Undercover Mistress. Kathleen CreightonЧитать онлайн книгу.
what that means in English? Anyway, the damn thing looks like the Queen Mary. Over three hundred feet long and luxury all the way. Twenty guest cabins in addition to the main stateroom, and a crew of thirty.”
“Uh-huh,” said Roy, in a neutral tone.
Max gave him a sideways look. “Don’t you skipper a fishing boat? Something like that?”
“Yeah, I do,” Roy said, thinking, with a sudden sharp twist of longing, of his beach house on Florida’s Gulf Coast, and his boat, the Gulf Starr, which was currently in the capable hands of his best friend and business partner, Scott Cavanaugh. Scott had recently and unexpectedly become his brother-in-law, too, thanks to his recent marriage to Roy’s sister, Joy—something he was still having some trouble getting his mind around.
“What’d you do, get me on this boat’s crew?” He was thinking this assignment might have a definite upside, in spite of the grim nature of its purpose.
“Wish we could, believe me. Problem with that is, you’d have to infiltrate the guy’s inner circle, and they’re a close-knit, suspicious bunch—mostly related, and even that doesn’t mean they trust each other. Even if we could manage to pull it off, it would take time—a whole lot more than we’ve got.” Max was gazing at the distant harbor lights again. There was another pause, and then: “Your dad used to own a big rig, right?”
Wary, now, wondering what Max was getting around to asking of him, Roy nodded. “That’s right.”
Max let out a breath. “I hope to God he taught you your way around a diesel engine.”
“I’ve turned a wrench or two in my time,” Roy said. He didn’t mention the fact that his father had died too soon to have taught him much of anything, and that what he knew about diesels he’d mostly learned from his brother, Jimmy Joe. That, and trial and error.
Except, there wasn’t going to be any room for error here. In his current line of work, an error most likely meant people—a lot of people—were going to die.
“So, you’re thinking about…what, sabotaging an engine?”
Max’s teeth flashed bluish white in the artificial light. “Can you think of a better way to get you on board? They call for a mechanic—”
Roy shook his head. “Tough to jimmy up a diesel—at least, bad enough to need a technician to fix it.”
Max gave him a long look. “I know you’ll think of something,” he said as he turned back to the vista.
There was a long silence. Then Roy asked, in a voice so careful it could have been mistaken for indifference, “Any plans to raise the alert level?”
Max’s reply was a puff of air too muted to be called a snort. “Again? Unless we have something specific to tell ’em, who’s gonna pay attention?” He turned abruptly and tapped Roy’s chest with an index finger. “We need surveillance on that boat. We need something specific. If Abby…” His voice trailed off. He shook his head, once more scanning the sea of lights.
“Even if we knew for certain, what good would it do to tell them? Look at ’em down there. Ten million people. What do you think they’d do if they knew a cloud of death was heading their way? Can you imagine it? Jeez…”
For a long moment there was silence, and the balmy Southern California autumn night seemed to grow colder. Then Max said softly, “Whatever it takes, we have to keep a lid on this thing. Let’s find out where this is coming from, but for God’s sake, don’t let it get out we’re even close to looking at this guy. Abby’s a media magnet even under normal circumstances—surrounds himself with the biggest names in showbiz and politics. If even a hint of this were to hit the media…” He caught his breath, then growled, “They can’t know. Understand? Nobody…can know.”
When the shivering started, Celia did the only thing she knew how to do: She wrapped her arms around the injured man’s body and held him, rocking him like a baby and whispering, “It’s okay…it’s okay…I’ve got you…shh…I’ve got you.”
“Ah, those maternal instincts,” Doc said in his dry, ironic way as he came into the room. He was carrying a scuffed leather bag which he placed on the armchair next to the bed. “Can’t keep ’em buried forever, can you, love?”
“He was shivering,” Celia snapped, glaring up at him. She felt a bit foolish, now that her backup had returned, although perhaps rather in need of some soothing and mothering herself, after what she’d just heard. Except her chills, her shivering, were all hidden inside.
Don’t tell anyone. Nobody…can know.
Who in the world is this guy? Babbling about bombs and death and luxury yachts…
Oh, God, what have I gotten myself into? Why didn’t I do the sensible thing and call the cops when I had the chance?
She still could, she supposed, only how was she going to explain what the guy was doing here, in her house? In her bed?
She was once more acutely aware of the weight of the cold, hard body pressing against her, the grittiness of sand, the sharp, sea smell of his hair. He was muttering unintelligibly through pale lavender-colored lips that barely seemed to move, and shivering less violently, now, in fitful bursts. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?
“Has he said anything that might tell us who he is?” Doc casually asked, glancing at the man’s face as he bent over him, his fingers monitoring pulse beats.
Celia shook her head. “Nothing I can make out,” she lied, repressing a shudder. And then, reconsidering a little, “He keeps talking about somebody named Max.”
“Hmm…” Doc folded down the top edge of the blankets and frowned at the ragged wound high on the man’s chest. Even from her position, wedged behind the injured man’s broad shoulder, Celia could see that the crater was glistening with new, red blood. “Friend, family…lover?”
“I don’t think so,” she whispered. The cold hollow place inside her had just gotten bigger.
Okay, Max, this was my bright idea…I hope to God it works.
Silently cursing the circumstances that had him clinging to the hull of a superluxury yacht in the cold, dark Pacific, Roy rode the gentle swell outside the marina’s breakwater and listened to the mutter of voices far above his head. The security guards were making their rounds…right on schedule. He’d clocked them three full rotations and they hadn’t varied their routine. This time he was going in.
The voices faded, blending into the shush and sigh of the waves. Roy glanced at the greenish numbers on the face of the chronometer on his wrist and patted the waterproof packet taped to his chest inside his wet suit. The packet contained a chip roughly the size and shape of a postage stamp, and it would be his job to install it in the motherboard of the computer panel that controlled and monitored the yacht’s three big—and, according to their schematics, virtually indestructible—diesel engines. According to the yacht manufacturer’s blueprints he’d committed to memory, the computer was located in the central control room, essentially a locked vault deep in the bowels of the yacht, near the engine room.
Amazing, he thought, that such a tiny thing could bring those engines to a standstill. Even better, the cause of the problem would be almost impossible for anyone but a technician to detect. Any call for such a technician would, of course, be intercepted by Max, who would immediately dispatch—who else?—Momma Betty Starr’s little boy, Roy, who would then have convenient access to virtually every nook and cranny of the Bibi Lilith. If any WMDs of any kind were being transported in this yacht, he’d find them.
Unhooking a device that resembled a medium-size firearm from his belt, he aimed it upward and pulled the trigger. A thin smile of satisfaction curved his lips when he heard a soft thunk from somewhere on the deck above his head.
Moments later, he was ascending rapidly and silently, hand over hand, toward the starless, milky sky.
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