missed it all.

But above all, she missed the atmosphere. People believed in her. If Principal Evans was on the Inquiry Board—there would be no question as to the truth.

“Principal Evans isn’t here,” she said to herself. “It’s just you.”

She glanced down through the rest of her e-mail messages, coming to one from Nikki Bustillo, her best friend from the Academy and the one person she’d kept in touch with on a consistent basis.

I heard what happened. Call as soon as you get home and let me know you’re okay.

Jess wasn’t surprised that Nikki had gotten wind of the accident. A lieutenant in the Coast Guard, she always heard about ocean-related incidents.

And what had happened to Jess was definitely in that category.

Jess pulled out her cell phone.

There weren’t that many people Jess was close to. Her ability to breathe underwater made her wary of letting others in. But Nikki was an enhanced human, as well—though her gift was different. She smelled emotions.

Jess smiled. As best friends and schoolmates, Nikki’s gift was both a blessing and curse. When Jess had developed a schoolgirl crush on Johnny Depp, Nikki had figured it out by the scent. Said it smelled like socks after a soccer match.

And she’d teased Jess. A little.

However, Nikki had also known when Jess was homesick. Sad. Angry.

Known and been there.

Jess sighed. She could use Nikki’s counsel right now. Her support.

Before she hit the speed dial, another e-mail popped in with a familiar beep. Jess snapped the phone closed. No subject line, but the unique sound told her it was from Delphi—her contact at Oracle, the secret agency with a computer network that matched intel from all the U.S. agencies and assigned projects to people like her when needed.

The e-mail was dated prior to her accident.

Jess, a word of warning. We have reason to believe that you are being targeted by Arachne, an enemy of Athena Academy. We’re not sure what Arachne is planning but be watchful.

The chill she’d felt when Taylor told her about the limpet mine grew stronger with the solid confirmation that she’d been framed. Clicking the e-mail closed, Jess leaned back, gazing up at the ceiling and letting the reality sink in that if she had bothered to check her e-mail, the whole situation might have been prevented.

Charles might be alive.

She’d been in a hurry the day of the accident, and her computer had locked up. Instead of rebooting and checking messages, she’d turned it off and left.

Probably nothing but spam, she’d told herself.

“Not spam. A boy’s life.” She pressed her palms against her eyes, forcing herself not to cry. If she’d looked…if she’d taken the time… Her hands slid down to her mouth as she tried to come to grips with the news, her head telling her that it wasn’t her fault.

Her heart feeling otherwise.

The phone rang, jarring her. “Damn it.” Now wasn’t the time. She wiped her eyes, blew her breath out through tight lips and picked up the receiver.

“Good afternoon, Jess.” The voice was garbled, computer enhanced and changed. She couldn’t tell the gender of the caller but she knew who it was.

Delphi.

“Good afternoon,” she replied.

“Condolences on your loss,” Delphi said, the altered voice surprisingly warm.

“Thank you,” she replied. She always wondered what Delphi was. Male? Female? But it was comments like that, the moment of spoken compassion, that made her think Delphi was a woman.

“You read the previous e-mail?”

“Just now.”

Silence, but Jess waited.

“According to Oracle, you will be on leave for quite a while. Arachne is working to manipulate the outcome of the investigation.”

Always to the point. Jess swallowed, wondering how much more bad news she would have to endure. “Will I be court-martialed?”

“We will do what is needed to prevent your conviction.”

A typical quasi-evasive answer but still, Jess’s muscles relaxed a micron. If anyone could bring the saboteur, Chuck’s killer, to light, it was Delphi’s network of agents. Delphi continued, “In the meantime, we have an assignment for you.”

Jess perked up, grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil, relieved to focus on something besides images of Leavenworth. “I’m listening.”

“We have booked you a flight to Puerto Isla, an island located two hundred miles off the coast of Belize. Once there, we want you to rendezvous with Zach Holiday. He runs a salvage operation. A cocaine ship named Paradise Lost sank off the coast three years ago during the Puerto Isla Revolution, and we want you to locate it.”

Jess scribbled the information in her personal shorthand then stopped. “Three years?” She knew how the ocean worked, and three years was a long time. Objects moved. Or were buried by sand.

“We’ve collated the available data and have come up with a search grid,” Delphi said.

“Of course,” Jess said, knowing Delphi would think of everything. “How much does Zach know?”

“Minimal. That we’re looking for a specific ship but not why.”

“Didn’t he ask questions?” Jess asked.

“Yes, but I chose Zach and his crew because they have worked with the government before, and Zach is aware that he cannot be privy to all details.”

“What type of projects has he done?”

“Recovery of drug planes and cargo. Some data encryption. Even a recovery mission for the Marine Corps.”

Jess perked up at the information.

Delphi continued, “Still, I would prefer our information remain on a need-to-know basis. I’ll trust your judgment in that regard.”

“Thank you,” Jess replied.

Delphi continued. “We believe the ship contains equipment, a laptop that belonged to Arachne and data that might lead to her whereabouts.”

The hairs on Jess’s neck rose in response to the name. “The one who set me up? The one who killed Chuck?”

“Yes.”

She could have sworn she heard a smile in that singular, positive response. “Good.” Whoever this Arachne was, Jess wanted her dead.

“Jess, do not underestimate her,” Delphi warned. “Arachne’s vendetta against Athena Academy and her students goes back twenty-four years.”

“Twenty-four years?” The thought that a criminal had been around that long and had not been caught boggled Jess’s mind.

“Yes,” Delphi confirmed. “All the way back to Marion Gracelyn’s death.”

“She killed her?”

“Coordinated it, at least. Since that time, she’s threatened the Academy, tried to destroy it and now she’s showing an unusual interest in the special attendees.”

“Special? Like me?” Jess asked. She’d always wondered if there were others, girls with gifts. She and Nikki had discussed it before and had found they had something in common—they were both conceived using in vitro fertilization, IVF. Since that time, she’d met more than one IVF at the Academy and had watched her, looking for anything that made her different. She’d seen nothing but that didn’t stop her from watching and wondering.

“Yes, girls like you,” Delphi confirmed.

Interesting. Jess filed the information away for future reference then returned to the topic at hand. “Do you know why she wants us?” Jess asked.

“No. Perhaps breeding—”

Jess shuddered in disgust.

“—study, or just to hurt the Academy as much as possible. It’s hard to say. But she knows about your ability to breathe underwater and has obtained information on other women and girls conceived using IVF at one specific clinic in Zuni, New Mexico.”

Nikki.

“Don’t worry about your friends,” Delphi said, answering her unspoken worry.

Jess stared at the phone in surprise, unsettled that Delphi knew her so well.

Delphi continued, “We’ll make sure everyone else is safe. The best way for you to help is to obtain the laptop and anything else you deem useful,” Delphi said. “Delivery will be to Allison Gracelyn.”

Curiosity made Jess want to ask why Allison, but she held back her question. Allison Gracelyn was a member of the Athena Academy Board, and one did not question that kind of influence or importance. “When do I leave?”

“This afternoon. Check your e-mail. I have sent you directions for meeting with Zach, the search coordinates and an airline ticket.”

“Thank you,” Jess said. “I appreciate the opportunity.”

“Jess,” Delphi said, a cautionary tone evident despite the voice distortion. “Be careful. Do not let vengeance cloud your judgment and do not underestimate Arachne.”

“I won’t,” Jess replied. “I know the order of importance. If this brings us closer to catching Arachne, revenge is icing on the cake.”

“Understood.”

The line went dead, and Jess set the phone back in its cradle. Arachne’d had twenty-four years to plot revenge on Athena Academy and its students. Chuck never stood a chance. Neither had she. But now that she knew the enemy, maybe she could help bring her to justice.

“Arachne will pay for what she did, Chuck,” Jess whispered. “I promise.”

“An e-mail? You sent me an e-mail and expected that to be enough?” Nikki said as soon as Jess answered the call.

“Hello, to you, too,” Jess replied, a small smile curling the corners of her mouth as she held the receiver away from her ear. After her conversation with Delphi, she’d e-mailed Nikki the basic information about what she was doing. She wanted to call but e-mail was easier. Impersonal. And right now she needed the distance.

She should have known it wouldn’t work.

“Yeah. Well. Hi,” Nikki returned.

Nikki still sounded irritated. “I was going to call as soon as I packed,” Jess explained. “I’m just on a tight schedule right now.”

“Packed?” Nikki asked. “Where are you heading?”

“To the beach,” Jess said, cradling the cordless phone between her neck and ear. As much as she loathed hauling her personal dive gear—she didn’t need much other than a wet suit for protection against coral and fins for additional speed—it would look strange for her to use rental when she was a professional.

Besides, the thought of putting her mouth around a used snorkel and regulator was repulsive. “Since I have time on my hands, I thought I’d work on my tan.”

“They’re letting you leave? What about the accident?”

“It’s under investigation.” She tucked her fins in the bottom of her dive bag.

“You mean, you’re under investigation,” Nikki said, her voice terse.

“The situation is under investigation,” Jess corrected as she folded her full-body black wet suit and tucked it on top of the fins.

Through the receiver, she heard Nikki inhale. “I bet if I was there right now, I’d smell honey, wouldn’t I?” Nikki pressed, her voice terse.

Jess sighed. That was Nikki’s undercover way of calling her a liar. Trust her friend not to let her get away with anything. Even a fib. “Yes,” Jess admitted. To Nikki’s olfactory-based psi sense, spoken lies had always smelled a little too sweet. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Nikki said, her tone finally softening. “Anything I can do to help?”

Find Arachne? Bring Chuck back to life? Jess wished she could tell Nikki what was happening and hated the fact that she couldn’t. If she did, then Nikki would want to know how Jess got her information, and getting into a discussion about being an Oracle agent—especially a discussion on an unsecured line—was as dumb as one got and would put them both at risk.

As much as she hated it, she’d have to trust that Nikki could take care of herself and that Delphi would stand by her word to keep Nikki safe.

“Not really,” Jess finally replied. “Unless you know of a way to speed up a Marine Tribunal.”

“Not likely.” Nikki chuckled.

“So don’t worry. Everything will be fine.” Jess tossed her dive knife and mask into the bag.

Outside, a car honked, and Jess peeked between the curtains to see her taxi. Nice timing.

“I gotta go,” she said, jamming the rest of her gear in. “Taxi’s here.”

“Have fun, and don’t worry about the investigation. You’ll be proven innocent.”

“Thanks,” she said. Nikki’s forceful assurance caused a true smile to broaden her mouth. “I’ll send you a postcard.”

She hesitated. “Nikki?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks, and be careful.”

“What?”

She heard the confusion in Nikki’s voice, but she’d already said too much. “Nothing. Just be careful.”

“I will.”

It wasn’t much of a warning but it would have to be enough. Jess hung up, grabbed a small backpack that contained her clothes and hoisted her heavier, much larger dive bag over her shoulder. At the taxi, the driver popped the trunk from the driver’s seat. Jess tossed her bags in then took the passenger side, sliding the seat belt over her lap.

She never sat in the back.

She glanced at the driver. Tall. Thin but muscular. Dark. Dreadlocked hair.

And off, somehow. She cast another quick look in his direction, trying not to stare, but couldn’t quite figure out what it was that bothered her. “I’m Israel,” he said with a heavy Caribbean accent as he pulled away from the curb.

Jess didn’t offer her name, not caring if it seemed rude. Something was making the hairs on her neck rise, and it wasn’t just that he was a caricature of a Jamaican.

“Where you heading?” her driver persisted, intent on chatting. “Vacation?”

“Something like that,” Jess said, watching the road as they entered the freeway.

“You a diver?”

Maybe he was just nosy, she told herself. And her nerves were overtense. Whose wouldn’t be, considering she’d been told that a criminal mastermind was gunning for her? “If you don’t mind,” she said, trying to relax and to stop seeing danger in every shadow, “I’ve had a long day and would like a bit of quiet.”

“Of course, mon” Israel said, “Of course.”

She breathed a sigh of relief and watched the pavement slide by—right up until Israel drove past the exit to the airport. Jess stiffened. “You passed the exit.”

“I know a shortcut,” Israel said. “Miss all the traffic and get you there faster.” He turned off at the next exit, then down a side road that led through a warehouse district.

Shortcut her fanny.

The car slowed.

“Where are we going?” she asked. “This isn’t a shortcut.”

Israel looked at her, all semblance of friendliness replaced by something dark and purposeful. Automatically, her hand went to a gun that wasn’t there—the one she’d had FedEx pick up a while ago.

“No, Miss Whitaker, it isn’t,” he said, reaching into his jacket.

That’s what was off, she realized in the split second his hand moved. The bulge in his jacket. It wasn’t a wallet. It was a shoulder holster.

Her driver was armed.

Even as her mind processed the information, her combat-trained body was in motion. Unbuckling her seat belt with one hand, she swiveled sideways, bringing her legs up and slamming them into Israel, pushing him against the door as his gun cleared the holster but before he could point it at her.

The car jerked sideways, and the gun fell to the floorboard with a dull thud. Jess grabbed the wheel, yanking it toward her and sending the vehicle skidding in the opposite direction. Israel pounded her hands with his fist, trying to make her let go.

He hit her again. It was like having her fingers smashed in a door, but Jess gritted her teeth and refused to loosen her grip. He was bigger. Stronger. And the moment she gave an inch, he would use it against her.

Changing tactics, he bent over, groping for the fallen gun. Like hell, Jess thought. Releasing one hand from the wheel, she undid his seat belt. Reaching across him, she popped open his door.

“Bitch!” Israel screamed, as he realized what she was doing. Forsaking the gun, he grabbed her hair.

Sharp pain reached through her scalp as he yanked her upward. Twisting in his grasp, she bit him until she tasted blood in her mouth.

Screaming, he let go, and she scrambled backward toward the passenger door. With her door at her back for leverage, Jess kicked out with both feet and all her strength.

Israel shot out the open door but at the last minute, managed to grab his flopping seat belt with one hand. Sliding into the driver’s seat, Jess punched the gas with one foot, not caring that she dragged her kidnapper wannabe along the asphalt. She reached for the door handle and yanked it inward, slamming her assailant between the driver’s door and the car frame until he let go and rolled away.

In the rearview mirror, she watched him come to a stop on the side of the road then stumble to his feet. He didn’t run after her, and she didn’t stop to make sure he’d live. Her heart pumping adrenaline through her system, she gunned the vehicle. The tension didn’t recede until Israel disappeared from sight, and she was back on the main road.

Jess took a deep breath, willing her pulse to slow. Delphi hadn’t been kidding. Arachne was ruthless. Determined. And apparently, she could strike anywhere.

Not that it mattered. Arachne might be determined but so was Jess. Plus, she had a purpose.

Retribution.

Chapter 3

O ne For The Money. The name made Jess smile. It was appropriate for a salvage boat that hunted sunken treasure. The eighty-foot Swiftship had definitely seen its share of years, but it appeared well maintained. The twenty-foot span of open deck in the back was clean, with gear stowed. There were no oil stains or suspicious spots that hinted at larger problems.

Unfortunately, it also looked deserted.

Jess carried a FedEx box containing her gun in one hand, her duffel tossed over her shoulder and her dive bag in her other hand. Setting box and bags on the pier, she adjusted her black-and-white Hawaiian-print tank top and walked toward the stern hoping to find someone on board. Anyone.

But the deck remained empty. Silent. She frowned, loathed going aboard without permission. Perhaps some people wouldn’t think twice about it, but she equated walking onto a ship with walking through the front door of someone’s house.

You didn’t turn the knob and barge in.

“Hello!” she shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth. She waited for a reply, but the only answer was the slight rocking of the boat. “Hello! Zach, are you there?” Arms crossed, her frown deepened. “Anyone?”

“Can I help you?” a voice inquired. She turned to see the questioner on the opposite side of the pier watching her from the upper story of a double-decker luxury yacht.

Despite her sunglasses, she still shielded her eyes against the tropical sun. “Thanks, but I’m looking for Zach Holiday.”

His blond hair sticking up, the man on deck looked younger than her and ready for a beach party. The drink in his hand completed the effect. “Zach? You don’t want him. That boat’s a piece of crap.” He lowered his sunglasses and gave Jess a once-over. “Come on up here, and I’ll show you what traveling in luxury is like,” he finished, his words slurred.

Rolling her eyes in exasperation, Jess turned away. She didn’t have time to deal with a drunk.

“Come on, honey, I got enough for two,” he wheedled.

“Jeez.” Trust-fund baby.

Trust Fund started whistling at her, and she eyed Zach’s boat. The whistling turned into hooting and catcalls. “Time to barge in,” she muttered. Hoisting her gear onto the deck, Jess stepped over the railing. Ignoring the drunk’s continuing comments, she made her way toward the open door that led below. “Hello? Anyone there?” she shouted down the stairway.

Again, no answer, but from the opposite end of the ship came the distinct sounds of swearing and the clinking of metal.

Walking down the stairs, she made her way to the stern, following the loud clanging noise. Reaching the engine room, she found the origin of the swearing.

Whoever he was, he was on his back, his upper body hidden by the engine. Tools lay scattered at his feet.

“Hello,” Jess said.

He jerked upward at the sudden sound of her voice, banging his head with a resounding clunk.

“That’ll leave a mark,” she said, wincing.

“You think?” the male voice replied. Sliding out, he stared up at her from the ground.

Wearing grimy khaki shorts, a once-green Sex Wax T-shirt, his hands coated with who-knew-what and a greasy red mark on his forehead, he looked like the boat’s mechanic.

She knew better.

Zach Holiday. She’d looked him up on Google before she left her apartment, and he’d come up on a number of pages. An independent computer programmer, he solved problems that others couldn’t. His skill and business savvy had left him wealthier than most self-employed geeks.

Even more interesting was that he wasn’t just a cerebral know-it-all that lived in front of a computer 24/7. He did a lot of physical activities, including extreme sports. Mostly, he used his monies to take time off with his father and hunt for gold in the warm waters off the coast of the Americas.

He presented an intriguing duality of intellectual and adrenaline junkie.

Along with the articles were pictures, which were what gave him away now, despite the grime.

Dark brown hair. Tall, strong body.

And emerald eyes that were so green it was impossible to look away. She stared into them, mesmerized.

He met her steady gaze and raised a brow. “Can I help you, or do you prefer to stare?”

Heat rose in her cheeks, but she blinked, regaining her composure as fast as she’d lost it. “You must be Zach.” She held out her hand. “Sorry, I didn’t expect to see you working on the engine.”

“You’re Jessica?”

“Jess.”

He took her hand, using her as leverage to rise. Once on his feet, he shook her hand. His grip was firm. Warm. He nodded toward the engine. “I like to work with my hands, and it’s not that different from computers,” he said. “Logic and patience will get you what you need.”

She gave a brief nod. Interesting man. “Sorry I just walked on board,” she explained. “I called out but the only person who answered was some drunk across the way.”

“Blond? Invited you on board?”

She nodded. “I guess that’s his modus operandi?”

Zach grinned, his teeth bright against his tanned skin. She couldn’t help but smile back. “That’s Eric. His family has more money than God, but he’s harmless.”

That was her impression, as well. “What’s going on here?” she asked, now that the niceties were complete. She looked past him to the engine.

“Broken belt,” Zach said. “One of those parts that are neither expensive nor difficult to install, but essential if we plan to use the ship. So, since we’re waiting for Liz to return with parts, how about we get a cup of coffee and talk about this project of yours.”

It was a standard request—nothing out of the ordinary— but the shield Jess worked so hard to cultivate rose. Delphi said she’d provided Zach with minimal information. Was he going to try and pump more out of her?

Probably. It was what she’d do under the same circumstances. She remembered Delphi’s words: Need to know. That was her modus operandi.

But Zach didn’t need to know that. She smiled at him. “Sure, I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Her gun loaded and on the bunk, Jess unpacked her bags. Her cabin, eight feet in length and ten feet wide, was small compared to her bedroom at home, but she knew it was probably one of the bigger ones on board.

She glanced around, wondering where to put her clothes, and noticed there were drawers beneath the bed. Bending down, she tucked her few items below.

The door squeaked open. Jess rose and grabbed her gun in one fluid motion. By the time she was upright, she was in ready position and staring at the startled face of a blond girl in a one-piece, red Speedo and a pair of cargo shorts.

“Hi. I’m Liz.” The blonde glanced at the gun’s barrel and gave a weak smile.

Liz? That was the girl Zach mentioned. Jess set her gun on the pillow—within her reach but not Liz’s. “Sorry about that, but you startled me. Ever hear of knocking?”

“I didn’t think you were here. I was just dropping off some clean sheets.”

Jess noticed the folded cotton in her arms. “Oh.” She took them, setting them on the bed and feeling like a fool, even if her actions were justified. “Thanks.”

“Anyway,” Liz said, leaning against the doorway and giving Jess a curious glance. “What are you doing for dinner? A bunch of us were heading out in a few minutes. Want to go?”

Jess shook her head. “I’m beat.”

“You might want to rethink that,” Liz said in a singsong voice. “It’s kind of a tradition that we take the P.I. out for drinks before we leave.”

“P.I.? Private Investigator?” Jess asked.

“Primary Investigator,” Liz said with a flip of her waist-length, ponytail. “The crew is waiting, if you want to go. It’s just dinner. At the bar.”

Delivering sheets? Jess didn’t believe it. The invitation was the reason Liz was here. They wanted her to go drinking. In other words, initiation.

She raised a brow as she considered the request. She’d gone through initiation rites in boot camp when she first entered the Marines then later when she trained to become a combatant diver.

As a Marine, it had included testing her endurance and pain threshold.

She couldn’t imagine that initiation to this team was similar, but Liz did make a good point. She should consider going. Part of working with any team was bonding, and it was best to get in good with the crew as opposed to remaining an outsider.

Hell, she might be with these people a few days or a few weeks, there was no way to tell. “I take it this is some kind of tradition?” Jess asked.

Liz smiled, and her face lit up. “Yes.” She nodded at the bunk. “But you might want to leave the gun.”

Jess glanced at the Sig. She’d feel better if it was with her, but under the circumstances, it seemed a bit like overkill. “I’ll see if Zach has a safe.”

“He does. Meet us on deck in ten,” Liz said with a wicked grin as she shut the door behind her.

When Jess emerged onto the deck, sans weapon, Liz was waiting, a sandal-clad foot tapping on the deck. “Hi.” She almost skipped over, took Jess’s arm. “We never have another woman on board,” she whispered as they walked. “You have no idea how much I’m going to enjoy this. That’s Nate,” she pointed to an older man. Short and stocky, his head was shaved but his goatee was as blond as Liz’s sun-washed hair.

“And that’s Diego,” Nate said, gesturing at a young Caucasian man with short dreadlocks who walked toward them with Zach.

“Ready for dinner?” Zach asked.

Jess didn’t miss his sly grin or the way each member of the crew caught his eye, and she bit her lip in an effort not to laugh at them. They actually thought they had the upper hand. They believed she didn’t know what they were doing.

She returned his smile. This was going to be fun. For her. “Born ready,” she said.

The bar wasn’t what she expected. No tacky swordfish or old nets with the occasional ornamental starfish graced the dark paneled walls.

Instead, it was small. Dimly lit. And crowded with what she thought were locals since there wasn’t anyone dancing on the table or doing body shots. Heads turned as they walked past the tables and shouts of recognition followed before everyone returned to their drinks.

She’d called it right—this was a local hangout.

Zach herded the crew toward a long table at the back of the room, and in seconds, two pitchers of beer and a round of shots filled with something dark were in front of them. Jess raised a brow.

“What’s wrong?” Zach asked. “You don’t drink?”

She looked him up and down. She might have believed his wide-eyed innocence if his grin didn’t scream troublemaker.

If she had to guess, she’d peg him as the instigator. “I’m a Marine. I can drink you under the table,” Jess snapped back. “But we’re leaving in the morning. Aren’t shots a little excessive?”

“Excessive would be if we made you do all the shots,” Liz said. She held the tiny glass in the air. “To the ship!”

They all raised their drinks then paused, watching Jess. She knew that if she refused, she’d always be the one who backed down.

The Marine who backed down.

She raised her shot glass high and toasted the group. In one smooth movement, she downed the drink. Rum. The strong liquid burned her throat, but she swallowed the urge to cough. “Smooth,” she croaked.

The crew shouted and whistled, as she set her glass upside down on the table in front of her, then all downed theirs in unison.

She glanced at Zach, silently asking him if they were going to push her to get drunk. She hoped not. She’d hate to waste good rum by pouring it on the floor under the table.

Zach handed her a beer, winking at her when the others weren’t watching.

She relaxed, confident he wouldn’t let her initiation go too far. He was an islander in many ways, but she sensed that his “island attitude” didn’t go all the way to the bone. In fact, watching him and how he held himself, she’d bet her weapon that beneath the carefree attitude was steel.

There had to be. Zach was a successful computer genius that worked with the government. Successful men knew when to play. Knew when to work. And knew the line between good fun and excessive stupidity.

It would serve her well to remember the steel beneath the surface, she realized as she caught herself smiling back, and once again, staring into his emerald-green eyes. She turned her attention to her drink.

“They’re like emeralds,” Liz whispered in her ear.

Jess found herself flushing. “What is?” she asked, playing dumb.

“His eyes.” She giggled.

Jess flushed deeper and was grateful for the dim lighting of the bar. She realized there was something else she could learn while she was here—how these people related on a more personal level. “Um, are you and Zach…”

Liz’s nose wrinkled. “What?”

“You know?” She nodded toward Zach and wiggled her eyebrows. “You? Him? Involved?”

“Oh,” Liz said with a start, realizing what Jess was getting at. “Oh, God no. That’s just icky.”

Icky wasn’t how Jess would describe sleeping with a man like Zach. Not at all. Sensuous. Fun. Erotic.

But not icky.

Liz nodded toward Nate. “I’m married.”

“To Nate?” He was probably twenty years the girl’s senior. At least. She glanced at Liz’s bare left hand.

“I kept losing it,” Liz said, following Jess’s line of sight. “It was simply getting too expensive.” She leaned in. “I know. He’s older. But he knows things, if you know what I mean.”

“I get it,” Jess said with a knowing nod, praying the young woman didn’t elaborate.

“Besides,” Liz said, “He’s as smart as Zach, and I love smart men, don’t you? You seem like you’d need a challenge. Like Zach.”

“Um, yeah,” Jess replied, not sure she wanted to go where this conversation was heading.

Nate’s muscled arm pulled Liz away, saving Jess. “No more girl talk. It’s time!”

At the announcement, a cheer rumbled through the bar and the chant of, “Jess. Jess. Jess!”

Heat flamed Jess’s cheeks as she realized that getting her drunk wasn’t the objective. There was more, much more, and it seemed to involve not just the crew but everyone.

“Sorry!” Liz called out over the chanting. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a rolled-up piece of paper. “Here.” She handed it to Jess.

“What’s this?” Jess asked, opening it. The original paper was stained but covered with something shiny and smooth. Jess ran her hand over it. Laminated.

She brought it closer to the light. There was a poem printed on it. A badly written poem, both in content and penmanship. “What am I suppose to do with this?” Jess asked, waving the paper, fairly sure she was going to hate the answer.

Zach leaned in so she could hear him. “It’s a song. We want you to sing it.”

Jess’s smile faded. “Sing this?” She’d rather do rum shots.

“Yes. It goes to the tune of ‘Row Row Row Your Boat.’”

For a moment, Jess stared at the crowd, her mouth open. “Of course it does,” she finally managed to say.

Zach grinned at her, daring her to back down.

Oh, hell no. She was not going to give him the satisfaction. She gave a curt nod, and he motioned for the bar to be quiet. The chanting died back. She glared at him. He was a dead man. Later. Taking a deep breath, she sang, “Sail, sail—”

“Wait,” Liz cut her off.

Jess stopped. “What? Was it that bad? I never said I could sing.”

“It’s not that,” Liz said, looking to Zach.

Zach took Jess’s hand. “You have to stand up on the seat. The bar needs to hear it.”

Horrified, Jess shook her head. “No. I draw the line at standing on chairs.”

The bar started clapping and Zach shrugged. “Okay. It’s a bench. Not a chair. And you’ll disappoint everyone.”

She shook her head. “I’m not doing it,” she said through clenched teeth.

“It’s tradition,” Zach countered, his hand tightening around hers.

Tradition. The one phrase he knew she’d give in to. She glared at him. He’d better have steel beneath all that charm, because after this, she was going to beat the hell out of him, given half a chance.

“You’re a dead man, Holiday.”

The threat only made him smile wider.

She pulled her hand away. “I can get up by myself.”

Liz shoved another shot in her hand. “This helps.”

Jess downed it and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Wobbly with the second shot, she managed to stand on the rickety bench. She waved to the room, and they grew silent.

“I’ll get food,” Liz said. “When you’re finished, we’ll eat.” She scooted out but not before kissing her husband.

Nate held up a globe candle, spotlighting her. “So you can see,” he explained.

“If that’s your story.” She turned her attention back to the sheet of laminated paper. There were six stanzas. It was signed Diego.

She glanced down at him. The quiet ones. They were the worst.

Diego grinned and gave her a thumbs-up.

“Sing!” an unknown voice called out.

God, she hated this. “Sail, Sail, Sail a boat, above the briny deep. Watch out for land, watch out for crabs, and never fall asleep.”

She stopped. “Crabs? This is stupid. I mean, really, really, stupid.”

“Louder!” someone shouted.

“Fine.” She rolled her eyes. “Catch, catch, catch a fish from the ocean green. Make it fresh, make it large, with scales like aquamarine.”

God help her, Diego couldn’t write to save his life.

She began the next stanza, and the crowd joined in, their loud, enthusiastic voices overriding her. Despite the fact that her face still burned from embarrassment, Jess smiled.

The room was hers, and she loved it. And apparently, they were pleased with her, as well.

On the fifth stanza, with the crowd still drowning her out, a sudden movement at the bar caught Jess’s attention.

Liz. Her movements were jerky. Wrong. Jess’s voice died and the crowd kept singing. Had Arachne followed her here? Jess stood on her toes to watch for trouble.

Liz was trying to make it back through the crowd, and then someone grabbed her arm. Jess stiffened then realized it wasn’t an assassin. It looked like Trust Fund. And the idiot was trying to kiss Liz—his friends egging him on.

Another movement caught her eye.

Nate, pushing his way through the crowd to his wife.

She hadn’t seen him leave, but from her vantage point, he looked pissed.

Jess shoved Zach’s thigh with her foot, catching his attention. “Problem,” she mouthed, nodding toward the bar.

Zach jumped up, pushing his way through the sea of people with Diego in his wake. With the crowd still singing, Jess jumped down and followed, arriving just in time to see Nate draw back his arm, and then his fist connected with Trust Fund’s jaw. In seconds, Nate was lost in a pile of flailing bodies, and Liz jumped on top to save her husband.

“Get her,” Zach said, turning to Jess as he entered the fray.

In his expression, she saw the steel she’d wondered about, and more. Grabbing Liz, she pulled her off the men. Behind her, she heard the distinct sound of fist hitting flesh. “Stay here,” she said, turning back.

When she turned around, the brawl was in full force, and she spotted Zach and his men at the opposite end of the bar.

“I swear,” she muttered. Why did initiations always seem to end with bruises and blood?

Calmly, she worked her way through the mob, taking time to dodge an uppercut, grab the fist to use its momentum and pull the owner to the ground. She kicked him in the ribs to make sure he stayed down.

Jumping over the moaning man, she reached Nate first. He was standing now, his face dark red as he punched Trust Fund. A few more blows, and Nate would put him in the hospital. “Enough,” she said, grabbing his arm.

Nate hesitated, then let go of the man’s shirt. He fell to the floor in a heap. “Get Liz out of here before she gets hurt,” she shouted, knowing if there was anything that would get Nate’s attention, that was it. Nate nodded and went to find his wife.

Around them, the brawl escalated. She spotted Zach as a fist came out of nowhere, clocking him in the jaw.

Jess winced.

Zach shook his head, stunned, and by the time he moved to retaliate, the man was gone.

“You okay?” Jess asked, keeping her head down.

“Get Diego,” Zach shouted.

She grabbed the dreadlocked boy and was pulling him to safety when an air horn sounded, cutting through the din like a bell at a prizefight. People stopped, fists midair and then dropped them to their sides. A beefy man stood at the bar.

“That’s enough!” he shouted. “You people,” he pointed to the group that caused the ruckus, “get out before I call the cops.”

They had the sense not to protest.

“You,” he pointed to Jess.

“Me?”

“Sing.”

Zach thrust the laminated paper back into her hands with a shrug. “You heard the man.” Around her the bar chanted, “Sing! Sing! Sing!”

Zach grinned. “And you thought this was over?”

She looked into his dark green eyes. “Bar fight. Rum. Singing. This is some initiation.”

With a low chuckle, he wrapped his broad hands around her waist and sat her on the bar.

She leaned forward. “Payback’s hell,” she whispered in his ear.

She’d make sure of it.

Chapter 4

Seconds after her alarm clock sounded, Jess sat straight up in her bunk and slapped the off button with the flat of her hand.

It took another few seconds to orient herself to her strange location.

One For The Money. Salvage ship. Puerto Isla.

She yawned and stretched. Her mouth tasted horrible. This was why she didn’t drink. It seemed to take her forever to get it together in the morning, and she felt fuzzy.

Though last night had been fun, she had to admit. The drinking. The singing. The eating. Even the bar fight had been a good time. Plus, it had given her an opportunity to see the crew in action.

They were a tight-knit bunch. Even Diego—one of the most silent men she’d met who was not a Marine—was in the thick of the brawl.

As for Zach, he was one surprise after another. Charming as hell, but the way he stood when attacked, held his hands and never hesitated, told her that it was not his first bar fight.

The faint smell of coffee and the steady thump of feet on the deck above caught her attention. The rest of the crew was up and moving and it was time for her to do the same. She grabbed her toothbrush, paste and towel and flung open the door to her private bathroom.

Standing in front of the shower was a seminaked Zach.

Okay, not so private, she thought as she stopped in her tracks.

With nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist and his skin damp from the shower, Zach did not look like a computer geek. Not like a mechanic. Not like an easygoing charmer.

He looked iconic.

His abs were washboard. His shoulders corded with muscle. There was enough hair on his chest to make sure a woman knew he was a man.

Her gaze swept upward, and she met his eyes staring back in surprise. Heat flooded her face. “Um, I…” She held up her toothbrush.

“We share a shower,” he said, his voice trailing off at the end as his attention was diverted by her baby-pink, boy-shorts underwear and the thin, white cotton tank top that served as her pajamas.

Jess felt naked despite the clothes and started backing out. “I should have knocked.”

He took a step and the towel started to slip and he grabbed it, his eyes widening. “I thought Liz told you. I’m sorry—”

But she was already in her room and shutting the door. “Could that have been more awkward?” she muttered, patting her cheeks to dissipate the heat.

She inhaled, slow and deep. Obviously, it had been much too long since she’d seen a naked man that wasn’t wearing military-issue underwear, covered in grease paint and getting ready for maneuvers.

She was a professional. A Marine. She’d seen plenty of naked men.

There was no need to act embarrassed. Straightening, she opened the door a crack. “Let me know when you’re done?” she called.

“Give me thirty seconds,” Zach replied.

Sounds of hurried shuffling emanated from the bathroom, and she peered inside, catching a glimpse of Zach in the mirror.

His back was to her, and the towel from his waist was now tossed over his shoulder, giving her a perfect view of his perfect backside.

There was a dimple on each cheek.

I could bite that like an apple. She yanked the door shut, realizing where her thoughts were wandering.

Oh, yeah, much too long since she’d seen a naked civilian.

“How are you feeling?” Liz asked when Jess stepped onto the deck wearing her standard boat gear of bikini top, shorts and deck shoes. “Not hungover, are you?”

“Takes more than a few shots and a bar fight,” Jess said, glancing to make sure that Zach wasn’t around. Taking Liz by the arm, she drew her aside. “Why didn’t you tell me that Zach and I were sharing a bathroom?”

Liz shrugged. “Didn’t occur to me.” She broke into a slow, wide grin. “Oh, don’t tell me that you walked in on him.”

“He was wearing a towel.”

Liz giggled, and Jess found it impossible to be angry at the girl. She wanted to. Really wanted to. But being angry with Liz was like being angry at a puppy.

“Hey, babe.” Nate walked past and patted Liz’s butt then smiled at Jess. “Slugger.”

“Back at you,” Jess said.

He pointed to Diego, adjusting lines and prepping the boat. “You ladies going to chitchat, or are you going to help get us out of here?”

Liz gave her husband a peck on the mouth then followed him.

In less than an hour, they cast off and One For The Money moved past the moored boats on her way out to sea. Jess realized she had yet to see Zach since their quasi-naked encounter and a part of her—the embarrassed part— didn’t want to.

But there was no way she could avoid him forever. Especially when she needed to give him the coordinates for their search.

“Be a grown-up,” she told herself. “He’s just a man, for pity’s sake.”

But a finely chiseled man, her libido whispered.

She told her libido to shut up, rolled her eyes at her overactive hormonal response and hurried to the control room before she had a chance to change her mind.

When she entered, Zach had his back to her. He wore black board shorts, a loose T-shirt and deck shoes. Next to him was a man of about the same height and in almost the exact same outfit.

“Gentlemen,” she said, stepping inside, curious and cautious as to the identity of the other man. Both turned and in seconds, she knew.

It was Alfred Holiday—Zach’s father. A twenty-somethingyears older version of his son, his hair was more gray than brown. The body a little thinner but just as muscular. He also had the same green eyes. “Pleased to meet you, Alfred,” Jess said.

“Please, call me Al. You must be Jess,” Al said, coming forward. “Sorry I wasn’t there last night, but I had a previous engagement.”

From the way he said it, and from the way he grinned, she had no doubt the previous engagement was of the female variety.

“I hear that you’re getting my son into trouble.”

She blushed, and glared at Zach. Was nothing sacred? “I know I should have knocked this morning, but I didn’t know he was there.”

Al’s brows arched in surprise. “I was talking about the bar fight.” He glanced back at Zach. “Something you need to tell me, son?”

“No. Nothing,” Zach said, his mortified gaze begging Jess to shut the hell up.

“Uh, I have coordinates,” Jess said, desperate to change the topic. Pulling the worn piece of paper from her pocket, she handed it to Al.

Silently, he read it, stroking his chin as he took in the information. “That’s a little far out,” he finally said. “Can I ask how you came by these coordinates?”

“You can, but then I’d have to kill you,” she replied, falling back on the well-known quote.

“Fair enough,” Al said.

Jess smiled. Few people gave in that easily, but Delphi said he’d worked with the government before so it wasn’t a total surprise that Al asked pertinent questions but didn’t press when she wasn’t forthcoming.

Setting the paper aside, Al took the wheel, and Jess realized they’d cleared the small port and were entering open ocean. Al pushed the throttle forward. She heard the slight whine as the engine increased in rpms and the vibration beneath her feet increased.

The engine hiccuped then resumed.

The men glanced at each other at the same time, and Zach started toward the door. “I’ll go check it out, Dad. Why don’t you come with me?” he asked Jess as he walked past.

Crap. She knew what this was going to be. A talk. An apology. Something that would make her uncomfortable.

Might as well get it over with, she decided and fell in behind him.

“I wanted to apologize for last night,” Zach said, once they were in the hallway.

She almost stopped walking. “Last night?”

“I should have warned you about the whole trial-by-singing thing.”

“Oh. Yeah. It was a little embarrassing but I’ve been through worse.”

“Marine?”

She did stop. “I never said…”

He kept walking. “You have that look.”

She hurried to catch up. “What look?”

“Jarhead.”

“Thanks,” she said, frowning. It was a common term, but she hated it. She thought it made Marines sound dumb, and the men she knew were anything but stupid. Arrogant? Yes. Pain in her ass? Definitely.

But not stupid.

Not if they wanted to stay alive.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he explained, eyes widened as he saw her reaction to the term. “I know most people hear jarhead and think that means someone who takes orders without thinking. Dumb. Whatever.” He thrust strong fingers through his hair in frustration as he tried to explain himself. “I didn’t think that. I don’t think that.”

“Then what do you think?” Jess asked, as they continued to the engine room, not eager to let him get away without explaining himself. She’d been uncomfortable. Now, it was his turn.

“I’ve worked with Marines before. A few rescue teams to be specific.”

Just as Delphi said.

Zach continued, “They pay attention. To everything. And they will do anything for each other.” He glanced back at her, smiling. “You’re like that. My men were in trouble, and even though we embarrassed the hell out of you, you were right there.”

“You’re my crew,” she said, uncomfortable with the praise.

They reached the engine room, and the twin engines ran loud but steady as Al held them on course. No smoke. No fire. All seemed normal.

Until she looked up at Zach.

Head cocked, his eyes were narrowed.

“What?” Jess asked. “What’s wrong?”

He held up a finger, indicating that she should be quiet. Walking over to the right engine, he kneeled down, peered between the moving parts and stiffened. “Jess?”

She hurried over, kneeled beside him, and he pointed at something. “Any idea what that could be?”

Her eyes widened. Metal casing. Wires. Timer. She knew what it was, and the thought made her gut twist. “Yes. It’s a bomb.”

Jess slid out from under the engine and sat up. Whoever had set the device was good. Very good.

Luckily, she was better.

“Well?” Zach asked. At his feet were the tools she’d requested.

“They used an rpm sensor on one of the propeller shafts to trigger the timer.”

He appeared confused, but she suspected it wasn’t that he couldn’t figure out what an rpm sensor did but it was residual shock from finding a bomb on his ship.

“It’s a cheap part,” she explained. “But clever. It reads the revolutions per minutes of the shaft, and as we speed up it converts them to miles per hour based on the circumference of the shaft.”

Zach looked up and to the right, his expression blank as he sorted what she was saying. When he looked back at her, she knew she was seeing the geek. The man that made millions with a single, complex thought.

In this case, not so complex, but so far out of his realm that it seem fictional. “So when we reached speed, it triggered the bomb.”

“Yes.”

“Will it detonate if we stop?”

She shook her head. “No. But it’s not going to stop the timer, either.” She braced herself, waiting for the panic that was sure to follow that statement.

He nodded, taking in the information. “This means they knew the circumference of the shaft. They know boats. Timing.”

Jess cocked her head, surprised at his calm demeanor. She’d expected fear, but instead he’d accepted the situation with unnatural calm.

Maybe his previous government missions were more dangerous than Delphi let on, and he was more accustomed to danger than she knew. Or perhaps it was simply denial. Either way, it worked for her and there was no time to analyze his psyche.

“Possibly,” she said, continuing Zach’s train of thought and adding her own. “Or they had plenty of time to figure it out while we were at the bar last night,” she said. An alternative thought crossed her mind—that one of his crew set the bomb—but she didn’t voice her suspicion.

Zach had kept cool regarding the bomb but she suspected that accusing one of his crew of espionage would send him over the edge.

“What does all this mean to us?” Zach asked. “Do we have time to go back to port? Get the crew off and then deal with this?”

“I’d rather not,” Jess said. “We need to stay out at sea. If I screw up, I’d rather do it in the middle of nowhere.”

“Good point,” Zach said. “But what about my people?”

His people. She prayed that none were involved in setting the device. “Of course,” she said. “We can stop the boat and put them in the life raft.” She nodded toward the rigged engine. “If this goes south, I don’t want their deaths on my hands.”

“How long do we have?”

She took a deep breath, held it and focused. “The timer is set for an hour, and we have about fifty minutes left. I want you all in the raft in five minutes.”

“There’s a bomb on the boat?” Liz’s voice squeaked. She was the last to arrive when Zach called for “all hands on deck.” The rest of the crew still stared at Zach, stunned.

All of them.

Not involved, Jess thought with relief. She’d seen enough, knew enough, to know a lie when she heard one, and the entire crew looked as if they’d been knocked upside their heads with a mallet.

“That’s what I said,” Zach said. “Now, everyone in the raft. Jess and I are taking her out as far as we can then she’ll dismantle the bomb.”

“Jess?”

“Apparently, it’s what she does for fun,” Zach said, looking at her.

She shrugged.

“Son…”

“Dad, do it.” Zach said. “I need you to take care of them.”

Still, they didn’t move, shocked by the revelation.

Jess walked to Zach’s side. This had gone on long enough. Stunned or no, she needed them gone. The longer they took the less time she had. “Everyone in. I need you to leave. Now.”

Everybody boarded the Zodiac but Zach. Pointedly, she looked at him. Then the raft.

He shook his head. “You need me to drive.”

Dammit, she didn’t have time to fight him. “I can pilot a boat, and I don’t need heroes,” she said under her breath to Zach as the others bobbed on the waves, waiting.

“I’m not a hero,” he replied. “Have you ever driven a twin engine?”

“Yes.”

“One that has separate throttle and gear levers?”

Hell. “Yes.”

“Liar.”

She sighed. The others were waiting. “Just go.”

He shook his head again. “No. I’m not leaving you here, and the longer you argue the less time we have.” Leaning over the edge, he tossed his father a radio.

“We’ll be at the dock,” Al said.

Jess didn’t miss the ashen skin beneath his tan, and she couldn’t blame him. Bad enough to lose the boat.

But Zach was his only son.

Zach nodded. “See you there.”

Al nodded then revved up the Zodiac engine and sped toward port.

“Get to work,” Zach said, walking to the helm. “I’m taking us away from traffic.”

Just in case you screw up and we die.

He didn’t need to say the words. She felt it. “Give me fifteen minutes of top speed, enough to get us clear of anything, then stop,” she said. “I’ll need the engines off to do this.”

He nodded, and she headed down the stairs while he went to the helm.

Stopping by her room, Jess grabbed her MP3 player then headed to the engine room. Lying on her back, she studied the device. Tried to get into the mind of the person who set it.

Whoever it was, they wanted the boat gone, her gone and anyone who worked with her.

But Delphi said that Arachne wanted her alive. Was Delphi wrong? Did Arachne mean to kill her?

She rolled onto her back, the deck vibrating beneath her. Maybe it was all a test. Or to scare her.

A message that no one was safe with her?

Who knew what these people were trying to accomplish, but she knew she could not let them win. It wasn’t in her to toss her hands in the air and cry uncle.

The engines slowed and stopped.

Jess sat up. “Time to work.” Turning on the MP3 player, she listened to a compilation of Cake, Fatboy Slim and the occasional top-forty hit.

Zach walked through the door. “Anything I can do?”

“You could have left,” she said, her voice tinged with sarcasm.

“Not a chance,” he said. “Marines aren’t the only ones who refuse to leave a team member behind.”

She nodded, admiring him and wanting to smack him at the same time.

Cranking up the music, she wormed her way into the works of the engine, being careful not to burn herself on the now-hot parts.

Luckily, she didn’t have to go far. Using a screwdriver, she removed the bomb casing and breathed a sigh of relief. Whoever set this did not expect her to find the device. It looked simple.

A warning went off in her head as soon as the thought crossed her mind.

Nothing was ever that easy.

Especially disarming a bomb. “The Distance” stopped and Christina Aguilera’s, “Fighter,” began to play. One of her favorite songs.

She traced the wires. Good. Good.

Her hand stilled at a white one. Not so good.

There was a false wire in the mix. Meant to mislead her.

And if there was one there might be more.

She glanced at the timer. She had less than thirty minutes.

All the time in the world.

Sweat stung her eyes as she traced the other wires. They looked real. Active.

It was time to make the hard decisions.

She took a deep breath and removed her earphones.

“You okay?” Zach asked.

“Good.”

“What next?”

“Now, we see who’s smarter,” she said. “Me or the person who made the bomb.”

She pulled out the set of wire nippers from the front of her bathing suit. “Red wire. Blue wire.” She murmured her lucky chant, staring at the green and yellow wires.

Holding her breath, she snipped the yellow.

She exhaled. “Still alive.”

“Jess!” She tensed at Zach’s shout. “The timer.”

She glanced at it. It was counting down now at twice the speed of normal.

She’d screwed up. And bad. She took a deep breath. Now was not the time to panic. “Zach, get out of here!”

He yanked on her foot, trying to pull her out. She kicked him away. “You can do this,” she whispered. “You can do this.” There were two minutes left.

All the time in the world.

Red wire. Blue wire. Red wire. Blue Wire.

She scooted around the still-hot engine, burning her arm against the metal and no longer caring. She’d missed something.

She followed the wire to the C-4. There. Another wire. Whoever did this was good, she realized. Better than good.

Red wire. Her heart pounded in her ears.

“Jess!”

Seconds now.

All the time in the world.

She snipped the blue wire.

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