“The reef beyond the lagoon.” Mason’s deep voice made the fine hairs on her arms stand up. Anytime he opened his mouth, she imagined him dressed in muck boots and hauling lobster pots from the sea.
“Got it in one.” She winked at him.
“Cut that out,” he grumbled irritably.
“What?” She cocked her head.
“The tongue. The hugs. The winking. Don’t waste your flirting on me.”
“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. “If your ego gets any bigger, you might need to have it surgically removed.”
For one long moment, they glared at each other. Then, a corner of his lips twitched and he gifted her with a little chuckle.
Just that easily, her rancor leached out of her.
Why did he have to have such a wonderful laugh? All deep and seductive and so rare that when she managed to pull even the tiniest chortle from him, she felt like she’d won the lottery?
Now her girl parts weren’t just giggling; they were howling and singing “Let’s Get It On” at the tops of their lungs.
Chapter 3
8:15 a.m.
“Did you get a look at him?” Izad asked, and then watched the face of his youngest son, his only living son, contort around an expression of disgust.
“Yes,” Kazem spat out. “He is overgrown, smug, and entitled. Like all of them.”
“English, please,” the American said in that long, lazy drawl that reminded Izad of America’s forty-third president. Good old George W. Bush. The cowboy who ran into Iraq, guns blazing, looking for WMDs that were never there when his true enemy, al-Qaeda, was being funded by a country he considered his ally.
Izad could have told George the Saudis were not to be trusted. That they would stab a man in his back as easily as they would shake his hand.
That one rash decision George made had led to incalculable pain and death in the Middle East. It had brought about the rise of ISIS. Which had created the conflict in Syria. Which had morphed into the terrible and bloody proxy war between Izad’s homeland and Saudi Arabia, both nations vying to be the ultimate power in the region.
But Izad cared little for the machinations of nations now. Following the senseless deaths of his older sons, he had resigned his post as commodore in the Islamic Republic of Iran Navy and focused on one thing and one thing only.
Revenge.
There had been many years of dead ends and wrong turns, but it looked as if he might finally get what he was after.
Anticipation fizzed in his stomach, giving him a giddy feeling he hadn’t experienced since his boys had been blown into pieces so tiny there was nothing left for him to bury in accordance with his beliefs. Not since he had lost his beloved wife, Hettie.
It was grief that had killed her. A heart so broken that barely three months after the fateful day they lost their boys, she’d followed them into the afterlife.
“I said he looks like a corn-fed sack of shit just like the rest of you,” Kazem snarled in English for the American’s benefit. “That is the phrase you like to use, yes?”
“Which one?” The American remained impassive in the face of Kazem’s animosity. “‘Sack of shit’ or ‘corn-fed’?”
Kazem didn’t answer. Instead, he looked to Izad. “I overhead them say they are leaving soon, Father. McCarthy will sail the catamaran back to the island with two women and the one they call Wolf. It is better than we could have hoped for.”
When Izad hesitated, Kazem marched over to where he leaned against the edge of the hotel suite’s desk. Kazem’s eyes sparked with bloodlust as he placed his hands on Izad’s shoulders. “In the name of my brothers, I will rain vengeance on the head of Mason McCarthy. He will die at sea as they did, nothing but the fishes to comfort his remains.”
So eager, thought Izad. But that is my own fault. All his talk of how brave Kazem’s brothers had been made Kazem feel the need to prove himself their equals.
Kazem had been a late-in-life blessing for Izad and Hettie. They had considered themselves lucky to have two sons, never imagining a third would come years later. A change-of-life baby Hettie had called Kazem, who had been six days past his tenth birthday when his older brothers were killed.
No. Not killed. Murdered.
“Are you certain you do not want me to come with you?” Izad grasped Kazem’s forearm, feeling his boy’s youthful muscles bunch beneath his touch. He was old and feeble where Kazem was tall and strong. But he was long schooled in the ways of war. Kazem was not.
Kazem shook his head. “This journey has been long and difficult.” Izad knew his son spoke as much about the journey to find the man responsible for his brothers’ deaths as he did the weeks it had taken their group to make their way to America through multiple Caribbean ports, using false identities and forged papers. “You stay here. Rest. I will see it finished.”
Izad glanced at the sliding glass doors leading to the balcony. Outside, two of his most trusted men smoked and leaned against the railing. Both were well seasoned. Izad comforted himself knowing that what Kazem lacked in experience, those two made up for ten times over.
“Can I state for the record”—the American, sprawled so casually on the sofa, lifted a finger—“that I think it’s a bad idea to send only three guys after them?”
“Why?” Kazem frowned. “The odds are in our favor. Three to two.”
“Uh…” The America made a show of counting on his fingers. “By my count that’s three to four.”
Kazem snorted. “Surely you do not think the women factor into this?”
The American shrugged. “Maybe not. But I’ve had some experience with these guys. You might be better served to send in the entire kit and caboodle.” He twirled a finger at the four men standing at attention at their various posts inside the room. Izad’s personal security detail.
Kazem didn’t bother to hide his annoyance. “Do not listen to him, Father. Like all Americans, he believes in overkill. Especially when the thing he values most, his paycheck, is on the line.”
“You will be cautious?” Izad asked. “You will do as Turan and Mahmoud instruct?”
“I will not miss a word.”
“Very well.” Izad turned to the American. “Show them where you have stashed the weapons.”
After a breathy exhale, the American stood from the sofa. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The worm of unease Izad had suffered all morning grew into a writhing serpent. But he told himself Kazem was right. The American was…well…an American. If a firecracker would do the job, he would still choose to use an H-bomb.