“Elijah Banks.” I released a breath, wanting to leap in joy that the name had finally slammed my brain. “I—I think he’s on Mr. Shark’s personal team in some capacity.”
“Oh. Then you do need the voice mail dir—”
“No! I fucking need Elijah Banks, on this line, right now!” I yearned to punch a wall, but there was only the damn sky and a hopelessly empty horizon. How the hell had those bastards gotten away so far, so fast? “Please. I’m begging you. This really is an emergency. Lives are stake! You must have Mr. Banks’s direct number there. Can you put down the Doritos for one second and dial it?”
I was going to regret the crack. Damn it, I already did. The guy’s affronted grunt told me as much.
But just as I braced myself for an ear full of dial tone, there was a new sound on the other end of the line. An angry, incessant buzz. A hail that had Doritos king shifting uncomfortably in his chair—cue the squeaky support gears—before huffing even louder at me.
“Hold please,” he mumbled.
I held. For my dear life. For Grant’s too.
The line reengaged with an odd collection of clumsy clicks. Once more I battled the despair of a disconnection, which was surely coming any second. Until…
“Who the fuck is this?”
I startled. Not my snack-loving friend. The voice was a vaguely recognizable snarl but not Shark himself. I’d recognize that arrogant ass’s baritone anytime.
“Who is this?” I retorted.
At first, there was only a violent snag of breath. A long, questioning pause. At last he ventured, “Rio? Is this you?”
I stopped pacing, though I was frazzled and punchy and desperate enough to claw a hand at my hairline again. “Who wants to know?”
“Rio. Thank God.”
He didn’t charge at that flank again. “Where are you?” he demanded instead. “Are you with Twombley? What’s the trouble?”
My heart stuttered as I squeezed my eyes shut, telling myself it wasn’t time for panic yet. Not. Yet. I still had to find the strength to be brave because I promised I would be brave. I had to suck up the air for words and be brave.
“No. I’m not with him. He’s…not here.”
“Okay.” There was a lot of rustling, like papers being sorted. His voice jostled as if he were doing five things at once. “I suspected as much.”
“You did?” I dropped my hand. My head jerked up. “How—”
“I got his text. Well, part of it.”
“His what?” My gaze bugged. My spirit soared. “A text?” Relief buckled my knees. I crumpled to the deck, no longer dreaming of torching it. “He did manage to hide his phone. If those assholes don’t find it, we can track—”
“Whoa. Assholes?” he interjected. “What assholes? Who the fuck has his phone?”
I huffed. “But you said you got his text.”
“We have a code. Bas, him, and me. Three exclamation points. Eight minutes ago, I only received two.”
My knees went weak again—for a much different reason. “Fuck,” I croaked. Then whispered, “Elijah, you have to help him…”
“Rio. Hey. Rio!” He stressed it like I’d become hearing impaired. With the chaos and dread taking over my senses, that was likely the truth. “Stay with me, girl. I’m going to help him. Fuck, I’m going to call in every favor from every resource I’ve got to do it, but I need a plan. To have that, I need details. As many of them as you can give me. Go back to the start, and don’t leave anything out.”
I had no idea how I made it through that ordeal, especially the parts about watching Grant get led away by those disgusting creeps. Worse than that was having to tell Elijah I didn’t have a single detail about their getaway vessel. Not even stored in the recesses of my memory. His cavalcade of reassurances, that they likely had something nondescript and fast on purpose, provided scant comfort.
Correction. They were no consolation at all.
Which meant that now, as the sun breached the horizon, I was beyond drained. Past consolable. And plummeting into my inner danger zone.
I trudged back to the stateroom—purposely bypassing my purse on the desk in favor of a fall into bed. I needed a distraction. Lots of it. I’d need it for the next thirty-six hours at least, until we docked in Marina del Rey. Though Elijah had offered to send a helicopter for me, I’d turned him down. That would be one less machine dedicated to the hunt for Grant and Harry.
The first leg of my journey back to real mental health.
The baby steps I wasn’t expecting to make on my own.
Fuck. Fuck.
I figured the day ahead would go much better if I had some sleep behind me. Getting beneath the covers flooded me with Grant’s distinct smell, and I immediately went to pieces as the rich woodsy notes flooded my senses.
After three hours of tossing and turning atop the covers, all I had to show for my diligent efforts were a frightful case of bedhead, seriously jangled nerves, hideously swollen eyes, and a defined plan to discreetly pack all the bedsheets before I disembarked in Los Angeles. Hey, desperate times called for desperate measures—and I was nothing if not desperate.
My decision kicked off several frantic inspections of our cabin, making sure I hadn’t left a single thing of his behind. As more tears threatened, I even snatched the bath towel Grant had last used, folded the white rectangle as if it were the Pope’s vestments, and placed it in my suitcase as well. I never imagined I’d be packing with a broken heart like this twice in one lifetime.
How was this fair? At fucking all?
Each bitter query carried the weight of a thousand more tears, dissolving the last thin threads of my self-control. “Damn it!” I muttered, hating my weakness as I swiped at my cheeks.
I had to contain this bullshit again. At this rate, I wouldn’t survive until today’s sunset, let alone until LA.
“Okay, okay,” I ordered in a whisper, finally convincing myself that if I lit just one or two matches and let them burn themselves out in the shower, there’d be no harm. No one would know. No one had to. Most importantly, no one would be in danger.
I got everything I needed for my last shower on board this vessel, as well as the three matches that I would burn. But when it was over, I didn’t feel any better. In fact, I felt worse. I’d let myself down. More terribly, I’d let down a lot of important people—including the one who’d become so important and special to me. Grant was likely tied up in some dank cargo hold, wondering if he’d ever see the light of day again, and I was over here breaking the most important promise I’d ever made to him. Of course, he would never know I had. Nobody would. But I was ashamed to the core of my being, and I was the one who would have to live with that.
Late afternoon the next day, we slowly glided into the harbor at Marina del Rey. I stood on the yacht’s main deck, certain I was about to crawl out of my skin, as we passed the first couple of basins and finally eased toward our assigned slip. Four dock masters stood with ropes in hand, awaiting our vessel’s return. The captain guided the yacht in stern first, and while his care was to be admired, I was jumpy as hell.
Sleep had continued to be an elusive bitch for me last night, and the crew’s weary faces around me conveyed they’d faced the same. The only creature who seemed to be getting any rest was Robert, who snoozed soundly in his carrier thanks to the mild sedative I’d put in his food this morning.