Accidental Shield

I collect Goon Two’s gun, then click on the light switch. They’re both bleeding. I’d seen a first aid kit on the wall in the hallway, and I collect it along with some rope.

If being a SEAL taught me anything, it’s that pain has a special way of making people talk.

These two sing like fucking canaries while I’m tying them up and putting gauze over their wounds.

I must be getting old, going soft.

Before, I never would’ve cared a shit if they were bleeding out or not.

I like what I’m hearing, though.

I barely have to ask a leading question.

Turns out, Cornaro was trying to take over King Heron Fishing outright, but Ray was harder to convince than the asshole suspected. He wouldn’t ride off into ‘early retirement’ like the mob boss wanted.

The two keep going, offering me more scraps if I let them go. I pretend to be interested, even while making sure the knots on the ropes holding them in the chairs are tight.

Then I shoot a couple of pictures of the hidden room, a few choice printed photos Ray had tacked up showing black boxes full of military grade rifles, and text them to another old contact.

Without hard proof, it would’ve been a conflict of interest for me to tip off Wes Anderson. Now, as an FBI agent, he can step in and help nail Joel Cornaro’s dick to the wall.

He wants that as much as I do.

Everybody who went through Bali and lived to tell the tale wants nothing more.

My phone vibrates seconds after sending the pics. I grin, seeing his name.

“Where are you?” Wes Anderson asks as I answer.

“King Heron Fishing. Main office.”

“No shit? We’re going to hogtie this son of a bitch! On my way now.”

“I’ll be here. Got a couple of his hatchet-boys singing real pretty.”

“Damn, you’re good, Calum. There’s a place for you at the Bureau any time, you know, if you ever decide you’re bored with retirement.”

I laugh. “I’ve had that offer before. The answer’s still no.” I click off, and a part of me feels proud. But I know damn well I’ve had enough sleuthing and chasing after this.

A nice, dull retirement farming coffee doesn’t sound half bad. Hell, maybe I’ll even think about doing turtle tours myself.

Just as I’m dropping my phone back in my pocket, it vibrates again.

Cash.

He’d already called once, updating me on Ray’s condition.

I tap the answer icon.

“Flint? They’ve got Valerie and Ray Gerard!”

My insides freeze over. “They’ve…what?!”

“They came in through the back, cut the power, including the backup generator. Must’ve had a boat.”

Goddamn. My blood runs ice-cold.

“I told you to get a fucking boat!” Cash screams at me. “I could be chasing them right now if you had one.”

It’s too late for the boat, but not for Val.

I’ll die before that happens.

I won’t lose another victim to Joel fucking Cornaro. Pulling the gun out of my waistband, I swing it at the two goons. “Whoever doesn’t tell me what I want to hear gets a bullet square between their eyes. You get one chance to answer. Understood?”

Their heads almost pop off nodding.

“Where are they taking the Gerards? Where would Cornaro bring prisoners?” It steams out between my teeth, pinched together so hard I think I’ll snap my jaw.

Both men talk so fast, my head spins.

As soon as I’ve heard enough, I head for the door.

“They have her on his yacht,” I tell Cash, flying down the hall at a ground-eating run.

“Where?”

“Kahe Point.”

“The power plant? Jesus,” he growls. “How? The Coast Guard patrols out there constantly.”

“Bastards are hiding in plain sight. All the more reason to move.” I click off and shove the phone in my pocket while running for my truck.

It makes a twisted kind of sense. The docks near the power plant are the only ones large enough to accommodate a large yacht out that way, other than the large public marinas, and they’d want to avoid them for good reason.

The plant has twenty-four seven surveillance, but unless it’s an actual trespass of property or FAA airspace restrictions, minor infractions go unreported. Plenty of ships have been known to shore up on the docks during rough weather.

I hope that’s still the case.

We have to get to these pirate fucks.

One wrong move at the wrong time, and Val’s dead. I have no doubt about it. Their failed attempt to kill her before just makes them more determined.

I’m almost screeching out of the parking lot, when a vehicle flies in, blocking my route. Hitting reverse, I back up enough to make it around the SUV.

“They’re inside!” I shout at Anderson.

He hits the gas, moving out of my way and shouting through his window, “I won’t ask where you’re going, but call me if you need backup!”

I don’t want backup, dammit, but I need it.

It just can’t be the FBI. Not yet.