“Mmm,” Chrissy hummed. “That man has a voice like butter. He could whisper in my ear any day of the week and twice on—”
“That show was a crock of crap,” Doc interjected. “They got almost everything wrong. And the things they got right were overdramatized.”
“It’s fiction,” Chrissy insisted. “And entertainment. Don’t rain on the parade of those of us who happen to enjoy some—”
“Damn it, people!” Wolf slammed something on the table, making Alex jump. She thought maybe it was the palm of his hand. “Can we please keep the wheels on the damn bus for once?” When silence met his demand, he cleared his throat and continued, “Good. Thank you. Now, the question on the table is this… Did any of us have any occasion to come across Iranians durin’ our time with the navy?”
The silence that followed his question was so thick you could cut it with a jelly knife. Curiosity made Alex want to peek through her fingers. But respect for the privacy of the men of Deep Six Salvage and the oaths they’d sworn upon entering and exiting the navy kept her eyes firmly shut.
Eventually, Wolf muttered, “That’s what I thought.” Louder, he added, “Fazzle, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree if you think this is some sort of revenge plot for an op we were involved in.”
A relieved breath leaked out of Alex’s lungs. They hadn’t been attacked because some Iranian cleric had issued a fatwa calling for their heads. That was something.
Then again, as silver linings went, it wasn’t as shiny and sparkly as she would’ve liked. Because it also meant they were no closer to figuring out why yesterday happened.
“You think we can open our eyes now?” Chrissy whispered close to her ear.
“No clue.” Alex shook her head.
Mason, who’d been true to character and silent throughout the entire conversation, suddenly spoke. His words were quiet, but in Alex’s not-so-humble opinion, his deep voice could compete with Dennis Haysbert’s any day. “Open your eyes.”
She did as instructed and found his blue gaze laser-focused on her.
Most days she forgot he was a Navy SEAL. The Mason McCarthy she knew and loved was the guy who doted on his dog and painted scenes of the island in watercolors. He was the guy who had shockingly neat handwriting for a man and a charming loyalty to all things Beantown, including the Bruins, the Sox, and a good Boston lager.
He’s the guy who gently, tenderly, and expertly introduced me to the world of passion, she thought, warmth once again stealing into her blood.
And yet, he was also a SEAL. That part of him had been there that night on Garden Key. It had been there yesterday morning on the catamaran. It was in his eyes now. In the steely expression on his face.
He and the others might never have had any dealings with the Iranians, but she could tell he believed yesterday’s attack must have something to do with their work in the navy. And he blamed himself for the danger they’d been in. The danger they might still be in.
She felt her own expression soften, and reached for his hand. But before she could grab his fingers, Wolf distracted her by ending the call with Fazzle and running a weary hand over his face. “Fazzle will call us tomorrow with any additional information.”
“And until then, we do what?” Chrissy asked. “Cross our fingers and hope, like Alex said back on the docks, that those guys in the boat don’t have friends looking to finish the job? Why isn’t Fazzle flying us all to a safe house? Why aren’t we running to the nearest—”
“Chrissy, darlin’,” Wolf gently interrupted her. “We don’t know enough yet to set the alarm bells ringin’.”
“Excuse me”—her chin was set at a mulish angle—“but unlike you, I’m not used to being shot at by men who rent boats under aliases they got off The Godfather. This is so far outside the realm of normal that my alarm bells aren’t ringing, they’re blaring and—”
She choked when Wolf grabbed her hand and gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll die before I ever let anyone hurt you.”
Beneath the table, Mason scooted his foot next to Alex’s, applying gentle pressure. His curt nod told her he echoed Wolf’s sentiments.
Chills spread across Alex’s back and down her legs. While she appreciated the thought, the mere idea of losing him was unthinkable. Unbearable.
He was her North Star. Without him, she’d be left to scramble around directionless.
And yet you will lose him, that damnable voice whispered. No matter what happens tonight, tomorrow he stops being yours.
Chapter 25
9:55 p.m.
“Is it serious between you two?”
Chrissy’s voice was soft in the darkness. Alex could barely hear her over the noise of night insects and Meat’s deep, satisfied snores.
Mason was on watch duty at the back of the island, and Meat had chosen Chrissy to bless with his presence. He was flat on his back at the bottom of her trundle bed, airing his junk while he slept.
Alex envied the dog his oblivion. Even though she and Chrissy had turned in early, the sandman refused to visit them. Probably because, unlike Meat, they weren’t blind to what was happening on the island.
They’d swallowed their alarm while the men of Deep Six Salvage debated the merits of staying versus loading up the floatplane and heading back to Key West. They’d kept their opinions to themselves when the guys decided the island was safer and “far more defensible”—gulp—than any place else. They’d watched in dismay while weapons were oiled and press-checked and loaded. And they’d listened with their hearts in their throats while the men drew up a schedule for sentinel duty. Then they’d grumbled about the patriarchy when their help had been refused.
“I mean, seriously,” Alex had said at the time. “It doesn’t take six weeks of BUD/S training to use a pair of binoculars.”
“BUD/S training lasts twenty-four weeks,” Mason had informed her, and she’d thought, Sweet lord! What could they possibly be teaching them all that time? Oh, right. How to jump out of airplanes. How to dive to unimaginable depths. How to stealthily kill people.
He’d added, “And it’s less about using a set of field glasses than it is knowing what to look for.”
“Duh.” She’d rolled her eyes. “Anything that shouldn’t be there. Like a boat or a plane or a raft or—”
“Will you be able to make a visual assessment of the craft’s speed and trajectory so you can gauge how much time you have and warn the others?”
She’d glowered at him because…he’d had her there. Obviously, she needed to study up on how to calculate the speed and trajectory of an approaching watercraft. Do you suppose there’s a YouTube video on that?