Covert Pursuit

“I don’t think you saw a body being dumped.”

“If it wasn’t a body, then what? Drugs? Weapons?”

The woman wasn’t going to relent, was she? “The Colombian drug cartel has a pipeline to the U.S. through the Keys. Arms dealers are a dime a dozen, especially around the Gulf of Mexico.”

Detective Angie Carlucci peered at him with suspicion in her eyes. “You’re not a simple boat captain. Who are you?”

For her own good, he couldn’t reveal his identity. If she kept pushing, she’d find out how dangerous things could get. “Trust me, you’ll be safer if you pretend you didn’t see anything.”

“No can do. I’ve sworn an oath to uphold the law.”

Jason shook his head with exasperation and admiration. The woman was a spitfire determined to do the right thing. He couldn’t blame her. But she had no idea what kind of hornet’s nest she’d stumbled into.

That meant it was up to Jason to keep Detective Carlucci safe.

TERRI REED

At an early age Terri Reed discovered the wonderful world of fiction and declared she would one day write a book. Now she is fulfilling that dream and enjoys writing for Steeple Hill. Her second book, A Sheltering Love, was a 2006 RITA® Award Finalist and a 2005 National Readers’ Choice Award Finalist. Her book Strictly Confidential, book five of the Faith at the Crossroads continuity series, took third place in the 2007 American Christian Fiction Writers Book of the Year Award, and Her Christmas Protector took third place in 2008. She is an active member of both Romance Writers of America and American Christian Fiction Writers. She resides in the Pacific Northwest with her college-sweetheart husband, two wonderful children and an array of critters. When not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family and friends, gardening and playing with her dogs.

You can write to Terri at P.O. Box 19555, Portland, OR 97280. Visit her on the Web at www.loveinspiredauthors.com, leave comments on her blog at www.ladiesofsuspense.blogspot.com or e-mail her at terrireed@sterling.net.

Covert Pursuit

Terri Reed

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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They shall call my name, and I will hear them;

I will say, it is my people; and they shall say,

The Lord is my God.

—Zechariah 13:9

Though writing is a solitary endeavor nothing is done in a vacuum. Thank you Leah, Lissa and Ruth for walking through this with me. Thank you to my editors Emily Rodmell and Tina James for believing in this story and in me.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

PROLOGUE

January

“Agent down!” Immigration and Customs Enforcement Special Agent Jason Buchett yelled as he scrambled on hands and knees across the hard-packed earth of the New Mexico desert to reach his fellow agent and best friend, Garrett Smyth.

The light of the full moon revealed blood gushing from a neck wound just above the flak vest guarding Garrett’s chest. The well-aimed shot was meant to inflict both pain and death. A fact pounding through Jason’s horrified mind as he applied pressure to the wound. Sticky, warm liquid oozed between his fingers.

All around them the exchange of gunfire rang in the night air, friendly fire from the agents advancing and enemy fire from Picard’s men coming from the windows and recesses of the large villa outlined by the moon’s glow.

Jason and Garrett were part of the team sent in to raid the elusive illegal arms dealer’s fortress.

And they’d been expected.

The latest intel suggested that their primary target wasn’t even there. This had all been for nothing.

“Come on, Garrett, don’t do this to me. You gotta hang on!”

Garrett’s tanned, hard-lined face showed pain but he managed a weak smile. “Yeah, make it about you.”

“Not today, brother. Today it’s about you living. You have to live!”

Jason’s heart twisted. Terror throbbed in his veins. He couldn’t lose his friend.

Please, Lord, spare him. I’ll do anything, anything You ask!

Garrett had been Jason’s anchor during the rough years of his mother’s illness and death. And after Serena had broken off their engagement, Garrett had pulled Jason out of the bottle, effectively saving not only his career, but his life.

The light in Garrett’s blue eyes dimmed, sending fresh panic and despair roaring over Jason. “Garrett!”

“Keep up the good fight,” Garrett said, his voice warbled. “I’ll see you in Heaven.”

“Garrett, don’t you die!”

Garrett’s eyes closed and his body seemed to sigh as he went limp in Jason’s arms. Death claimed him.

Jason hung his head. Tears of sorrow and rage gathered in his eyes. The burn of a building roar of anguish tore through his chest. Ignoring the risk to his own life, he threw back his head and let loose an agonizing sound until his dry throat hurt.

In a voice filled with determination and fire, he vowed, “No matter how long it takes or what it costs, I will bring down Felix Picard!”

The only trouble was he didn’t have an ID on Picard.

He had absolutely nothing.

ONE

June

The setting sun decorated the sky over the ocean with streaks of red, gold and hints of the midnight that would soon overtake the perfect powder-blue of a summer day in Florida. Light bounced off the waters of the Gulf of Mexico and bathed Homicide Detective Angie Carlucci’s restless nature in soothing warmth. She didn’t mind the humidity she’d been warned about.

Staring out at the serene horizon, she searched for signs of the brewing storm the weatherman had predicted. There were none that she could see.

Sitting on the deck of her aunt’s vacation cottage a stone’s throw from the shelled beach of Loribel Island, she tried to unwind against the cushioned backrest of a wooden Adirondack chair and propped her feet on the railing. Inactivity made her antsy.

There wasn’t even a television to veg out in front of. And no cable even if she wanted to buy a TV. She’d already tried going online. But noooo. No Internet. Not even a wireless connection she could piggyback on. At least her cell phone picked up a random signal now and again. The roaming charges were going to be murder on her phone bill.

She let out a long-suffering sigh and wiggled her red-tipped toenails, the result of her mother’s insistence she have a spa day before leaving Boston on vacation.

Angie had to admit she rather liked the way the polish made her feet look. Small and dainty. So unlike how she normally felt.

Bored, she closed her eyes and breathed in deeply of the fresh salty air, tasting the brine of the ocean, savoring the feel of moisture and heat on her skin.

Come on, relax.

The problem was she didn’t see any purpose in a vacation. So she worked more hours than needed, so she didn’t have a social life to speak of, that didn’t mean she wasn’t content with her life. It was everyone around her who thought she needed to take time off.

Rest, everyone kept saying. She slept most nights just fine, thank you very much.

In the distance she heard the rumble of a motorboat. She’d watched so many boats coming and going from the marina a mile or so down the beach that she could almost picture the vessel in her head: sleek, fast and luxurious. Seemed everyone on the island had a boat of some sort.

Maybe tomorrow she’d rent one. That would be fun. And active. Something sleek and fast. Yeah, real fast.

She realized she wasn’t the sit-on-the-beach-and-do-nothing sort of vacationer even if she wanted to be.

The noise of the motor cut off abruptly. Angie opened her eyes. Sure enough, a slick, white twenty-five-foot craft with lots of chrome railings bobbed in the water at least a hundred yards offshore. Two white males heaved something long and black over the side of the boat.

Angie’s feet dropped to the deck and her heart rate kicked into high gear.

A body bag.

Those men just dumped a body into the ocean!

The engine restarted and the boat sped off.

She jumped to her feet and ran for her cell phone, praying she’d have a strong enough signal to dial 911. She did. She quickly identified herself and explained the situation. The operator put her on hold.

“Seriously?” Angie said to the silent line.

Every instinct in her screamed for action. While keeping the phone cradled between her ear and her shoulder, she searched for her shoes. She crouched down to find one slip-on sneaker under the sofa. The other she found near the stairs leading to the loft bedroom.

From the drawer in the kitchen, she snatched her compact Glock, kangaroo holster and badge before grabbing the keys to her rental car. She left the cottage and drove in her rented convertible toward the marina. She was sure she’d recognize the boat if she saw it again.

Finally, the operator returned to the line.

“The chief’s on his way.”

“Tell him to meet me at the marina on the south side of the island.”

Angie hung up and concentrated on not speeding through the peaceful streets populated with cyclists and pedestrians of all sorts.

Feeling alive for the first time since she’d arrived on the island, Angie savored the rush of adrenaline pumping through her veins. This was what God meant for her to be: protector of the innocent, the righter of wrongs, the one who brought the bad guys to justice and gave the families of the dead peace.

The image of the body bag played across her mind.

Whoever was now at the bottom of the ocean deserved her attention.

She found a parking place in the small lot, then ran to the docks, her gaze seeking out the boat she’d seen. The sun had completely set, but thankfully the tall, high-powered overhead lights provided plenty of illumination as she ran from one end of the dock to the other, searching for the vessel.

Frustration beat an uneven rhythm at her temple. The slick white boat wasn’t moored anywhere.

The sudden sensation of being watched raised the fine hairs at the back of her neck. She jerked to a stop and slowly scanned the area for danger. Her gaze landed on a six-foot-two, mid-thirties white male, only a few feet away. He was wiping down the sides of his expensive boat. Curiosity etched in the lines of his strikingly handsome face and radiated from his blue eyes.

It probably wasn’t every day he saw a woman running up and down the marina like a crazy person.

Tall, lean and unmistakably well muscled beneath a bright yellow polo shirt and ridiculously loud Bermuda shorts, he looked the quintessential yachtsman. His light brown hair was longer in the front and flopped attractively over his forehead.

Angie arched one eyebrow as a means to deter additional interest. To her chagrin, he smiled. A slow, awareness-grabbing smile that squeezed the air from her lungs.

The screech of tires broke through her momentary daze and made her snap to attention. Dismissing the too-handsome man as any sort of threat, she watched a forest-green truck with a light bar across the cab’s roof and the official Loribel Island Police Department decal on the door jerk to a halt at the pathway leading from the parking lot to the docks. An older, silver-haired man stepped out and hurried down the path to her.

Angie turned her back on the good-looking boater to focus on Loribel Island’s chief of police. She stuck out her hand. “Chief…?”

“Chief Decker.” He shook her hand. “You the one who called in a dead body?”

“Detective Angie Carlucci, Boston P.D.,” she said, and then explained the situation.

Decker frowned. “So you didn’t actually see the body?”

“I saw a body bag. If you have access to a boat I can take you to where I witnessed the dump. It was approximately a hundred yards from shore.”

“You’re staying at Teresa Gambini’s place, right?” Stroking his chin, Decker glanced at the nearly dark sky. “Well, now, by the time I get one of our boats from the other end of the island it’ll be pitch-black out on the water. Even the coast guard wouldn’t be able to get a boat out here any sooner.”

“And in the meantime the tide carries the body away,” Angie stated as disbelief at the man’s lack of concern and urgency poured through her.

“That’s certainly a possibility. We’ll make a wide search of the area. If there is a dead body, there’s nothing we can do for the person now. The morning will be soon enough.”

Deep down she agreed, dusk was rapidly closing in, but it still galled her to wait. “What time tomorrow?”

Decker shrugged. “Nine, tenish.”

“Great. I’ll be here at nine,” she said, irritated by his lackadaisical attitude. “In the meantime, you could have the other marina checked for the boat I saw.”

He gave her a patient smile, showing aged and crooked teeth. “Yes, ma’am, I could do that.” He took a small notepad from the breast pocket of his green uniform. “Details?”

She described the boat. “It had three words written across the side, but I think they were in a foreign language.”

“That’s not much to go on. A lot of boats fit that description. If I have any questions, how can I reach you?”

She rattled off her cell-phone number. “But I’ll see you in the morning.”

Decker eyed her a long moment. “I think, Detective Carlucci, you should enjoy your vacation on the island and leave the police work to us. If I have anything to tell you, I’ll call.”

With that he walked back to his truck and drove away. Angie stared after him.

“Well, that was awfully condescending of him,” a Southern-accented male voice said behind her.

She whirled around to find herself staring into the smoky-blue eyes of the yachtsman. Up close he was even more appealing. Firm features with strength of character etched in the straight line of his jaw and a confident set to his wide shoulders. Some elemental warning alerted her senses.

She shouldn’t be noticing his attractiveness, not when he’d been able to move so close without her knowledge. Usually her senses were sharper, more acute to potential danger.

The tranquility of the island must have dulled her wits, she rationalized and frowned with wariness.

She backed up a step, creating more space between them. “Do you normally eavesdrop on other people’s conversations?”

“Only when they’re two feet away and aren’t exactly keeping their voices low,” he said in a tone as smooth as Earl Grey on a brisk New England morning.

Unexpected little shivers traipsed over her skin. She rubbed her arms and conceded his point with a nod. “Right. Excuse me.”

She turned to leave. His hand shot out and clasped her right elbow in a tight grip. Alarm flushed through her system. Her heart rammed against her rib cage in a painful cadence. Instinct took over.

She pivoted right, wrenching her elbow back and away as her stiff left hand thumped hard against his forearm, effectively breaking his hold. Once free, she jumped back to land in a fighter’s stance, weight on right leg, left leg ready to kick if need be. Her right hand gripped the butt of her holstered weapon.

She’d been wrong. The man posed a threat. She just didn’t know how much of one. Or why.

Surprise washed over the guy’s face. He jerked his hands up in a show of entreaty, palms out, fingers splayed. “Whoa, whoa! Hey, Detective, I didn’t mean any harm.”

“Don’t move.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he drawled in his thick Southern accent.

“Who are you? And what do you want?”

“Name’s Jason Bodewell.” He gestured toward the classy boat behind him. “I charter my boat out for the tourist trade.”

Taking calming breaths, Angie relaxed her stance slightly. “Okay. So…?”

One side of his well-formed mouth lifted. “So, I was going to offer to take you out.”

She blinked. Heat crept up her neck. What? “Out?”

His eyebrows rose. “To look for the body.”

A little embarrassed groan escaped. “Oh. Right.” So he’d heard everything. What was he? Some sort of crime-scene gawker? Or just a good citizen wanting to help?

Though her heart rate beat faster than normal, the adrenaline eased. She moved her hand away from her Glock and thought about his offer. She really didn’t want to wait until morning to get out there and prove that she’d seen a body being dumped. She knew what she’d seen.

Narrowing her gaze, she pinned him with a hard look. “Do you have scuba equipment?”

He nodded. “Are you certified to dive? At night?”

Her PADI—Professional Association of Diving Instructors—certification had expired years ago. And she’d never gotten around to getting her night-dive certification. “Are you?” she countered.

“I am.”

“Would you be willing to dive down?”

He flashed a grin. “Would be my pleasure.”

Now, why did his words give her pause? Why was he so eager to help? “Fine, I’ll take you up on the offer. But keep your hands to yourself. And no sudden movements.”

“Oh, you can trust me.”

“I could, but I don’t.”

His blue eyes twinkled. “I’d be shocked if you did. Considering you’re a cop and all.” He strode to the boat and untied the ropes from the dock. “Come on, I won’t bite,” he coaxed. “I promise.”

Hoping she wasn’t making a mistake, Angie followed. Glad she’d brought her personal firearm with her, she placed her hand back on her weapon. Just in case Jason decided to renege on his promise.

Aware that his attractive guest was as nervous as a long-tailed cat on a porch full of rocking chairs, Jason started the engine and smoothly maneuvered the Regina Lee away from the dock.

Covertly, he glanced over at the detective. He liked the way her brunette hair was pulled back into a wild puff of curls and the way her brown eyes, the color of chicory coffee, observed everything. Her lithe figure moved with grace and agility beneath her denim cropped pants and V-neck T-shirt.

Her peaches-and-cream complexion barely hinting at a touch of sun suggested she hadn’t been on the island long. She’d told the chief she was a Boston homicide detective. Her accent attested to that fact. She sounded like she’d been born and raised in Bean Town, too.

She made a credible witness. Yet, she’d been brushed off by the chief like a bothersome mosquito. Curious.

The deck boat the detective had described sounded similar to one reported to be in use by Picard. For the past six months, Jason had relentlessly pursued every lead to find the elusive arms dealer, who, after fleeing New Mexico, was rumored to have landed here on Loribel Island.

Jason was champing at the bit to find the man and take him down, but Picard was being protected now by the very government that had sought to arrest him. The elusive Picard had become a source of intel into terrorist activity in the States and abroad. Rage simmered low in Jason’s belly. He couldn’t move until he could identify Picard and find something concrete to nail him with, something the government couldn’t ignore. Then Garrett’s death would be avenged.

Jason hoped this situation with the pretty cop witnessing something so very odd could turn out to be the catalyst that brought Picard out into the open. Weapons were Picard’s specialty. But taking Picard down for murder would do just as well.

Now he just needed Angie to show him where she’d seen the bag dropped.

Slowly, as if to obey the no wake rule, Jason headed the Bayliner Bowrider, a boat designed for day cruising, in the direction the vacationing cop had indicted to Chief Decker. A breeze kicked up, churning the ocean and creating small swells. Indications of the storm to come.

“Angie—can I call you Angie?”

For a moment she pursed her lips before nodding.

Jason found himself fascinated with her full mouth and the little freckle at its corner. He tore his gaze away to focus on the water ahead. “You wouldn’t happen to know the coordinates of where you saw the guys in the boat drop the bag, would you?”

“I’m not a sailor.”

Amusement had him smiling. Of course she wasn’t. She was a pretty, hard-edged cop. “Thought I’d ask.”

“Veer more to the left,” she said as she came to stand beside him at the helm. “Slow down.”

“Where were you when you saw the boat?”

“Sitting on the deck of my aunt’s cottage.” She pointed toward a row of lights dotting the shoreline.

The shadowy night sky made discerning the outline of any individual house impossible. “It’s too dark now to see which one is Aunt Teresa’s, but I think we’re just about where I saw the boat stop.”

He cut the engine, letting the boat bobble with the current while he dug out his dive apparatus. He could only hope he’d find some evidence to link to Picard at the bottom of the ocean.

She moved to the side railing and looked overboard. “I see why the chief wanted to wait until morning,” she muttered.

“No worries. I’ve an underwater light,” he said.

The sound of another boat approaching grabbed Jason’s attention. A deck boat, illuminated by high-powered lights attached to the sides, sliced through the choppy water.

Jason abandoned the dive equipment to stand beside Angie. “Is that the same boat?”

“I don’t think so. The one I saw was bigger with a higher top deck,” she said. “Who do you think they are?”

Trepidation slithered over him as the boat closed in. “Not sure. Help me put this stuff back into the cargo hold,” he said, not wanting to advertise their purpose in being out on the water.

Together they made short work of restoring the scuba equipment. “Let me do the talking,” Jason said as the boat slowed.

“They’re armed,” Angie said in a tight voice.

“Yeah,” he acknowledged as a hard knot formed in his chest.

Men carrying submachine guns stood at the fore and aft positions. Another man, flanked on either side by two more armed guards, called out instructions to the driver.

Apprehension tethered Jason’s feet to the deck. He swallowed back a prayer for help. No need to waste hope that God would come through for him. Jason would just have to make sure he and Angie got through this alive on his own.

The boat drew abreast of the Regina Lee.

TWO

Forcing himself to relax, Jason worked his cover persona, deepening his Southern drawl. “Island Charters at your service.”

Two armed men wearing jeans and black T-shirts jumped aboard as the wake of the other boat rocked the Regina Lee.

“What in the world?” Angie said, reaching for her gun.

Jason caught her hand and held on tight even as she jerked to free herself from his hold. He pulled her slightly behind him to keep her out of the men’s line of vision. In a low voice meant for her ears only, he growled, “Stand down.”

She stilled. He didn’t have to see her glare; he felt it, but he stayed focused on the men with the guns.